SUNDAY MUSE 211
A QUATRAIN FOR DAISY
Daisy was a strong lady
Who played a leading role
With Daisy’s determination
She always met her goal
She set her sights on victory
Winning never to lack
Daisy was the smart lady
Who kept the wind at her back.
FRIDAY WRITINGS at Poets & Storytellers, and we're asked to consider our observations of the depressing news of our current times. At 88 years of age, I can hardly lead a march or run for office, but I can do my small part to spread a bit of cheer and kindness at any opportunity. I was reminded of this poem about a lady whose small act was to plant a rose bush and bring some beauty to her part of the world. Her thoughtfulness lingers on, and so might ours.
Mary planted roses by the door
In that time so long ago
Through lace curtains at the window
She watched them bloom and grow.
Those days are long since gone
Faded into pages of the past
But still the roses vine and bloom
Each year as beautiful as the last.
The lace now hangs in tatters
The cottage vacant and still
The oaks still overlook it all
From their spot upon the hill.
Mary is but a memory
To those who loved her best
But still her roses vine and bloom
Since she’s been laid to rest.
So we, too, leave a legacy
In small things we have done
And we leave a gossamer footprint
That lingers after we have gone.
FRIDAY WRITINGS Magaly suggested we find something old and give it new life. I found this golden oldie from my days as a lady executive longing for some peace and quiet. Now I'm on the other side, having the time to savor I longed for all that time ago. There seems little that needs to be changed! It's a nice reminder of how I looked forward to these quiet times....a peek at the me who used to be! I'm sending good wishes to Magaly for a quick recovery!
As I speed along the highway
In the usual morning race
My thoughts turn back to other times
When life had a slower pace
When there was time for dreaming
And wriggling my toes in the mud
And close examination
Of each leaf and flower and bud.
For listening to autumn breezes
As they rustled through fields of grain
And for smelling the wondrous fresh bouquet
Of a late spring evening rain
For idling under a shade tree
When no one knew where I was
And studying the intricate mechanics
Of what makes bumblebees buzz.
For listening to trills of songbirds
As they flit from tree to tree
While I looked for four-leaf clovers
In grass like a great green sea.
It seems now my days are so busy
These pleasures are things of the past
I try to find time for dreaming
But life races by too fast
I think of the time when I’m older,
With time on my hands again.
How I’ll treasure those special moments
Much moreso than I did then.
For God in his infinite wisdom
Has bestowed a very great favor
What in youth we take for granted
In old age we have time to savor.
Sunday Muse #205
I remember the diner
We sat in “our” booth
in the back
oblivious to everyone
Your eyes were
the bluest of blue,
your lips like
waiting to be plucked
It was then we decided
to be married
and to live
to those young lovers?
Where did it all
Our dreams like “our” booth
now empty and bereft
charred in the
pages of time
Was it all
smoke and mirrors?
FRIDAY WRITINGS. Magaly suggests we put a twinkle in our wrinkle. I incorporated it into a poem of things I wonder about. If only we each acknowledged the power of one! (The art is my own). Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, March 25, 2022
Sarah invites us to put a little color in view, and gives us a delightful bouquet of words to use for our poem. We can use any or all, and I had a bit of fun with them all. Submitted to dVerse 3-22-22.
When the trumpet sounded, it was time for my
tea with Florence, so I donned my best chemise.
and checked the mirror. I was beautiful, and
it was a glorious tea which ended when the
rolling fog was coming in. Time to throw
confetti on the goblin masquerade, and
head for my hidey hole until first light. After all,
tomorrow is another day.
Quadrille Monday at dVerse, and our word is paper. A long-lasting debate about bathroom tissue comes to mind. Submitted to dVerse on this firsr day of Spring, 3-21-22.
Some say they are “ready to roll”
all well and good
but which way?
Should it roll over
if you’re an over
and you marry
an under, what then?
Ah, the great toilet paper controversy!
Revisiting and adding a stanza to something from tje archives, for Friday Writings. Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United on March 19, 2022.
Once I was like the rock that fell
from the mountain face into
the stream… all sharp edges,
Life happened. Like the rock in the river,
I was tumbled , bruised and battered
on my journey, edges smoothened
and honed on my passage.
