Mag 284 — Sunset Pantoum

I want to wander there now
In the land split by the hills
Where sunset colors the valley
And gloaming shades the mounds

In the land split by the hills
Days live long in the mossy fields
And gloaming shades the mounds
As night comes in layers of beauty

Days live long in the mossy fields
Youth takes for granted the sun
As night comes in layers of beauty
Age sees and remembers it all

Youth takes for granted the sun
And the moon, the stars, and youth
Age sees and remembers it all
As sighs turn to smiles of knowing

And the moon, the stars, and youth
Then focus over the misty crest
As sighs turn to smiles of knowing
Open the gate to the beckoning path

Then focus over the misty crest
Back to the shining valley below
Open the gate to the beckoning path
I want to wander there now.

Written for The Mag: Mag 284 that inspired with the above image (it seemed like a visual pantoum to me, thus the poetic form I used).

Mag 270 — imprint

Today, five months after your death,
two young deer surprised me in the
yard at dawn. One trotted rhythmically
across the lawn, but the other stood
stoically feet away and we regarded
one another with quiet understanding.

The day held sunshine that filtered
through the slats and rays streaked
your bed. I lie briefly there each
night, my head quieted, my bones
sinking into spots where you slept.
Truth is, I still weep for you there.

At dusk clouds bloated with moisture
chugged across the sky, competing
with the sun. Eventually, as was pre-
dicted, they won. But the glorious
contest colored a modest rainbow,
while birds worked on symphonies.

Tonight gentle rain misted the yard
you loved well. It puddled in huge
rocks where it fell, those turquoise
ones we had hauled here that are
beloved by butterflies in summer.
I think they leave their prints behind.

Written for The Mag: Mag 270 that inspired with the above image prompt: artwork 

by Ulrike Bolenz.

Mag 265 — I am the sea

This is me. I am the sea.
I am pale as foam and
blue, drenched by a river
of tears flowing into me —
From me waves of change
are blowing, yet
I am still in the night,
cradling my host of loved
ones of the deep. We
sleep with the moon in
reflective trust as aeons
of dreams turn the tide.
















Written for The Mag: Mag 265 that inspired with the above image prompt: painting by Daria Petrilli.

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Mag 262 — Green God

You see, I see you
you mossy green god
and god how I love you,
you with trunks to spare
and that wild white eye
beneath your unicorn horn

You see me ignoring your
comical grimace as I come
near to whisper into your
elfin ear god how I love you

You raise your forked tail
into the green canopy,
grasping to feel the rays
of the sun and

You coax out the stars
from a midnight sky to
cool under as I unroll
my bag to sleep beneath
you with your claws as a
mossy green pillow

You show me visions in my
dreams of the story of your
old forest grove, the sad story
how you came to be lone elder

You see then that I see you
and how your grimace formed
and why you grew your giant
elfin ear to maybe, maybe
hear across the fields for
messages from your type

You stretch deeper and farther
beyond the tender young ones
and grasses, reaching for eternity,
showing earth how you love her



Written for The Mag: Mag 262 that inspired with the above image prompt.

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Mag 236 — Moth at Mindfulness Camp

We were meditators, Buddhists, and
free spirits, we walked in the sand,
danced in waves, sang fireside,
worked side by side
in happy labor, sat side by side
in locked silence needing no key
but to return to our breath,
to that one moment, the
only breath, the only moment.

Some brought their kids there too, the cutest
things, sweet groundling sprites
with painted faces and spirits so
pure, who warmed in friendship
and made plays for us, whose bows
to us in the great hall made me cry,
they caught the first light of dawn to
find low tide where the caves told
them secrets, maybe only one secret.

The youngest, age five, caught me
walking one day to the lodge, ran
to me, said I could see her moth -
Come, come - her eyes all alight,
she led me to a corner of the deck
then reverently lifted the moth
and put it in my hand, and I said I
hoped it had had a happy life, and
she whispered It never knew winter.


Written for The Mag: Mag 236 that inspired with the above image prompt.
My picture of the child in the poem is below.

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Mag 232 — describe that art, name that tune

That song has a familiar ring to it,

a don't ever forget I can't-get-

no-satisfaction, put-your-hand-in-the-

hand-of-the-man-who-stilled-the-water,

lucy-in-the-sky-with-diamonds, you're

watching the-Rocky-and-Bullwinkle-Show,

by-the-time-we-got-to-Woodstock-we-

were-half-a-million-strong, eight-miles-

high, ebony-and-ivory kind of feel to it.

My X the rocker used to play it. But,

damn, I just cannot name that tune.



Written for The Mag: Mag 232 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Keith Haring).

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Mag 215 — The King of Cats

He is mine as sure as words
give pause to sweet sighs.

I love the softness of him
I see in his eyes.

He does not find fault in my
demands or my cries -

nor when I rub my big head
on his trousered thighs.

The day I found him I knew
that I had a prize.

