Thursday, August 30, 2012

Swing in tritina...

dVerse Poets Pub
                                   
Suggested by the talented poets at dversepoets.com
an exercise in a form frequently by poet, Marie Ponsot.
It's a Tritina and its verses go ABC,CAB,BCA...with a capsule sentence 
for line ten.  Not easy for we amateurs...  
Let me have it people...
..my poetry can only improve...;-)

~

There is nothing like flying high on a swing
hang tightly to the ropes bending legs low
to the ground and the elation it brings in springtime

Breathing fragrant air I lose track of time
Contented I am anchored in a homemade swing

counting blessings each time I soar high or dip low

Children laugh and squeal as they rise and look below
My mood is more on even keel those times
when I'm gaily swinging in a swing

Make time to swing low in your chariot..





Tuesday, August 28, 2012

The Toast...



An earlier writing of mine, taken from an archived post from my 
blog last October with a few minor changes. I think this might have a different audience here at .http://dversepoets.com    dVerse Poets Pub           this time..



 Whilst they gather by the fire
 beneath the crystal chandelier
  smoke slips through and around them
 Gramophone tunes ring dear

Floral wallpaper defines the room
  champagne toasts given 
Recalling past festive holidays
 when stardust fell from heaven

Where once waved a Parisian blue 
scarf against her cheek
driving the winding road for a sea view
now a violet net shawl and chartreuse parakeet

On the mantel a padlocked gold box
where intriguing tales are kept  
   A man's corduroy hat hangs on an umbrella stand
 the woolen black cloak in which she wept

Scents of rain and burnt desire
Winds augur the season with a rasp
Sweet joys not sorrows
bring smiles to her Titian red lips at last

Hazel eyes play in the light of the room
She arises becomingly
No more anguish from within
...yet missing him
 With a flair of bravura she waltzes freely
.... audaciously

by klr

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Alien or stork?...


My offering for Haiku Heights  this week.  Check out the other entries while there for a variety....




Ominous indeed
Birthday March forty seven
First breath in space craft?

~

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Mr. Houghton...



 This week for dVerse dVerse Poets Pub  we are asked to write about a 'character':



                       Mr. Houghten...


He picked up his mail each week where I worked
A retired merchant seaman, who labored around the globe
Slightly hunchbacked with cane, he even swaggered, I must say
Lingering to visit, reading a letter from home

Coarse white hair with sideburns, a Durante schnoz
Quick blue Irish eyes, he removed his hat for the ladies
I longed to hear his tales, imagined him as a young man
A romantic at heart, we liked the same movies
                        Who are they?


Smitten was I with this older man, haversack over his shoulder
He told he went dancing every Saturday night at the center
I wondered about his sailing days, a girl in every port?
What was he like back then, how many tempests did he weather?

Sometimes he arrived with tomato soup on his whiskers
Yet I perceived certain refinement in his particular squint
What about his childhood, family, country - did he have a wife?
Rugged, educated and keen, conceivably fought with his fists

One rainy day he arrived soaked from the rain
Complaining the barbershop was closed and swore
Quiet at work, I offered to give him a haircut myself, gratis
He agreed as he blushed when I opened the side door

While trimming his hair I asked myself what
might he be like at home, how would it be to date him?
'My pleasure' I said as he looked in a mirror and thanked me
Head bowed he turned, peering at me sideways with a grin

That night I dreamed I wore a red dress as he danced me 'round
the dance floor', the smell of Olde Spice aftershave...
Of kneeling at his feet while he recounted stories
A pipe in his strong hand by the fire he made

Wished I had invited him home for a meal, gotten to know him more
Imagining we had met another different time or place before
I'll bet this old man of the sea could really cut a rug on the dance floor
                 - with me as his mate.

by klr                          





























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































Sunday, August 19, 2012

Old Cowgirls ....


This composition is in the huitain form introduced to me by deVerse  this last week;  also I used the "summer" theme for the month of August from another writer on the site...I hope it passes muster..I  know it's a far cry from the famous ballads and writings by countless before today ;}   Besides, Cowgirl Poetry,  genre all it's own, is very formidable.

~huitain~ usually 8 syllables, 8 lines in a stanza
Old Cowgirls...