Moments of joy, moments not, … change
softening and polishing my sharp edges,
my solid core remaining, but enforced
now with lessons learned.
Approaching the last chapter
of my long journey, a bit weary
what comes next.
FRIDAY WRITINGS .The Ukranian situation leaves hearts heavy all over the world, and those who look to a higher power pray for a peaceful ending. My thoughts are with the Ukranian people. Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, March 11, 2022.
PRAYER FOR PEACE
Broken dreams and fallen heroes
Heartbreaks by the score
People pray for peaceful ending
No more misery anymore
Save the mothers, save the children
As the fathers go to war
People pray for peaceful ending
And no more misery anymore
Strike the evil one from power
Cleanse him to his very core
As people pray for peaceful ending
And no more misery anymore.
Bring wisdom to world leaders
Help them find peace, we implore
People are praying for peaceful ending
And no more misery anymore.
THE SUNDAY MUSE 201
We walk about
In our chosen shoes
to keep us
from mud and such
there are times, however
we have a need
to dispense with them
and wriggle our toes
in the mud of life.
what is real
and be reminded
to walk in faith
and never lose
touch with reality.
I'm always fascinated with the way trees bend to the wind -- sometimes gently to summer breezes, sometimes tossing in spirited March bursts of energy. My photo is of a bench under an old oak on a hill in Salem, Oregon, taken by my daughter. Something about the bench inspired my poem...and maybe it was an impish March wind that inspired the last line! Submitted to dVerse 3/1/22.
A BIT ABOUT ME
I was born in middle of nowhere Illinois 88 years ago, attended a one-room country school and, after highschool , Brown’s Peoria School of Business. From there, on to Miami, Florida, secretary to the administrator of Variety Children’s Hospital, worked in the Surgical Dictation Pool at Jackson Memorial Hospital, then returned to Illinois when my father had life-threatening surgery. When he regained health, it was on to Indianapolis, where after a brief stint as secretary of the associate director of Lilly Endowment, Inc. Along the way I married and had a son and a daughter and took time being a mother. Later I started as medical transcriptionist and climbed the corporate ladder of Medical Records Inc. to the position of regional supervisor until I retired in 1999. I’ve dabbled in oil painting, miscellaneous arts, creating journals, recreational writing and, of course, poetry. I live with my son and wife in an over-55 community in Plainfield, Indiana. I chose the photo of the forgotten villa by Romain Thiery, which inspired the following poem:
Show me a photo of something old and abandoned
And I lapse into what used to be
I wonder at what viewers will conjure
At an abandoned old photo of me.
I am sometimes bumfuzzled with poetic challenges at various sites, and I analyzed one of my own story poems to see how it would be described as a challenge. To my amazement, it's a story poem of six tercets with AAB rhyming pattern, the B's of the six tercets to rhyme! Funny thing is, I wrote the poem as it came to me, and analyzed it afterward! I think my poetic style (and I use the term loosely) must be derived from 80 years of reading all sorts of poetry. I'm quite chuffed with myself, so I'll share it here in FRIDAY'S WRITINGS at Poets & Storytellers! Submitted on February 25, 2022
Consider the talented spider
Who, with only genetics to guide her
Creates delicate lace filigree
Her industrious endeavor
Is devilishly clever
For she has a plan, you see.
When a curious fly
Comes cruising by
He’s headed for infinity
Before time can ebb
He’s caught in her web
There’s no hope for the fly to flee
For all of her spinning
She’s accustomed to winning
She's an arachnid of celebrity
And the ill-fated fly
Who came wandering by
Is on his way to eternity.
I'm always fascinated with the way trees bend to the wind -- sometimes gently to summer breezes, sometimes tossing in spirited March bursts of energy. My photo is of an old oak on a hill in Salem, Oregon, taken by my daughter. Something about the bench inspired my poem...and maybe it was an impish March wind that inspired the last line! Submitted to dVerse 3/1/22.
THE OAK ON THE HILL
I was there today at our oak on the rise
I remember your tears as we said our goodbyes
I vowed to be back as soon as I could
Life got in the way, it took longer than it should
But I never forgot you and your sweet smile
Somehow I expected you’d be there all the while
Now my friends tell me I was gone too long
That our love turned into a boring old song
They say another fellow has caught your eye
Seems I’m the only one wondering why
Some say I’m bitter and have no right to judge
Things are not what they seem and I carry a grudge
But I’ll always remember the oak and the bench
And wish you’d waited……your heartless wench!
Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, and Ingrid is leading us into what for me is the mystery that is an iambic pentameter. What a frustrating time I'm having. My quadrille far exceeded 44, so I saved it for Tuesday, but I find counting feet and iambs stresses me far more than syllables. It renders me full stopped in my poetic endeavors, but I'd like to share my poem which is written to my own personal poetic rhythm. Mea culpa. Submitted to dVerse, February 8, 2022
NIBBLES AND WINE
I’ll have just a nibble
I wisely said to myself
As I opened the can of mixed nuts
I’d been keeping on the shelf
I settled in my easy chair
Beside me my glass of wine
Who could ask for any more
Life was mighty fine
I think something overcame me
I’m not sure what it has done
But the glass is now quite empty
And the nuts in the can are gone
It’s really a strange mystery
No sign of intruder has shown
How do these things happen
When I live all alone?
It's FRIDAY WRITES at Poets & Storytellers, and I'm in a somber mood. Snug and warm after the seven inches of snow painted my world, I think of those sleeping under overpasses and in alleys, wrapped in tattered blankets to ward off the chill. Submitted to Poets & Stoytellers, February 4, 2022
In the wee small hours and silence of night, when insomniacs clutch their remotes, trolling the airways for diversion, it’s the witching hour; and darkness, black and velvet, envelops the alley. Beneath a tattered blanket, the homeless man huddles in a doorway. Soon the trash trucks will clang their way down the alley, collecting clotted and fetid debris from the dumpsters, and yet another dismal day will begin. The man stirs, and draws from beneath the blanket a stubby pencil and battered journal to record yet another day of desperation. Little remained of the man he once was but the desire to write.
It's OLN at dVerse when we post a poem of our choice. We're in the midst of a winter storm, my world is white and my words reflect the effects as the storm settles over our over-55 community. Submitted to dVerse 2/3/22.
Haibun Monday, and winter is bringing snow and frigid weather to many of us. I am reminded of the story of an old cemetery on what was known as Dead Man's Hill. Submitted to dVerse on 1/31/22.
SAVED BY THE BELL
A winter wind blows across the deserted cemetery on the hill. The headstones are from the 1890s, and legend has it the cemetery is from the days when, for reasons unknown, people believed occasional burials were pre-humously and some were buried in haste. In order to prevent this dreadful demise, the solution was to tie a string around a finger of the dear departed that led up to a bell attached to the end. Should there be any movement, the bell would ring and they would be rescued. Hence the term “dead ringer” and “saved by the bell”. Occasionally, a person would be employed to watch the cemetery at night and listen for bells, hence the term “graveyard shift”. These days, young lovers like to park near the cemetery on dark and wintry nights. Some say they’ve heard the distant ringing of a bell.
while on watch in the graveyard
a faint ring is heard
is it for whom the bell tolls
Cat wisdom of 10,000 years
(according to Wikipedia)
Man with laugh crinkles
is one who can be trusted
(according to cat)
Wikipedia says cats have been around for 10,000 to 12,000 years. I believe it. Ours seem to feel they have the key to all knowledge!
GOGYOSHI -- A Japanese form of brief poetry in which there are 5 lines and title, introduced by Rosemary Nissen-Wade. Photo taken by my daughter at Basket Slough in Salem, Oregon.
Reluctant to release the night
fog wrapped the trees
who stood silently
waiting for sunshine
to set them free.
FRIDAY WRITINGS ... I indulged in word soup for fun, I love the magic of words, dribbling from fingers to keyboard in an endless stream of pleasantries, mysteries, subtleties, vignettes, and curiosities. The songwriter, Willie Nelson, says the air is full of melodies, just reach out and grab one. Same is true of stories ….. the words are all there, just reach out and grab some. If you ever feel like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, this poem may be for you. You just may be unlikely enough to qualify…..or not. I just reached out and grabbed some words! Submitted to Poets & Storytellers Friday Writing, January 28, 2122
Common sense, good sense, nonsense,
And those who have no sense at all
Well dressed, Sunday best, over-stressed
And those who are late for the ball
High heeled, well heeled, ears peeled
Listening for the final call
Bellicose, verbose, grandiose
And those who are exceedingly small
Not here, wrong door, my dear
It’s the first door down the hall.
