Meeting the Bar — For my dog, Bonbon

Jupiter and moons from telescope, via astronomyonline.org

Jupiter
Is our meeting place
Since you died my light went out
Out I go each night and I see you
Prancing there

Written for Meeting The Bar—The Cinquain .. .Expanded, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Tony Maude. Tony has revitalized the traditional five-line Cinquain poetry form (follow link to refresh your memory) by working "with the cinquain, breaking it by adding an extra syllable to each line, giving a five-line poem with lines of 3, 5, 7, 9 and 3 syllables in that order." Very cool, Tony!

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Meeting the Bar — Thankfulness, unfinished

 Ferns in Black and White by Jim Crotty (2010)

That unseen bird chirping alone, rejoicing
in a tall fern, in the rain, at Thanksgiving

The Pastoral, Beethoven’s 6th symphony,
for deep insight and soft soul flight,
to rejoice in musical thanksgiving

All feelings that swell beneath certain words:
rejoice and pastoral, unseen and alone,
rain and music, thanks and giving

The quiet breath that fills the chest before
a sweet note or an unkind word: one
deserves thanks, the other needs forgiving

Breathing here, now, in this symphony of
solitude in the night, following news of
an old classmate’s passing on Thanksgiving

That unseen bird chirping alone, rejoicing


Written for MeetingTheBar—Thanksgiving Turkey with a side of Poetry, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Brian Miller. He asked us to write a poem about what we are thankful for. Fresh on my mind were the last 24 hours......

Meeting the Bar — DaDa, Daddy

Dada will not
be home for dinner.
The mess hall is a
mess. Actually
unrecognizable, but
so is Dada.
Your father,
if,
he returns
home,
will be
ravin' mad. PTSD-frightful,
this once-
delightful man.
Like a raven
with feathers
oiled, spoiled
forever for
flight.
Wandering in the
fucking muck.
Duck
and
cover. The sky's
falling
and heaven
with it under
Dada's decaying boots.

Written for MeetingTheBar—DaDa Daddy, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Victoria C. Slotto. Her prompt concerned Dadism, with several ideas to let "that perhaps dormant revolutionary that lurks in your subconscious and write a poem that takes you and the reader outside of that well-defined comfort zone." I chose to write ekphrasis using the work of a Dadaist artist, specifically George Grosz's The Wanderer.
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Meeting the Bar—Self Portraits

1986

I have been my own worst
enemy in life but also
the soul
who saved me.

I have not looked at myself
enough to know,
or care,
what I truly look like.

I am beginning
to look inwardly and so
I see
my eyes for the first time.

I see myself through
the eyes of the pets
I love
and who have loved me.

My pet peeves are these:
dogmatism, jingoism,
racism,
fundamentalism, consumerism.

I love trees, the ocean,
all animals, quite
a few
people, literature, music, silence.

I value authenticity, simplicity,
honesty, dexterity,
equality,
jocundity, virtuosity, equanimity.

I am grateful for sunny
days, rainy nights,
one tiny bud,
a field of flowers, and love.

Love and beauty
always wanted to guide me--
I did not
pay enough attention when young.

Love and beauty
call to me still and now
I listen
to them more and more and more.



Written for MeetingTheBar—Self Portraits, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Brian Miller. Brian challenged us to "write a self portrait poem. It can be symbolic, metaphorical, descriptive—you get to choose what you show and what you veil." Not an easy prompt!

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Meeting the Bar—Emotion in poetry

 Image: cropped photo via Upaya Zen Center

Sitting on his black cushion
there on the floor, with
the sangha seated about like
a half-moon of intention
listening-absorbing, he
told of his journey, of
the suffering that
brought him there.
 ....Then
sudden stillness came as
he could speak no more
in the small-town art center
quieted from activity, with
spot-lit children's paintings
playing colorfully, silently.
 ....And
dozens of Pink Panthers
danced on the walls as he wept.

 ~~~

Written for MeetingTheBar—Emotion in poetry, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Claudia Schoenfeld. Her prompt was to write a poem about an emotion without saying what the emotion is.
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Meeting the Bar — To honor poet Dave King

Forgive me, friend, for I
have not been here lately
to read your poems: these
lovelies I enjoyed this
night upon learning that
you no more will be
making your rounds,
leaving kind words that
meant so much.
You, most thoughtful one,
only toward the end had cause
to write:
Forgive me, friends, for I



Written for dVerse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar: To Friends, where host Brian Miller sadly informs us of the passing of Dave King, one of us, and asks that we consider good friends and friendship in our posts this week. Visit the link to read many more tributes.

One of Dave King's dear and supportive comments to me was this one about my post dated May 6, 2013:

    Absolutely superb! Cleverly conceived and beautifully realised.

~~~

My post this week was also written in 55 words for Friday Flash 55, hosted by my friend G-Man.

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Meeting the Bar: The Unfathomable

Beyond shattered glass,
blood-spattered ash,
and fallen limbs -
Through hateful haze
after fearsome fires -
Still in a daze, a
space of numbness -

between damning curses
and blessing hymns -

is where we must race,
wheel, or crawl -
is where we must travel
alone and together
beyond shattered glass.

I'll look for your face.



Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft—The Unfathomable— at dVerse Poets. The host this week is Anna Elizabeth Graham, whose prompt post is a thoughtful essay on the poetry of disaster.

Want to give a shout out to the G-Man, with apologies for this 57-word poem not fitting the criteria for Friday Flash 55 this week....