Summers found us bridling our mares
Nuzzling for the bucket of oats
Ready for trails to lose our cares
Pushing back low tree boughs that poked
Riding through small canyons, back roads
Long shirts tucked into riding jeans
protected us from poison oak
Cowgirl hats provided sunscreen  

Water droplets covered with dust                          
clung to our boots and I wonder
whatever happened to my trust??
Narrow paths tall grass at shoulder
Turning necks in saddles under
skies that heard our dreams and wishes
what parents oft put asunder
freedom with a horsetail's swishes

Brushing my horses bangs aside
Buckskin coat with expresso sheen
Her appaloosa with sad eyes                                            
Laughing faces where big tears streamed
We were just under seventeen
Dismounting to drink cool water
Pink snow had fallen on lime green
To draw strength one day for fodder

Hooves dug in dirt climbing up hills
Rocky terrain met meadow lakes
Wilderness ferns and flowers thrilled
Grasshoppers, snakes leaped in our wake
Sharing feelings, goals, fears to sate
We raced, we cantered, walked slowly
Country nowhere else could equate
Twilight led us home woefully

Learning preparedness those day trips
Had quickened our first responses
So when someone loved lost their grip,
terrible things confronted us
We grew extra arms, took losses
Shared losing a sister too soon
Inclined to believe our horses
chariots waiting past the moon


by klr

The photo in the belt buckle is not my friend and I..there are none that we can find...




Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Soul...


Today's prompt at Haiku Heights is "soul"...

Henley's Invictus
tells of his resilience
Captain of his soul
~
True voice of the blues
Her soulful songs topped the charts
Rest in peace Etta
~

The Poor Soul so tried
yet met with certain failure
Gleason's humble id
~

Katrina robbed souls
sweeping away livelihoods
 Obliteration
~

Heart, body, and soul,
Barry, Smokey, and Marvin
Seventies' Soul Train

***


      Sings my soul to thee            
  infinite omnipresence
  Music thus arranged

Our yearning essence
moving impulses aspire
To higher levels

 Sublime from within
innate womb of suspension,
 Comes not ready made

Trials play us forward
beyond the last horizon
Divinely spun web


klr

Monday, August 13, 2012

Woodland flower...

Sharing with Nancy Claeys'  Your Sunday Best Photo...

YourSundayBest

Taken on road trip to Oregon....a lacy wildflower SOOC...and.with 
embossed texture...


Friday, August 10, 2012

Molly & the circus...

Theme Thursday

Theme Thursday for August 9, 2012 - RECOLLECTIONS




The scene was exactly out of a story book called "Circus Time". 
 It came to life before my very eyes.  In the 1950's, descending from Glacier National Park on part
 of our vacation to Canada, we drove around a corner and into pastureland.  To our extreme surprise,  we saw men in blue overalls hoisted long poles.  Little people scurried about watering elephants as they, indeed, were helping to pull taut the ropes which fastened a huge tent down with 
spikes driven  into  the ground. 
We had happened upon one of the last "Greatest Shows on Earth"!  Performers had to be 
getting ready behind the scenes  as well.  Until it opened we found lodging in the nearby small town, the name of which I don't recall now.  I'm sure my jaw fell wide open and then my imagination ran wild as I fixated my memory on the little Golden Book read to me as a child over and over by my paternal grandmother.  What I describe now is partly 
what I saw that day, probably in Idaho, and mostly from the story book.

Living the gypsy life, lost boys called "The Big Show" home; sawdust
 stung their bare hands and arms and the scent of barley lingered from pitching bales of hay.
A trapeze artist donned her ballerina type shoes; clowns painted smiles on their dour faces.  Sky the color of cotton candy and buttercups began the day over three big tented arenas.   Onlookers filed into grandstands from oh, so many places, children arrived in swarms.  


Unparalleled in today's
 world, people watched in awe as the tigers and lions obeyed 
the tamer.  Men in leotards stretching and pretty showgirls on white prancing horses shared the spotlight with vividly costumed bears and dogs.  Many a writer has most likely already described all the                                   sights, smells, sounds and more details of a circus, particularly the familiar roasted peanuts, hot dogs, popcorn, and pretzel smells that filled the air.
Clamoring horns, the beating of a big drum, children screaming;,,, frequent hushes of an audience spellbound.  Bells ringing from the arcade and laughs from the crazy mirror house....
I channeled the little golden book that was read to me, of Molly and her father at
 the circus for the day.

Familiar was the side show where she saw the bearded lady and the man covered 
with tattoos.  Muscle bound men lifted weights; a very plump lady wept behind a curtain; another 
swallowed a snake!  
Bridles of silver gemstones shone in the sun as the sky turned a brighter, closer blue;  upbeat melodies 
played from the three rings in three tents gorged with people....all  of them happy to be there, simply to put grins on the faces of others.


