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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Poetics: The Stuff of Life in Old Reno

The streets were gray, safe alleyways
showed some minor decay.
Bums slept there at night under neon signs
as street walkers strutted by.
In winter there was snow—
the valley air was crisp and clear,
scrubbed by high desert winds.
Morning came and many casino
workers mixed with fewer office
workers on the sidewalks, as some
drunk gamblers swayed, holding smudged
drink glasses, bleary-eyed and determined
to break even in the new day.
And all were connected by scent from the
old brick corner bakery with steamy windows—
a sweet yeasty aroma created in the
dark of night when the baker and his crew
in white aprons mixed and kneaded
and baked breads so sumptuous
as to make the people proud to live there,
to breathe the same air, to break bread
with one another, to be nourished for another day.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Grace, in a truly lovely prompt, asked us to write about bread.
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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......

Poetics: Reno

 

A homecoming

Everything, everything I saw while driving
there was enveloped in beauty.
Besotted with three great forests, I
had haiku in my head, celebrations
transferred to scrappy notes at stops along
the way and later simply written on
paper with the steering wheel for support
as I drove. Everything, everything so
sublimely crystal real had full appeal
until, seemingly surreal,
The Biggest Little City came into view.

How now brown cow town,
with your bawdy teats suckling the masses
who build on your dry rolling hills, sucking
the life out of my memories of the place
where my mother breastfed me
in a room near the Truckee River, the
place where my haiku stream ran dry.....

But some love the town I left long
ago and left again, this time feeling
somehow renewed in spite of the disjunction
as, in spite of myself, a part of me
functions there still: a little blessing part that
whispers "please stop growing" - all the while
knowing it won't, and guessing it does not
mind that my mind was fresh with haiku
once I reached the next timber line
where everything was everything.

~~~

Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Abhra shares beautiful thoughts about frequent moving, and returning home, then asks us to compose a poem about a homecoming: "what it is to stay away and the coming back after a long time – have you been worried that the place you call home has changed all the time you have been away?"

~~~

This scene seems necessary to me. RIP, Robin Williams.

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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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Poetics: Animal Symbolism or Antics — Cats

 Image: painting by Karen Margulis

Cats:
beings
so sublime,
mysterious,
e'er independent;
Up, down, here, there! - and then
sleeping, tucked in by the sun,
lost in dreams of earth and cosmos.
Worshipped by ancients, with them preserved;
My lap reserved for the one I adore.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, hosted this week by Marina Sofia. Her prompt, Animal Symbolism or Antics, invited us to write a poem about an animal. Mine is written in the poetry form, Etheree, which consists of ten lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables.
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Poetics: It's a micro/macro world—Tracings

Image by Shanyn Silinski


This is what Woman is about! — The photographer
traced outlines of her curves with an ice cube.
She posed in a flotation tube,
dreamed she was an astronomer.
Heard: Pout!



 ***
 
Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Shanyn Silinski shares her micro/macro photography (lovely, indeed) and challenges us to write a poem in 140 characters describing one of them.
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Form for All: Prose/Poetry—Farewells

When I first saw my mother's ashes in a gray, shiny plastic container, and noticed the squared edges, I knew that angst lay ahead — not from the emotion of the soon-to-be scattering-at-sea, as that would provide a release for me as well as for those dry crumbled pieces of her — but from the realization that there would be remains remaining in the edges and corners inside, clinging statically (as she had clung to life), quietly expecting my solution.

