HANNAH THE GOOD WITCH

FINAL WRITERS' PANTRY #84.  My muse dropped by the other midnight and left me a Halloween story poem.  We all know how I love a story poem!  Submitted 10/31/21 at Poets & Storytellers United.

HANNAH, THE GOOD WITCH

Hannah is a small witch

A bit timid,  you might say

Casting good spells

.   In her mild-mannered way

All the other witches

Complained and cast aspersion

Shaking their brooms

Employing threats and coercion

“If we don’t get that witch

Out of the witchcrafting game

Sure as we stir here“, they said

“She’ll give us a good name”

But Hannah just continued

Her work with a smile

They’ll not be changing

Her witchcrafting style

She keeps a tidy witch house

And casts her spells with care

When Hannah stirs her cauldron

It spreads happy everywhere

OLD LAMPLIGHTER

 The Sunday Muse #184   Of course the song "The Old Lamplighter" came immediately to mind.  I tried to add the You Tube link, but was unsuccessful for some obscure reason.  The image put me in quite a melancholic mood.

The year was 1946, and the mellow tones

of Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye sang of “The

old lamplighter of long, long ago“..

They’re gone now, Danny Kaye and Bing Crosby,

the scandalous bikini went on sale in Paris that year

and Tupperware was introduced to the market.

Rosie the Riveter was giving up her factory job

The war had ended and “the boys” were coming home

Now the Old Lamplighter is even longer ago.

We need someone to carry the light, to show

us an end to divisiveness and racism 

and this infernal pandemic, someone

to restore pride in the red, white and blue,

faith in our national leaders, and respect for 

our neighbors no matter their color or race.  

Come back, Old Lamplighter, WE NEED YOU!

WORDPLAY

OPEN LINK #303   When we post the poem of our choice.  I’m a hopeless wordaholic, and I love to examine words. I’ve indulged in that today, and taken a crack at the word crack!  Submitted to dVerse, October 28, 2021

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I engage in word forensics

Exploring the many uses of a word

It’s often the way I go to sleep 

(I got bored with counting sheep)

Let’s examine the common word crack

According to Webster a split in two parts

But what of the loud crack in the night

Someone trying to be a crack shot?

Consider the foiled attempt

That’s not what it’s cracked up to be

Some bloke free-basing crack cocaine

Or the fellow who tries to lighten the mood

Who’s sure to crack a joke

Or the quiet guy, man of few words

Who surprises us with a wisecrack

Crack the eggs and scramble them

I’m hungry….It must be the crack of dawn

And I do believe I’m getting sleepy ….Zzzz

CHILDHOOD MEMORY

FINAL WEEKLY SCRIBBLING #93  We're asked to write of a special childhood activity, something we especially enjoyed.  Many things came to mind, but evening bicycle rides clung to my memory.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 27, 2021

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In my childhood world, the vast agrarian space of central Illinois was divided in exact mile squares, each comprising 640 acres of  rich black soil, and divided into tidy little homesteads, each with a house, a barn, a corn crib and perhaps a small shed for chickens.  There were only five such homes along the roadside of our mile square, and between them just the vastness of Illinois prairie.   One of my favorite pastimes was a bicycle ride around our square mile just at dusk.  The only sound was that of my bicycle wheels on the gravel road, and the occasional trill of a meadowlark or red-winged blackbird in the fencerows.  The most perfect rides were just after the alfalfa and sweet clover had been cut to dry and be baled for feed for livestock during winter.  The scent of new mown hay is intoxicating and unparalleled.  No perfumer has ever been able to recreate it.  I dreamed great things on those solitary rides in the innocence of my childhood.  How I wish I could reproduce those magic rides.  

 

DOOM MERCHANTS

Tuesday Poetics, and we're asked to write " a poem speaking to a human attribute that is particularly irritating to you — and it must have a Halloween or Samhain theme to it"  A duodora form was offered, but I respectfully decline and fall back on my rhyme.  

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DOOM MERCHANTS

doomsayers, naysayers

prophets of doom

sure to be noticed

when they enter a room

a party in progress

and everyone glad

until they come along

with their bucket of sad

no small wonder

they’ve dressed like a witch

even sans their mask

you can’t tell which is witch

it must be depressing

to live in their head

and carry their inevitable

backpack of dread

call me goody two-shoes

and incredibly naïve

if they come to the party

I’ll just have to leave.

LIFE LESSONS

Writer's Pantry # 93  and I indulge in a small pity party, most likely the result of a series of four gloomy, chilly, rainy days.  I'm ordinarily not one for pity parties, but one seemed to present itself this morning.  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, October 28, 2021

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"The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all they tears wash out a word of it",   ~Omar Khayyam  

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    LIFE LESSONS

Time teaches humility … and reality

in gradually insidious painful lessons

So much to be learned as we progress through life

I thought I’d always be a capable multitasker.