The illustrations in the Golden Book by Marion Congor are by Tibor Gergely .... beautifully done,
 it seems with a magical brush, in hued colors in round, supple strokes; children have rosy cheeks and men have kind faces; each scene is easily imprinted on one's mind for lifetime.  Dipping his pen in caramel ink for the late afternoon soil and then adding the grey- blues and textured finer touches, he used 
a Kool Aid cherry red paint to contrast with the lime and orange balloons....

At the end of this day in the illustrations
 in the book, the sky changes to shades of purple.  Everything is exaggerated as they 
 might be in a child's mind...larger than life...and up close.  
Tired from the excitement, Molly rests her sleepy head on her father's shoulder, balloon in hand.


He carries her home in the cooler evening after they have had their fill of entertainment.
The warm wholesome feelings the book imparted to me years ago, still exist, but also have led me to revisit the father daughter dance that I ironically found myself a part of.  I idealized my father...he taught me how to dance by letting me stand on his feet, how to chop down a 
small Christmas tree with an axe,  to study hard and long,  and to not be
 prejudiced. To all of us, he was a champion 
in everything he did.  
We learn parents have faults.

Growing older, I saw I was not the little girl in the black Mary Jane 
shoes dressed in the French blue dress.  The man in his green suit and brown hat was not 
really capable, not emotionally available, as is said now, to understand a girl's ever fragile and changing thoughts and emotions.  I rebelled against my usurper and clashed with his 
patriarchal tone.
I learned to separate the truth from the fiction, the ideal from the actual, and the love and disappointments with cloudy boundaries.  I was oblivious to the mixed messages of unconditional love.  My god, did that take me 50 years to sort out?!  

No longer did I put my father on a pedestal; never performing quite well 
enough, I distanced myself, separating myself from him in many ways at an early age, and
 left home at 18 like a babe in the woods, head upheld, not down.  I was ill prepared for adulthood; I began to thrive when I learned that feeling anything at all in the world was allowed....even expressing those feelings was a healthy thing to do..  Well, I finally realized I deserved to
 be happier than I was at some point ;-_).....'hello Jane Fonda', 
who I later learned had dealt with the same issues with her father that I did,  that took a
 lifetime almost (thank goodness not too late) to parse out and uncover, 
a false premise, if you will.

So come one, come all!!  Join the parade!  .We all have our favorite books from childhood.  What is yours?  point ;-_)  If you mention those like Treasure Island, Nancy Drew or Moby Dick,
 then I believe you to be well-grounded person.
 .

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Random impressions of a river....



The following is in response to the request by Claudia of dVerse.com to write an impressionistic piece, creating the atmosphere or surroundings of a given time, writing quickly, not worrying about too many details, conveying the mood of the setting....fresh in my mind was last evening's get together of friends on a small deck overlooking a tributary that flows into the larger Columbia River:





Afternoon sun played through the branches
 of tall firs bordering the river.  
For lack of deep water to swing into, the old rubber tire hung by a hefty rope and
 the swimming hole across from us - abandoned 
yet looked so inviting.. 

River narrow at this point, shadows cast the
 darkest dark green on the water.
Shimmery sun spattered leaves spun light around, like small mirrors falling on the river surface
Rapids heard down stream, beyond a wide bed of rocks,  more exposed
 these summer days.  

More visible meant easier to find agates
 churned, culled over to a polish
 by the currents, recovered by scavengers;  some gold and clear, others cloudy with green and blue layers; some a pearly white or mottled, oddly shaped - 
thunder eggs


Many such found rocks line the wooden deck 
of the one bedroom cabin, 
 Collections found before in baskets, a home-made coffee table indoors.  The retreat is restful and cozy, with scents of pine and clover; flower boxes decorate steps,
 inner tubes at hand.


Making the short hike up and down easier, 
dirt paths angle back and forth,
 protruding bare roots provide steps on trails through trimmed arcs of branches. 
Through the small gorge, dusk sends a breeze;
  dabs of color dash across the other side

 Creativity and character define the surroundings 
 Reading's the main pastime
Conversations and stories take over,  pouring glasses of red wine
Paintings of Indian maidens adorn the walls.
Schnauzers snore quietly

Peering through darkening trees in a navy night sky
a waxing moon greets us
Unable to stop time from advancing,
at least it moved slowly for awhile
- for some friends 


 -
by klr

Friday, August 3, 2012

Forget Me Not...



Sharing with Haiku Heights this week, the prompt is Forget Me Not.  
I truly have a cup my mother gave to me  that has "Remember Me" written in gold on it.  It is in a box temporarily from a move I was making, so I could not get a picture of it today.  I used images I found online instead.  When I locate it I will replace these pictures 
with the real one.


Mother bequeathed me  
Porcelain Forget Me Nots
Quote: "Remember Me"


 by klr