So I presented him with
the finest of flies -

and a dead mouse gift also
but he prefers fries.

I like to sit in his lap
while books make him wise -

and I play with the pages
like one of the guys.

When I come home wet he rubs
my fur 'til it dries.

Then I snuggle down with him
and dream 'til sunrise.

 ^.^

Written for The Mag: Mag 215 that inspired with the above image prompt
(The King of Cats, 1935, Balthus).

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Mag 214 — Caged

Create interests for yourself,
a house becomes a cage
when love goes.
She said those words to a
friend of a friend awhile ago,
feeling so wise for one
so young, for one with love
taken for granted -- as memory
is also taken for granted,
not expected to go.

Now, in this house, her
father putters around caregivers
who come and go, come and go,
like his flickering memory
turning to dust -- and she
comes and goes less and
stays more and more, caged,
hoping for one more lucid
smile, one more time to hear,
How's my darlin' girl today?
before love and memory
become only a mime's act.


Written for The Mag: Mag 214 that inspired with the above image prompt
(photo by Kelsey Hannah).
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Mag 207 — the old building

They lived there young in the old building. The sun was old but seemed new then too. It clearly knew the morning, dearly warmed the day, nearly broke their hearts while surrendering to gloaming. The building was made of brick and the walls were thick enough to work with the steam heater that stood under the window by the rusting balcony. Single window panes smelled lightly of vinegar but never quite gave up their dried specks of turquoise paint along the borders. The couple could smell neighbors' meals up and down the street: cabbage and pork and rich sauces and fried potatoes and curry and meatloaf and baked desserts, and they heard the chorus of those daily lives like sounds on the wing. In summer, during heatwaves, thin mattresses covered the balconies and excited children climbed fire escapes and swore they would not sleep but the cool of the night won, and dreams went deep. Once, when they lived there young in the old building and lounged atop a mattress on the rusting balcony in a moonlit heatwave, they locked in passion and went deep in the cool of night and escaped to a dreamworld as hot as the sun.


Written for The Mag: Mag 207 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien).
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Friday Flash 55 & Mag 201 — Imprinted

They were freshly-poured

long before I strode

upon their cobbles and cracks,

but look down

near the young Linden tree

around the corner from the

tailor's shop with that wall full

of multi-colored thread spools

on lacquered dowels.

Look with your heart,

and you will see my

prints preserved

on the sidewalks of New York.



Written for Friday Flash 55, G-Man, and his Mr. Knowitall community...
and also
Written for The Mag: Mag 201 that inspired with the above image prompt
(New York at Night, Vivienne Gucwa).


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Mag 194 — Love letters

Old love letters uncovered,

stacked and ribboned in trunks

so musty they betray the

lusty, sweet sentiments

tucked tenderly inside.

Discovery of hearts that

once beat for the other

sealed with anticipation,

stamped for approval for

finders' curious eyes.

Old love letters are markers,

puzzles and promises

gushing yet obscuring the

deep well of emotions

capped forever within.

A blending of souls breathing:

we lived, we loved, we tried

to leave nothing left unsaid

before our time was done

and your time was begun.

***

Written for The Mag: Mag 194 that inspired with the above image prompt.

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Mag 193 — Adjustment

 

She had outgrown staged confines, slipping straps, cramping shoes, and

tutu too. The Dance still pulsed through her like a musical rainbow but:

there was a Peruvian trail summoning her soul more deeply now

than Prokofiev or Tchaikovsky.

It was time to release her hair, to wear hiking boots the color of the soft, silky, 

smiling alpaca she saw in a book, time to see beyond boundaries from a mountain in the sky.

If she kicked small rocks there over the edge they might

      dance
           in
    space,

resembling notes of an impressionistic score of her life.

Then her smiling alpaca might tug at the reins held loosely in her hands, and

she would follow his lead with her toes sometimes pointing
inside her worn boots.

***

Written for The Mag: Mag 193 that inspired with the above image prompt

(Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas).

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Mag 192 in 55 — tea-hee

We’re talkin' about
a new resurrection—
Proud kinfolk tout
'merican, not Briton.

Waving our hands—
Preaching exceptionalism!
We’re firebrands
pretending to be blithesome.

Join our Tea Party reunion—
Forget the historical facts.
We’re of religious persuasion
pushing born-again pacts.

We can save this land
and steal the show.
You, friend, we understand—
Psycho to psycho.

***

Written for The Mag: Mag 192 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Resurrection Reunion 2, 1945, Sir Stanley Spencer).

In this particular prompt, the painting's title had as much to do with inspiring my words 

as the image itself. Visit the link to see many creative takes on the prompt.

Also written in 55 words for Friday Flash 55.
Visit G-Man and his Mr. Knowitall community for more weekly 55s. 

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Poetics & Mag 180 — Unplugged

The challenge, having begun three hours earlier,

(that task being to go unplugged for one full day)

invigorated many of those who decided to try.

