a QUATRAIN FOR DAISY

 SUNDAY MUSE  211

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   “May the wind always be at your back and the sun upon your face. And may the wings of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars.” ― George Jung, Blow by Blow

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.

MARY'S ROSES

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.

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MARY'S ROSES

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.

FORESIGHT

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!

FORESIGHT

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.

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

 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

sun-ripened strawberries

waiting to be plucked

It was then we decided 

to be married

and to live

happily

 ever 

after

What happened

to those young lovers?

Where did it all

go wrong?

Our dreams like “our” booth

now empty and bereft

charred in the

pages of time 

Was it all

smoke and mirrors?

POWER OF ONE

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

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 POWER OF ONE

How are you, we ask …

Do we really want to know

or is it just another way to say hello?

Are we too busy to listen

or merely too self-absorbed?

Could we save someone’s life

merely by listening to unsaid words

Could we make the world a better place

simply by each taking time to care?

Could we start a kindness pandemic

and spread kindness everywhere

Could we take time to put twinkles

in our time-worn wrinkles

Can we ever learn the power of one?

GOBLIN PARADE

 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.

GOBLIN PARADE

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.

WHICH WAY?

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.

WHICH WAY

Some say they are “ready to roll”

all well and good

but which way?

Many discussions

have led 

to little

solution

Should it roll over

or under

if you’re an over

and you marry 

an under, what then?

Ah, the great toilet paper controversy!

THE JOURNEY

Revisiting and adding a stanza to something from tje archives, for Friday Writings.  Submitted to Poets and Storytellers United on March 19, 2022.

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THE JOURNEY

Once I was like the rock that fell

from the mountain face into

the stream… all sharp edges,

seemingly unchangeable. 

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

and contemplating 

what comes next.

 

PRAYER FOR PEACE

 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.

REALITY

 THE SUNDAY MUSE 201

We walk about 

In our chosen shoes

to keep us

quite protected

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.

to  remember 

what is real

and be reminded  

to walk in faith

and never lose

touch with reality.  

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 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.

I was there today at our oak on the rise

I remembered 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

I have to admit I’m carrying a grudge

But I’ll always remember the oak and the bench

And wish you’d waited……you heartless wench!  

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..

SAVED BY THE BELL

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

 

WISDOM OF AGES

THE SUNDAY MUSE 196

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!

FOG

 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.

 FOG

Reluctant to release the night

fog wrapped the trees

who stood silently

waiting for sunshine 

to set them free.