THE SUNDAY MUSE 200

                                                  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.

ARABELLA ARACHNID

 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

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  ARABELLA  ARACHNID

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.

THE OAK ON THE HILL

 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.

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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!  

NIBBLES AND WINE

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

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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?                                      

THE WRITER

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

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THE WRITER

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.  

  

WINTER STORM

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. 

Snow covers the nearly identical houses

and caps the identical mailboxes

No usual parade of dog walkers 

Amazon and UPS are not in evidence.

Winter wraps the village in

silence and cloaks it in pristine white,

and in the nearly identical houses

the inhabitants stay snug and warm.

remembering  their sledding days..