Though I can still drive .. I cannot lift my walker

into the car, so where will I go? and what will I do

after I get there?

I loved grocery shopping, and reading the

gossip sheets while I stood in line

Now I order my groceries on line,,,

and have them delivered.

We used to be a monthly eight for lunch,

dear friends and I.  Now we are two,

...and can’t get there.without help.

Monthly art meetings were a source of inspiration.

No meetings now, and art projects grow fewer and fewer.

I always prided myself on being positive

Now positivity is  a chore... and frequent façade

Criteria for planning outings:  Are there stairs?  

Is parking close?  Is seating immediate?  Is the

restroom easily available!

Adjustments to be made, and blessings to

be counted…and I find there are still plenty

of those.

Time to enjoy the beauty around me.  Time

to observe lives of  those I hold dear, and 

let them know they are loved.

Time to be revered.  

THE STREET

 The Sunday Muse #183

THE STREET

“Ponder the image and the meaning of life

Link, share and visit others”

Keep it in mind as you walk down the street

All are your sisters and brothers

Remind yourself you’re no better than they

Each their own challenges to meet

Some dealing with victory, some with grief

But all walking  the same cobbled street

Practice kindness, humility and a ready smile

They’ll remember it well if you ask

One day they’ll truly appreciate the smile

When it’s not behind a mask! 

 

PASSION'S NOT FOREVER

THURSDAY POETICS, and the challenge is to write a compound word poem with set rhyme and meter given as aab and 883 in each of 5 3-line stanzas.  Submitted to dVerse October 21, 2021.

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PASSION'S NOT FOREVER

Our encounter was meant to be

though likely we did not foresee

it coming.

In spite of the stormy forecast

we felt certain it would last

a long time.

Cluelessly we chose to forego

troubles that continued to show

us red flags

Enjoying passionate foreplay

we continued to seize the day

and savor it

'Til something we could not foretell

ended in our passion's death knell

it's all done.

MOVING FORWARD

WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS  Moving forward to a new format, we're asked to write something on the theme of forward movement.  I took a look back at all the poetic terminology I've encountered here, and I'm looking forward to learning more!  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 20, 2021

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Assonance dissonance, volta and rhyme

Seguidilla,,sasparilla, lemon and lime

Stanzaic, syllabic, and skip to milieu

Slant rhyme, unrhyme, haibun and haiku

Such are the concerns of an aspiring poet

One thing to hear it, another to know it

While looking back at challenges met

Moving forward seems timely

There’s much to learn yet!.

HAYRIDE HISTORY

WRITER'S PANTRY #82   It's the time of year I wish I were young enough to go on an old-fashioned hayride, if I could find one.   I'll just settle for fond memories.  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, October 17, 2021.

HAYRIDE HISTORY

Once upon a long time ago in the times that used to be, October was not complete without a hayride and weiner roast in the woods.  Mode of transportation was a hayrack pulled by a tractor.  A hayrack was a flat bed wagon used for hauling baled hay from field to barn--large enough for a group of friends.  A bumpy ride through the woods led to a clearing, and an awaiting campfire surrounded with bales of hay or straw for seating.  Delicious roasted weiners were followed by s’mores--a sandwich made of graham crackers, a chunk of Hershey chocolate and a roasted marshmallow to melt it all together.  YUM!  By now the sky was a carpet of stars, the air crisp,  and the campfire popping and sending sparks skyward. Time for the traditional ghost stories and campfire songs while the campfire does its magic. After a time, the fire banked, we reluctantly head back out of the woods, carrying with us a happy memory that will last a lifetime.  

CEMETERY ROAD

 SUNDAY MUSE #182

CEMETERY ROAD

If you drive at night on Cemetery Road

Especially if you’re driving slow

They say she’ll be sitting on the bench

Captured in the pale moon glow

Mother sent her to wait for the bus

Or so the story goes

The fact is she never arrived

What happened no one knows

Her fate is wrapped in mystery

Her mother’s grief is endless

People say you’ll see her there

On nights dark and windless

Dressed in schoolday best,

A red bow in her hair

They searched for her all around for days

But found no sign of her anywhere

Years have passed since that fateful day

And still the story is told

People say they see her still

On the bench on Cemetery Road

OLD BARNS

WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS and we're to feature a symbol or object of importance to us.  My mind went to my fascination for old barns and abandoned houses.  Many years ago I took some oil painting lessons, and naturally I painted old barns!  One such is depicted below.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 13, 2021

I wonder why I’m drawn to abandoned houses

and falling down old barns

and why it is my mind wanders to 

how life must have been, 

who was the last person who lived there

and why did they leave.

Am I an old soul, wandering aimlessly

in this generation, as if transported

by some mysterious time machine

taking with me the memories

of that time and place in the pages of time.

