Gratitude

If not for the gray-haired man on the beach

who stopped me to ask if my dog could have a biscuit —

his eyes welling with tears over the loss of his Lab just

two days before (leaving him without a dog for the first

time in 30 years and his pocket still full of treats) —

who pointed to a wave at "one o'clock" to site the

huge seal bobbing there and then noted a whale

was out there further, I'd not have walked on

(after wishing his heavy heart peace) with my eyes fixed

below the horizon, and would not have seen the joyous

spout ~ I called back to him and he nodded ~ and then

another spout to the right, indicating at least two whales

were there, and would not have seen the graceful curves

of two whale bodies shining in the early autumn sun.



Were not the three Monarch butterflies puddling in pools

near the cliffs, flocks of celebratory Sanderlings flying

switch-backs along the waves, and the companionship of

my precious dog already gifts enough to me this day?



I honor them all with Gratitude.

I love the moon

For the moon

Even if I could not see you
Your glow would cool my mind.
There you are, steadfast, at ease,
Lighting the night, putting right all
The harsh ills of the day, making
Me grateful for my eyes, your peace.

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Happy New Year

The separation from my blog since my last post in October 2015 is the longest I've had since creating Writerquake. Focus has been a main issue. I absolutely hate that, and hope to reign myself in, settle down here more often. I have missed writing, and, more than that, have missed reading posts at other blogs so much and sharing comments with you.

The only consistent writing I've done is at Facebook in the form of Haiku posts. I've gathered some of them here to communicate how I witnessed the seasons of 2015, simple proof that I kept my eyes and heart open last year.

~~~

Muted moon tonight
Hazy ring wide as the dome
Night birds flew through it

Road through rainforest
Sopping air, clouds high and bright
Prisms burst through fog.

Tense ionic air
Zeuss rumbles and cracks - birds still
Wash of sweet rain calms

Sleeps in black velvet
More precious than daytime's gauze
Summer night sublime

Silver Creek whispers:
"Remember, remember when . . ."
I know when is Now

Vast starlight—midnight
Shooting star arcs in delight
Dusts me with insight

Last rays on gold fish
Bird of prey soars with dinner
First/last flight for fish.


Golden spider weaves
Midnight, porchlight, rain falling
Autumn comes softly

Power saw's loud scream
Silent fir's last day of sun
Old-growth thuds on ground

Low frothy white clouds
Tiny star plays hide and seek
My bright deep-space friend


Asleep beside me
Stretches, grunts, long legs twitching
Wild puppy runs free

Tree finally up
Lights purple red green gold white
Sugarplum puppy


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Mag 278 — goodbye

So as to not disturb the silence from which
this poem came I will whisper goodbye.

No goodbyes to the space that will always
hold us but goodbye to the vastness of
that space. No goodbyes to your face that
is there for friends in the good book of
these days, and no goodbyes to your face
in smiling pictures from those days,
but goodbye to seeing eye to eye.
Goodbye to your hands: I loved them to
look at, and being gifted by them with
pleasures. Goodbye to the pleasure of
knowing you well. Goodbye to your voice-
its tone and timbre, and your written voice-
its passion and poignancy. Goodbye to all you
were for me—heartbreaker and muse, taker
and lover, forsaker and friend, forgiver and
forgiven.


__________
*first stanza - with a nod to final line of HOW TO BE A POET by Wendell Berry

Written for The Mag: Mag 278 that inspired with the above image prompt.
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Pause for Reflection

The image she kept of herself: sophisticated
elegance, hair swept in perfumed grace, nails
groomed pink clinking against the drink glass,
ice winking from clear blue eyes.

Who she was: the drunk in dirty overalls,
flirty beauty long gone, slurring stories long on
lies, interrupting herself with "Excuse me,"
before puking inside her garment bib.


Written (with gratitude for we women who have attained sobriety) for two writing prompts:

1) Photo Challenge #68, Pause at MindLoveMisery's Menagerie.
Note: Image by wallpaperswide.com

2) 55 words for Flash 55 Plus at imaginary garden with real toads

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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When

When when was a word
trailing off into space
and change was avoided, 
to keep an unholy peace,
I kept pace with the
fullness of nothing.

Then then became a sword
to die upon or to swallow
and in my marrow I knew
that when is now and
always had been.

So without a runway or
landing strip I changed
course and one day
I will say I flew.

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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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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—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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Friday Flash 55 — Last Call

The tuxedo t-shirt bar crew
yelled Last Call to the crowd
of hot grinding dancers
     and solitary pointstars.

Their club DJ sequed to his final song,
urging them all to find a spark,
a spark to ward off the lonely dark.

With his final notes pairing magic
pulsing in the air DJ sighed:
     “There, there.”

###

My post written in exactly 55 words for Friday Flash 55. This is the last week that G-Man will serve as our Host here. It has been a great ride, G!
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Friday Flash 55 — Roots

Rite of Remembrance by Madeline von Foerster

When there are roots

something seemingly dead is still

alive at the heart of the world

where silence lives.

Roots go deep,

holding fast to the memory

of days growing in the sun.

Then darkness displays

a crown of stars blessing the 

primal essence that could not die. 

And night birds sing to the moon.

~~~

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

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Friday Flash 55 — Marking a page

Image: Book Sculpture by Thomas Wightman, Musetouch at facebook

Someone forgot his or her meds —
A manicure is long overdue.
Scoring a book into deep shreds
Save the title, leave a sad clue.

This might be called a bad hand day—
Or perhaps that describes what was dealt.
Truth is love no longer holds sway
O'er the brittle exhaustion now felt.

Turn the page.

My post in exactly 55 words written for Friday Flash 55.

Visit G-Man and his Mr. Knowitall community for more weekly 55s.

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Friday Flash 55 — The beaches

I must have them for they
had me at foggy swoosh —
at hoods-up walks with doggy
at making seabreeze stories —
at one hand pulled by another’s
up to lips for a tender kiss
at sunset, later drifting to a
warm pocket where the day's
sweet find lay hidden in granular
grace. It is the beaches.

My post in exactly 55 words written for Friday Flash 55.

Visit G-Man and his Mr. Knowitall community for more weekly 55s.

♥

Valentine's Day is also celebrated as Oregon Statehood Day, and it is Oregon's 155th birthday today. This poem (that contains a few words from a favorite Avett Brother's song) is to honor my state's spectacular coast, my special connection with it, and my love for those who have shared time with me there, never to be forgotten.

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Friday Flash 55 — One with Everything

 

This is me.  No one — made of Stardust.
 I am one with swirling planets,
    conifer cones dusted with snow,
        delicate ice crusting upon my vacant footsteps —
one with the underweight babe, the bloated beast,
the aged woman praying over beads one final time.

I am the beads, the breath, the bursting, and beyond.
All one.

-*-

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

(Image via Facebook, source not attributed)

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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.

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

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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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