AGAIN

Wednesday Scribblings, and we’re asked
to be inspired by a play list choice.  I
chose “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo
Springfield, struck by how timely it is,
as if written today. This newspaper headline
is from 1968, and could be today. Sadly, it
seems we’ve learned nothing in all these years. 
Submitted to  Poets and Storytellers United,
May 10, 2020
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Stop, hey, what’s that sound
Everybody look what’s going down
       AGAIN

A rhousand people in the street
Carrying signs and singing songs
       AGAIN

There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
      AGAIN

Mothers cry and sons die

We’re living 1967
      AGAIN

Sixty years of learning nothing
Empty promises of doing something
     AGAIN

We cry JUSTICE! Weed out hate!
Pray for change before it’s too late
      AMEN

REVERIE

It's Prosery Monday, and Merril has given us
a phrase from a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
about which we're to fashion flash fiction up
to or exactly 144 words.  The phrase is "we
go in different directions down the imperturbable
street".
Submitted May 8, 2020
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We were the best of friends, we were the best of lovers in that magic time.  Exchange students from two different worlds , we met and fell madly in love.  As if we’d entered our very own version of Brigadoon. the golden days passed in a passionate trance with no thought of tomorrow…..until we reached the day when reality struck.  It was time to return to our two different worlds.  With tearful promises to meet again, we go in different directions.   Down the imperturbable street, blinded by tears, I made my way to the bus station, the airport and home.   For a time we stayed in touch, then distance frayed the fabric of our passionate interlude, and it is now, in my sunset years, in an evening reverie,  my thoughts return and I wonder, does he ever think of me?  

13 WAYS OF LOOKING AT AN OAK

Writers' Pantry #23, and we learn the
story of Joel's Legacy Tree.  In honor
of the Legacy Tree, this is a reprise
of my poem inspired by Wallace Stevens
"13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird".
When I see an old tree, I always wonder
about the stories it could tell.  Perhaps
this is the story of an old oak.
*************

It falls from high,    
small, brown, inconspicuous,    
containing promise of mighty oak 

  

Now a seedling,     
young roots seeking sustenance  
growing strong and tall   
fulfilling destiny      
      
Shield from summer sun.    
Dappled shade 

on cool green grass. 

 
Natives gather beneath.   
Dense leaves provide shelter   
from summer storm    
      
Feathered inhabitants
find welcome homes
and raise voices in song

Now standing sentinel
beside pioneer cabin
amid fresh young dreams.

The child swings
from sturdy limb
happy and secure

In soft rustles of night
a quiet “who who”
of resident owl

Taller still, rooted deep
scarred by time
cloaked in history.

Dressed in colors
glorious red
russet and gold

Now naked in winter winds
limbs akimbo. 

colors pooled below

Stark shadow cast on snow
like tentacles

seeking warmth

Now tinged with green
bursting with life anew
The cycle continues.

Sunday Muse #111

Sunday Muse #111, and Chrissa has
provided the image by Alexandra
Dillon  for inspiration.
Submitted June 7, 2020
*************

my nation grieves
protests erupt
into violence and destruction
our leader only serves
to fan the flames

I am only one,

praying for justice
and equality
Where do I fit in?

DISCIPLINE

Weekly Scribblings at Poets and
Storytellers United.  Our theme is
discipline.  My father pronounced
It de-SIP’-lin..  Either way, it’s a
difficult taskmaster!
Submitted  June 4, 2020
*************

It’s such an easy recipe
sweetened condensed milk
24 oz of chocolate chips
dash of vanilla, melt, stir
and pour.  Cool til set.  

I am strong
I am disciplined
I can limit myself to
   one small piece a day…
   Tomorrow calls my name…

Clock hands move slowly
FINALLY midnight! It’s tomorrow!
One more small piece
I am strong, I am disciplined
WHEW!  I made it!

RAINY DAZE

Sarah is hosting Poets' Pub this week
and our topic of choice is rain.  I lapsed
into prose!
Submitted to dVerse
June 2, 2020
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The song says "Rainy days and Mondays always get me down”, but not me!  As early as I can remember, I’ve loved rain.  In our part of the Illinois prairie, you could see the spring rain clouds building from miles away over the vast flatness, their skirts billowed out like great clucking mother hens.  By the time they reached the far edge of the corn field beside the house, you could see the leading edge of the curtain of rain. The distant patter on the corn leaves crescendoed to a wonderful rat-a-tat as the first big splats set off spurts of dust in the barnyard.  Ah, the wonderful earthy, fresh, pungent smell of rain!  Summer storms were wonderful too.  Sometimes the distant sky turned almost black, the clouds rolling and tumbling, shaking themselves free of lightning bolts that arced to earth over the dark green fields, the distant rumbling thunder building to bone-jarring cracks that accompanied spectacular electrical displays as the storm moved overhead.  Majestic. Magnificent.  I don’t remember fear, only awe, and somehow reassurance that I was part of a greater scheme of things. While I’ve lived my adult life in cities, rainy days always take me back to those prairie rains. 

JUSTICE

Time for Quadrille #105.  Linda
offers the phrase “Cry havoc. Let slip
the gods of war” which seems appropriate,
 and asks us to use the word “slip” or a
form thereof in our poem of exactly 44 words.
I write with heavy heart, my city one that
experienced riots, and our demented
president only rattles sabers.  .

*******************

JUSTICE

death wearing blue
shaming his brothers
racism unveiled
some watched
letting slip the
beast of discontent
anathema in city streets
                opportunistic thugs                
seize opportunity to pillage
pandemic becomes
epidemic of frustration
reasoning black and white
brothers and sisters
sickened and aghast
crying for justice