What does it mean to be an old soul

and is there such a thing as reincarnation.

Karma seems to make sense

when I wonder why bad things happen

to good people, and if they are

paying back big time for wrongs in some past life.

 If we are to learn a lesson in each lifetime

 what am I to learn in this one.

Have I learned it or will I have to

do this all again.

SAD TALE

 The Sunday Musse #181

SAD TALE

Drucilla wanted to be queen

but alas she was only a pawn

she listened to the bishop and rook

until the knight was gone

MOMENT IN TIME

 Writers' Pantry @91 where we "let our imagination run wild".  I'm having a flashback.  I saw his name in the obituraries, the man with laughing eyes.  I hope he found what he was seeking.  He left an indelible  smudge on my outlook on life.  So, here's a poem for him.

THE MAN WITH LAUGHING EYES

I once knew a man with laughing eyes

who caused my heart to dance

who made me believe in love again

and, trusting, I took a chance.

I loved the man with laughing eyes

and oh, love was so sweet

I believed no challenge could be so great

that together we could not meet.

Sometimes we loved by firelight,

sometimes we loved by day

....then one day the man with laughing eyes

seemed to have gone away.

I said to the man with laughing eyes

"You seem to have built a wall.

I've tried to scale it but I cannot,

it's really much too tall".

And so went the man with laughing eyes

away from my life for good.

I guess I knew it could never last,

but, oh, how I wished it would.

For a moment we had it, my laughing eyes

but alas it was just for a day

and quickly as snowflakes disappear

our bright tomorrows slipped away.

OCTOBER

WEEKLY SCRIBBLINGS #90.   Rommy recalls an Anne of Green Gables quote "I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers!"   Me too!  The very word evokes so many happy memories.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, October 6, 2021.

OCTOBER!  

Words come tumbling to describe sights,

sounds and memories from the 

pages of my life. 

 Hayrides.  Bonfires.  Weiner roasts. 

S’mores.  Pumpkins.  Gourds. 

Chrysanthemums. Migrating geese.  

Flocking birds.  Cobalt skies. 

Burning leaves. Flaming maples.

Russet oaks. Golden aspens.  

Misty mornings.  First frost. 

 Scarecrows. Sweaters.  Crisp air.  

Harvest time.  Football games.  

Marching bands. Pumpkin pie. Taffy apples.  

Little Pigeon River.  Great Smoky Mountains.  

For each word a story to be told.   

 

MY CANDIDATE

Poetics Tuesday, and Sanza has given us lengthy and explicit instructions in the art of  panegyric poetry.  I've chosen to depict my dream candidate in our next presidential election.  Call it fantasy if you wish!  Submitted to dVerse, October 5, 2021

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                    THE CANDIDATE

Your youthful vigor has been ever directed

toward the goal of service to this country

you love  Since early years, you have conducted

yourself with integrity, treating others with respect,

but never veering from your goal.  You are the

epitomy of an honorable man,  humble and

God-fearing, yet courageous when need be.  

There are no questionable issues in your past 

to be divulged to demean you. You have accrued 

no debts or favors to dissuade your goals.  You are

my candidate.  You have my vote.

OM

 QUADRILLE #137  where we are required to "throw stone poems" using the word stone. 

Like Sisyphus 

I pushed the stone

slowly to the mountaintop…

my obsidian

bitterness and anger

               acknowledged yet again

Until

I began to see it

as a strong foundation.

Set free at last

             I built my house upon it

Here I stand

Home at last 

FROM MY WINDOW

Writer's Pantry #90   Methinks my interpretation of Miss Rosemary's Weekly Scribbling challenge for realism fell short, so here's another effort at realism.  The photo is of a street in our community, the description is of a daytime view from my window.

FROM MY WINDOW

                                            The late summer sky is a cloudless cobalt.

                                            A new home is being built across the street,

                                            and today the roofers are busy. They walk

                                            effortlessly on the steep pitch of the roof as

                                            they go about their work. At noon, they

                                            stop and sit on the cement slab that will be

                                            the front porch, and share their sack lunches

                                            and  daily gossip, no doubt, grateful their

                                            outside work relieves them of the necessity 

                                            of wearing masks.  Activity is interspersed    

                                            by the daily parade of dog-walkers, who

                                            amuse me daily by their endless array of 

                                            four-legged companions.  Soon the house

                                            will be complete, new neighbors moved  in,

                                            and life will go on comfortably in our

                                            over-55 community. 

 

THE KEEPER

The Sunday Muse #180

                                                            My lips are sealed.’

                                                            I am the keeper of

                                                            dark secrets passed 

                                                            to me by those

                                                            who came before

                                                            I do not speak of the

                                                            tortured souls they

                                                            left behind,. My eye

                                                           is ever open, seeking

                                                            respite from the

                                                            burden I bear.