Monday Quadrille at dVerse, and the word is “shivers”. Brrr. In the little house on the prairie of my childhood, there was no heat in the upstairs. Our word today --“shivers” -- reminds me of those nightly scurries from the downstairs by the pot-bellied stove up the stairs to bed on a cold winter night. The memory inspires a poem of shivers in exactly 44 words. Submitted to dVerse 1/24/22
Remembering the shivers,
running up the stairs
to my bed, diving under
the covers and putting
my feet on the warmed
brick mother had put
at the foot of my bed
between flannel sheets
under the quilts and comforters
made from worn-out coats.
THE SUNDAY MUSE
It's the dreary days of winter. No snow to pretty it up, but the sun is shining and the days are growing longer! Odd things come to mind. If my husband were living, this would be his 102nd birthday! My mind wanders to mystical places and magical climes, so I'll take you along. Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United, January 21, 2022.
there’s a Spring called Weekiwachee
a spiral called Fibonacci
and a mysterious land called Xanadu
there are verdant hills in Shangri-La
dramas and mysteries in Camelot
and behind the mists is Brigadoon
I want to escape the pandemic
visit these lands euphemic
and become carefree once more
in the healing world of Avalon
with Eldorado’s golden aisles to walk upon
come along, let’s escape and explore.
Alas, my acronym left me with a single line, tantamount to a dangling participle. What to do with a line which has nothing with which to rhyme. Forsooth! This never would have happened to the bard! Submitted to dVerse Poetics Tuesday, Januiary 19, 2022
Titillating acronyms capture the mind
Hopscotching from word to word
Each is carefully considered
Savoured, repeated and heard
Aliterations, activations, and such
Undertaken to coin the exact choice
Rendering the ditty so pretty
Upstarting until poets rejoice….
Stunned! Satisfied! Scintillated!
FRIDAY WRITINGS and idle thoughts. I borrowed from Colleen's wardrobe, Magaly's word, and followed my muse. I hope they don't mind! Submaitted January 14, 2122
drooping sox and unmatched mittens
scraped knees and weathered denims
enkindled childhood memories
toasty kitchen, smells of cookies
daddy's chuckles, momma's hugs
battered table speaks of love
brothers, sisters, no matter which
it's our secret we are rich
THE SUNDAY MUSE
some seem to speed through life like a shooting star
a brilliant light, reckless and driven,
savoring adventure, speed, and chance,
wild and daring, taking life to the very edge …….
some meet the edge all too soon
and, like the shooting star, fade into infinity.
leaving their horizons unexplored.
FRIDAY WRITINGS and here we are in 2122. I had a rather rocky ride, which I've tried to put in humorous rhyme. Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, January 7, 2122
MY CHRISTMAS/NEW YEAR ODDESSY
2021 is finally over, how do I begin
to explain the trouble I was in?
Painful as it is to write it down,
my ‘22 ball-wear was a hospital gown!
Seemed they drew blood a million tests about
Thank heaven they finished before I ran out!
Four days then home, goodbye with a grin
Two days hello, I was back in again
Seemed to me my worst fears now became whole
I’d fallen down the dreaded medical rathole
"Try these meds", they suggested, which didn’t thrill me
I thought to my soul they were trying to kill me.
At last we’ve adjusted, and I’m still alive
My resolution for 2022? I just hope to survive!
And to my dear friends, all gathered here
I wish you the happiest, happiest new year!
THE SUNDAY MUSE, submitted 1/1/22
THOSE WERE THE DAYS
I remember once upon a time
(and even then I wrote in rhyme)
the side pocket on my 2001 Buick
LaSabre spoke for places I’d been and
places I planned to go. It was packed
with memories of good friends and
good times, and plans for further
journeys. We were trusty traveling
companions, my Buick, my friends
and I, until I finally sold it in 2020
for a smaller model that would take
less room in the garage. Thhe years
had passed and I remained the only
traveler. I sold it to a deaf young
man who needed a reliable car, and
reliable my Buick was! He won’t hear
the echoes of raucous laughter, the secrets
told of our husbands' escapades won't shock
him…..and he won't hear the dreams we had
that stayed forever dreams.