After her wishes were honored and most of the last of her joined the gray whale that breached nearby our boat rocking on the wildest of November coastal swells I returned with the container to the town she loved, the charming village on Silver Creek, where, in another time, a robust flour mill busily hummed near its banks. And I squatted beside the clear running waters and swished and dunked the plastic box until all powder was freed and swirling away from me. Then I walked on through the old town park, satisfied.

 ~~~

Written for dVerse Poets Pub Form for All, where host Samuel Peralta's beautiful (as ever) prompt discusses Prose/Poetry and ask us to contribute our own prose poem. This is Sam's farewell as a regular writer at dVerse, as he will be devoting his time to completing his book, Labyrinth Man. Sam is one of my favorite writers and I so look forward to reading more of his work in the future.

Best wishes and thank you for your perfect prompts and your kind and encouraging words, Sam!

Samuel Peralta – on Twitter as @Semaphore – is the award-winning author of five titles in The Semaphore Collection – Sonata Vampirica, Sonnets from the Labrador, How More Beautiful You Are, Tango Desolado and War and Ablution – all Amazon Kindle #1 Hot New Releases, and best sellers, in poetry. 

To be placed on his free list, The Writing Life, click here.

______________
Note: HD Image of Silver Creek by Thom R, My Oregon Photography Blog

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OpenLinkNight — Way to go

If I were told, It is terminal, 
time is short, get your affairs
in order.....

the only affairs I would get

in order would be the purchase

of a one-way ticket to the lush

land of the Spirit Bear who visits

my dreams and loves me well, and

a lightweight pack with provisions:

some smoked salmon and bread

for my final meal, and

many fish to unwrap and place

on the mossy earth with baby ferns

and ancient trees nearby.  I would

lay down there and call to Them,

If you want these treats you'll have 
to come through me. Please.






Written for OpenLinkNight, week 129, at dVerse Poets Pub, where Grace penned an inspiring prompt.

[Image by Natural Resources Defense Council - The Earth's Best Defense. Visit the link to learn, take action, donate!]
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Poetics — Looking up at the source

Image: Look Up! by Katie N

My mother described the tiny place she rented
in Reno, the place in that town that became my
first home. I recall nothing of it except
what she told me: It was miniscule, a room
in the back of someone's house - with a private
entrance off a courtyard. She cooked her meals
on a warming plate and breastfed me as the
January snow fell. In months her husband
was gone and it was quiet, so quiet then,
a silence broken only by our crying for
different reasons. The seasons changed to
a tentative spring and she introduced me to
the courtyard, where, bundled warmly and
laying in a buggy, I fell in love.

The glorious giant spreading above me began
to bud and to teach me slowly about time, showing
me day-by-day how that season would change
to another. My mother marveled as I lay there
contentedly— hours long staring up,
eyes moving from limb to leave to bird to blue
blue sky beyond. Soundlessly, I would weep—
bright baby tears streaking my face—all the while
smiling.




Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where host Björn Rudberg's exquisite prompt is Under the canopy, and invites us to write tree poetry. As I have had a lifelong love affair with trees it was difficult to decide which one to consider, so I went back to the source.
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Form for All & Friday Flash 55 — Remembered

After "what if" happens
some will survive to tell
how their hate, their weapons
made Earth a living hell.

Few names will be remembered—
and sung a capella.

With memories of atoms
at eve’s blast all pell-mell
they’ll look into the heavens
and raise a new groundswell

of hearts never surrendered—
à la Nelson Mandela.

 ~~~

Written for Friday Flash 55, G-Man, and his Mr. Knowitall community...

      and also for

dVerse Poets Pub Form for All, where host Samuel Peralta invites us to write a poem in 55 words this week.

Please visit both links to read many more "55s" as these two writing communities join together this week. What a special idea, Sam!

[Image via tumblr, where credit to the photographer was not given.]
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Poetics — These boots

These boots have not taken me anywhere.
Yet.

I do dream of the places we could tread
together, but I must of course first
get

them. Then we'll go to Romania, Scotland,
Vienna, and Paris -- places I have not seen
yet.

We'll walk the streets of New York
again, and tip a street vendor who
has knitted the perfect scarf and
see what's on exhibit at the marvelous
Met.

We'll visit my hometown, kick up
our heels in the old stomping grounds,
pose for pictures from my knees-down
in the sweet old schoolyard where
my first love and I long ago
met.

Sometimes we will just stay close to
home and eat at Los Girasoles, have
a delicious traditional Chavindeca
served by the daughter of the cook--
A family pulling together, making the
American dream from their tears and
sweat.

I think these are the loveliest boots
and wonder where we might wander.
Will I make such a splurge to have
them, and if I do will my dreams
come true? I am not sure. What's your
bet?

***

Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where our host Shanyn Silinski 

offers a most whimsical prompt titled A mile in these SHOES. 

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Cirrus — dVerse Open Link Night

 

 
Cirrus

A pure wisp of white with pink radar ears
Huge golden eyes too wise for her years

Contented purr rumbles sound from her soul
Capacity food level found in her bowl

Stereo-perched strikes statue sleekness
A focused Pentax her only weakness

Her peaceful refinement my heart did capture
I share her world. I know cat rapture.


 ^.^

For dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night. There are many wonderful poems at the link!

I wrote this poem about one of my favorite-ever cats. It was published in Cats Magazine decades ago. Cirrus lived for 15 years, dying near Thanksgiving time. I have never gotten over losing her, not really, as she was with me during a tumultuous time in my life and I am not sure how I would have fared without her devotion.


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Form for All: the Rondeau — We count in days

 

 

We count in days our times away
from unshared lives, thus we convey
parts of ourselves in space and time
when I am yours and you are mine
if not next year then for today.

What will become of this foray
into this shining spot astray?
Our sun-filled walks in perfect clime
we count in days.