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Friday Flash 55 & Meeting the Bar: Irony

Drawing by Mark Powell via Tumblr, with this caption:  

‘we are all clowns with too much face paint’ Bic biro drawing on 1880s US citizenship form.

Let's write a mission statement
about the Declaration of Intention
we wish we could plan to complete.
It should be transparent and
indubitably sincere,
certainly not gawdy,
and without deceit —
A manifest to describe
our strategy for invention . . .
if it were prudent, if we
were brave and true,
instead of a bawdy
and bogus tribe.

:::

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

 -ALSO-

Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft—Just Do What You Don't Mean: Irony— at dVerse Poets. The host this week is Victoria C. Slotto, who invites us "to say what you do not mean. Write something ironic, whether it be tinged with humor or a searing commentary on the state of things."
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MeetingTheBar: Critique and Craft — Salem, Oregon

  

Salem, Oregon

Absorb Salem in the morning
     steeping in fresh dawn.
It is lush here where spiders thrive.
     Brittle are they who make homes of dreams
     we don't remember weaving through the night.

Some weeds, thorny and stretched,
deserve their space.
     Bitter vibrant blossoms are their compromise
     for pushing out a landscaped place.

A moment is preserved in this valley
where those delicate float on sugared air
     as Salem mornings serve breakfast
     for the soul,
where the green of the land is foremost caressed
     and we are second blessed.

The life of this town is encapsulated now
so a bigcity person must plot carefully
to save the energy morning brings.
     Nightpulse is offered at a slight pace
     and beehive people who cannot dance through
     sunrise feel smothered.

But the secrets found while walking alone
and shaking fronds with a fern half-human size
bring a crazy peaceful prayer to mind.

A waif could be caught here in morning
     leaving at eve
     mothered.

Written for MeetingTheBar: Critique and Craft ~ Oh, the Places we Live! — at dVerse Poets. Pamela Sayers is our host this week. From her beautiful home in Mexico she asks us to write about the places where we live. My poem is an old one, written in 1977 after I first moved from Nevada to Salem, Oregon (the state capitol).

The original title of this poem was "For a Stop-Over Place," because I did not intend to stay long. Ultimately, however, I lived there for eight years before moving on to Portland and then eventually to my beloved Silverton, Oregon, 15-miles away from Salem. (I do not think I could do justice to Silverton in a poem, at least not today.)

Images of Salem and countryside via: Bing
Image of youth in downtown Salem via: Wikipedia

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MeetingTheBar: Dining Alone

Dining Alone

The fine art of dining alone
is no art at all if you
like the company, and if you
wear a favorite color and
bring along a good book --
and if the hostess knowingly
meets your eye when you say
"One"
then sashays in a black
draping garb over tights,
leading you to a corner nook
with candlelight dancing on
two smart sketches: one crab,
one dozen sea anemones.

When you dine alone smelling of
sea air and French verbena soap,
taking in the scent of culinary
promise surrounding you,
your solitude is as sweet
as the romantic love shared
at the next table, and the family
joviality ringing by the window.
There is no envy; all is well.

If you treat yourself to chef's
special entree, straying
from the beautiful confines of
the menu (and of home), a dish
so perfect arrives that — you
cannot help yourself — you
must have a picture. But the
flash is not unnoticed.

Then the waiter asks again and
again about your dining pleasure
and even the hostess stops
at your table for good measure.
You realize that they suspect
you are no ordinary diner.
So you quell all the interest,
pull back into your shell.

Returning to the fine art
of dining alone, you
break bread with yourself.
You close your eyes,
and savor the moment
when salmon and gnocchi unite,
and Jazz Sketches on Sondheim
drift beyond the warm room
into the autumn fog.
 

Written for MeetingTheBar: Beautiful Solitude— at dVerse Poets. 

Claudia's prompt is about one of my favorite things, and, 

where I could have written about times spent 

in absolute solitude, a dinner alone 

at the Oregon coast came to mind. 

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Friday Flash 55 & Meeting the Bar: Impressions

Impressions

That secret part of the country road, I know

the pleasure of its narrow curving calling

that broadens my scope — and, as it

meanders, it straightens my thinking.

While hiding streaks of halcyon light

how rolling hills peek back at me! How

the grasses sing into my open windows!

How midsummer forgets every autumn here.

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

-ALSO -

Written for Meeting the Bar: Impressionistic writing— at dVerse Poets. Claudia suggests that we use "loose brush strokes" in creating a poem (click link for her beautiful prompt and great instructions).

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Friday Flash 55 & Meeting the Bar: Balance • Olympia

Thursday July 26, 03:14 PM
Volunteer Abby Idowu, of London, stretches under the Olympic rings while being photographed by friends on the other side of a hill at Olympic Park prior to the 2012 Summer Olympics, Thursday, July 26, 2012, in London. The opening ceremonies for the games will be held Friday, July 27. (AP Photo/Charles Krupa)


Olympia

Discontented mind losing count of deep breaths, three-plus hours past noon:
One person seeking equilibrium amidst unevenness, imbalance.
Upward arched arms making one imperfect circle below
Five offset, yet perfectly steadfast, rings linking five
Frightfully unstable, Lonely Planet co-inhabitants:
Africa, the Americas, Asia, Europe, Oceania.
Three trees: one tall, one twiggy -
Contented mind losing count.

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

 -ALSO-

Written for Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft—Balance— at dVerse Poets. At the end of her marvelous post, Victoria C. Slotto prompts us to "play with the concept of balance."

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