They set upon the hours ahead with confidence

and ideas aplenty for ways to fill up their time.

Games of all kinds topped their lists,

followed by activities in natural settings,

followed by non-activity in unnatural settings...

the point being, when they logged off and

powered down they got off and got down without

needing prompts, pauses, or reset buttons... but

Hank felt no personal power surge, he who had

thought ahead that he might write on paper

with pen in hand, then when nothing came he

tried a pen in each hand to see what might come.

What became of Hank as he sank to new lows,

realizing he was not an unplugged sort; did he

abort the challenge or find in the day new highs?

It was the latter, you see, as in the course of

one day he conquered his slump, found reinvention

by way of those pens in his hands, and appointed

himself the Chairman of Doodle before honoring

his success with high fives and a solid fist bump.

Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where Hobgoblin2011's prompt is Unplugged. I haven't been unplugged, but have not blogged for one month (and this post shows it!) so the prompt had special appeal for me. The prompt is for us to write a poem having something to do with shutting off the technology that drives us through our days. Hobgoblin2011 actually did it for one month! Check the link to read his impressions.
    -ALSO-
Written for The Mag: Mag 180 that inspired with the above image prompt

(Drawing Hands, 1948 by M. C. Escher).

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Friday Flash 55 & Mag 175 — Late in the day

Late in the day she heaves

a bulging bundle atop

her head, dry grasses pulling

at her scarf, tickling her scalp—

the only massage she'll ever feel.

What does she know?

Everything

about the length of days, her moon

cycles, predictable seasons, and

sensual gusts teasing inside thin cotton

skirting the depth of her dreams.



Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.
    -ALSO-
Written for The Mag: Mag 175 that inspired with the above image prompt
(photograph by Musin Yohan).
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Friday Flash 55 & Mag 173 — Birthday Highs

A friend is having his birthday

and messages for him abound

at Facebook: kind thoughts,

silly taunts, exotic shots,

and brilliant videos made

in his honor.

When will he see all these

accolades? Someone left a note

saying that he might be out

flying a celebratory kite.

He has not yet told us

her name.

~~~

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.
    -ALSO-
Written for The Mag: Mag 173 that inspired with the above image prompt
(The Promenade, 1918, by Marc Chagall). 
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Friday Flash & Mag 171: rose-colored glasses

“Morning is the best!” chirps

the early riser.

Slurp..... Ah! the first 

cup of coffee tastes

just as fine to those

who got up latte'.

It is a s-t-r-e-t-c-h thinking

night owls do not know

what they are missing.

YaWn..... They know

that the day dawns,

-no matter the hour-

for people wearing

 rose-colored glasses. 

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.
-ALSO-
Written for The Mag: Mag 171 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Waking, Walking, Singing, in the Next Dimension? 1979 by Morris Graves). 

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Mag 170 — Smokin' Ponytail

Ponytail by Last Exit

A sweet circular society:
"sisters" together handling
an event in mock piety —
the initiation candling.

To the tune of a famous anthem
their official song rang out.
The walls of the inner sanctum
protected their secret hideout.

The new girls each had an elder guide
who had been through this before.
Helping proceed, each stood beside —
(considered it her own encore).

A single white candle was then passed
with care from one "sis" to next.
But Deeanna was soon aghast
as her elder stood pale and vexed.

Deeanna was not watching the flame —
(had less grace than a Clydesdale).
As elder spoke Dee's secret name
she set fire to elder's ponytail.

Her elder's encore went up in smoke
she lost an inch from the tip —
then her hair was doused by girl folk.
In punch it had taken a dip.

The truth is the event made the day —
although it did bring a tear.
The elder forgave: ("It's okay")
But Dee was no groupie, I fear. 

Written for The Mag: Mag 170 that inspired with the above image prompt.

{This is based on an episode in my college years. I never joined a sorority, but was voted into a sophomore women's service group that was comprised predominantly of sorority girls.....}
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Friday Flash 55 & Mag 169: Seeing butter

When I was a wee one

grownups could see butter

when holding a dandelion bloom

underneath my chin. I thought

they were bloomin' crazy.

Here is an example of

the same phenomenon, only better.

Buttercups and dandelions

growing on this downslope don't follow the sun.

They simply adore the lighthouse on top of the hill.

***

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.
-ALSO-
Written for The Mag: Mag 169 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Lighthouse Dandelions by Jamie Wyeth). 
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Friday Flash 55 & Mag 168: Lyle and Constance

They always had style
but never lacked substance.
His first name is Lyle
and her name is Constance.
They love the city—
streets seem paved with gold,
unlike the gritty
country dirt roads of old.
They still smoke and talk
while waiting for the bus,
and will later walk
gray Weimaraner, Gus.

(They get along.)

Written for Friday Flash 55 - My post in exactly 55 words - for the G-Man.

-ALSO-

Written for The Mag: Mag 168 that inspired with the above photo prompt

(Old Couple, photo by Togan Gokbakar).

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