‘Midst misty fog and ocean spray
I find my rock, I spy Pompeii.
Though not so young, not in our prime,
our spices blend like tender thyme.
I cannot help that you hold sway.
We count in days.

~~~

I am too late to submit this for dVerse Poets Pub Form for All~the Rondeau, hosted this week by Tony Maude. His writing prompt on the Rondeau caught my fancy nevertheless and I enjoyed the exercise. Thank you, Tony.

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Acrylic painting: Oregon coast, between Netarts Bay and Oceanside by Anna
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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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Poetics — Save me

I know, dear one, I know.
The ice flow beyond this soggy floater is a
swim through water once solid where you romped,
your cubs by your side in the mornings, later safely
hidden inside a cold cave while you hunted. It
smelled of your sleep, had special bones in small piles
reminding them of your care, telling them
of the sacred life of the Polar Bear.

Now there are haunting reports that you
sometimes must hunt your own kind, hideous
acts far removed from your natural ways.
Your great beings must suffer this
demonic forced survival skill only
to keep your tender promise: that your
cubs will not starve while waiting your return.

And so your soul beseeches mine to save you, begs I
summon even my last act as a force on your behalf.
(My kind is hot for distinction, thinks little about
extinction.) I know, dear one, I know.
What would my life matter if I did not care,
if I did not remind them again and again
of the sacred life of the Polar Bear?


***
Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where our host Claudia has us "writing to the artwork of Catrin Welz-Stein." Ms.Welz-Stein, a German artist who lives in Zürich, was kind enough to share with us six of her amazing works from which to choose one as our writing prompt this week. You can enjoy more of her artwork at http://catrinwelzstein.blogspot.de/

***
If my post moves you to learn more about the Polar Bear's struggle for survival on a warming planet, I selected from Charity Navigator some three- and four-star (the highest rating) charities working on their behalf as possible donation sites for your consideration. They are:
Natural Resources Defense Council (4-stars)
The Wilderness Society (3-stars)
Trustees for Alaska (4-stars)
Defenders of Wildlife (3-stars)
Conservation International (4-stars)
Wildlife Conservation Network (4-stars).
World Wildlife Fund (3-stars)
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Poetics — Playing with Slogans

It's Not All Passion, Passion, Passion, you know.

Enter a word for your own slogan:

Generated by the Advertising Slogan Generator. Get more passion slogans.

It's not all passion, passion,
passion, you know. You know
it's not, more or less,
all that. It's more. And,
lest you forget, it's more
than all passion,

It's less. Moreover, it's
complicated in its simplicity.
Simply put, complications
arise. So deal with them. Don't
allow complications to
deal the cards. It's not the
luck of the draw. It's reality.

Tending to reality makes
it real. Makes it hurt, makes
it tender. Love me tender.

Talk and listen. Tell new
stories; hear old ones again,
again, again, without
sighing. Save the sighs
for your passion.

Let it simmer in the morn,
sizzle in the night.
Reverse the order; know
that timing is right.
Question right and wrong;
to your own self be true.
Know it's right to live your
own truth and wrong to
live one another's. Dream

freely, scheme rarely. Laugh
often. Save the frowns
for doodles, or for wars
among peoples -- but not you
two people. Get along well,
or, well, get alone. Get alone
with your doggy or your kid
or your soul.

Reflect and remember: It's all
passion, passion,
passion, you
know.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where host Brian Miller wants us to play with slogans this week. I found a site that actually allowed me to do just that: The Advertising Slogan Generator! I settled on the above slogan for the word Passion. But that was only after laughing myself silly with slogans generated using other words. Some examples generated for other words I selected were..... for Truth: Because Truth is Complicated Enough; Time to Make the Truth; Truth, Take Me Away......for War: It Takes a Tough Man to Make a Tender War.......for September: You've Got Questions. We've Got September; September Saves Your Soul........and for Interesting Times: My Goodness, My Interesting Times!

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Poetics — Dear Bonbon,

You never learned to read but
you are old now and one day
in some foggy otherworld you
may have a knowing that this
is for you.

Puppy, I taught you to count to five
and have since counted my blessings
that the quick commands included my
fingers in scrambled succession -- one,
four, five, three, two --
as well as my voice, as well as
our happy eyes admiring one
another in this learning game
as the years grew to two digits.

Now, while your ears no longer hear
the commands, your eyes -- though hazy --
still can detect what my fingers tell you,
and your voice strongly barks the
correct numbers. I am
proud of you.

Sometimes, while you are sleeping --
harder now than ever before --
my love is so great that I reach to
pet you, often alarming you,
occasionally hardly able to rouse you,
and you gaze unfocused from your bed,
trying to return from another place.

Sometimes, when your head is turned
a certain way and I raise my voice to
just the right pitch and loudness you
react -- not assuredly as in times past --
but dreamily, like you know love just
came around the corner, and you
smile wistfully from across
the room, but you do not
come to me.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub Poetics, where host Mary asks us to write a poem in the form of a letter.
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