The more who walk....

The more who walk, the more who will survive

motto of October's fervent fund drive

Poems written by countless ladies touched

by mortality's fateful cancerous

disease based on birthing humanity

women's war with her own anatomy

So personal and private....yes, saintly

First heard of in groups murmuring faintly

Pause given to those who did not survive

How many of them could still be alive?

I met her Monday in the library

struck me with her witty commentary

Books on learning French she had just returned 
"Not me... I'd rather walk the plank!!" she said

"Bah, here's a good mystery to read instead!"

I asked her, "..so what would you recommend?"

"Walking the beach each day -" she replied, 
"it's how I've survived, what keeps me alive....

was diagnosed with breast cancer stage four;

it's been eleven years now and more."

                she continued,

"You must download the tide tables online-

you want to be sure it's there when you arrive!!

It was low at noon today...I go every day!"

Attractive with peppered salt hair, I'm sure

she had the best perspective to endure.

Whatever malady I can stave off, I'd know one thing

life is a miracle worth extending

Today the cure is still unknown for some,

but for many it has already come.

I will join her book club and follow suit

using laughter...and beach combing to boot!!

dversepoets.com  Joe Hesch hosts Open Link Night..write about anything..I have only a couple of friends who have had this type of cancer and I cannot even begin to imagine what it must be like.

True fiction...

Inhabitants of a small tranquil town in Alabama - 

-

What terrors, specters in shadows await them on Halloween?
Haunted houses, goblins and ghastly ghouls, 
fearless shapeless witches on brooms, 
cobwebs hung from tree limbs
What actually brews in the kettle in the crackling fire seen 
through the window of the old woman's house?  Apples roasting?
What antics would they encounter as they walked the path, 
twigs breaking, through the woods to the pageant at the 
schoolhouse that autumn night ?

What stories wove around the sounds that prevailed in the air?
Murmurs, tapping, tales of casting spells, and apparitions of
a trooper hurrying in the gloom of night...the galloping 
headless horseman;  leaving the graveyard on the back roads 
near the church, looking for his missing head, lost in 
a battle in the Revolutionary War...returning before dawn.  
These legends fueled the minds of Scout and Jem as 
they stayed within the boundaries of the usual safe route
from home to school.  Birds perched in rows watching
them go by; owls buried their heads.

Scout, dressed as a ham with only a peephole to see through,
was escorted by her brother, Jem, too old to wear one.
On their walk homeward, near the big old elm tree, Scout is captured.  
She struggles to get away and ends up turned upside down in her 
costume.  She sees the real hero who saved her and Jem from 
evil doing that night.  Boo Radley, a recluse, came from nowhere
it seemed and carried injured Jem back to their house.  
Of course Atticus, their lawyer father, was grateful and everyone
learned lessons that night.  As they sat on the porch swing later,  
Atticus lit his pipe and told this children why it is wrong "To
 Kill a Mockingbird", teaching them tolerance and respect.

I watched the sun set again last night...

                    Art by Kim Rembil

 Photo by Dale Heron

Watched the sun set again last night

No two can ever be the same
Apricot plum skies set aflame

striking the sea in filtered light
as the crescent cove welcomed night 
electric clouds lined in neon's frame                              

Mirrored rainbows touched down became                               
sun's hide and seek bouncing ball game
tinted canyons' metallic sight
Watched the sun set again last night 

The skyline's fine art states it's claim

pats of light buttered wild to tame
by Nature's own palette knife
curled waves of silver secrets bright
how earth's green mansions gained their fame 

Watched the sunset again last night

                                                                                                                                  We are asked by Tony at   dversepoets.com   to write a Rondeau poem, it's rhyming going thusly:  3 stamzas  Refrain-aabba, aabRefrain, aabbaRefrain                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

               
                                                                                                                                           

                                                                 

As I grow older.....

       I'd like to climb into Cinderella's pumpkin carriage,

escape to the land where Monsters go to University -

       my guardian angel will drive me down untaken roads

 where the orange fired leaves of autumn burn,

       and fairies decipher digital codes

       I'd like to fly into that night sky where Peter Pan

           flew with lost boys who are lost no more -

          I would trade my frown for a smile anytime, 

             dance on a roof with Mary Poppins, whistle with dwarfs,  

or learn from Wizards for a spell 

     

        How I'd love to go to faraway places not scary 
           made of peppermint chocolate ice cream cones -  

       I'd ride Aladdin's carpet, waving to people below,

     I'd hang from the mast on Captain Sparrow's tall ship

       sailing the wild Caribbean

Arabian knights and Tom Sawyer's tales

       speak to me from days gone by - when Huck Finn

knew the Hardy Boys and Heidi sat on her grandpa's knee

Oh, how I'd like to soar the skies 

in Buzz Lightyear's spaceship with a pig or donkey

I'd like to, as I grow older,

 still wish upon the first star I see at night

Whether in a wheelchair or absent of mind,

I'll always love Micky Mouse and the wind beneath 

my swing, and behind my high flying kite

dversepoets.com 

Wild mushrooms ought to be strawberries...

Wild mushrooms break out in the green-
brown carpet of the forest floor 
Cool temps now, not ready to freeze

their smooth brown stained skins like diamonds
in the rough, as we trek along,
They sprout like small emotional outbursts 
calling for help or attention
Hunting for that delicate food,
be they Chantrelle, portobello, 
or morele, brings delight to the soul 
And upon a crash of thunder 
and split second lightning flashes
arrives quickened rain, teasing
out summer's end
Retreating flowers still decorate 
their heads
The beat goes on though, and fate
heralds autumn's decor
as testified to by Sonny and Cher
We hunker down, covering up our trails with
compost or wood chips
Odd souls find comfort in seasonal changes,  
ever longing for the distinction
between the times
A hopeful generation, we,
reaching the autumn of our lives
Prone to gaze at a rosy reflections, 
to succumb to the powers of 
wood smoke or bay leaves steaming
We knew it wasn't right 
and little has changed
Night is closer in now, fog rolling in - 
we devour steamed mushrooms, 
lush mussels with butter and bread, 
in turn raising a glass of wine
The best of us didn't leave;
 it was buried by the debris left,
still littering our clean forests
A childish government jealous 
of it's own leader I believe
Sad, for it could be too late 
to build anew, review,
- if by candlelight,  
Be an advocate or scold them
with pen and paper
Struck by the smallness of the world 
on a screen, we click to misfortunes 
on a large world scale
We would rather look to mankind's best self,
but privately we weep -
Choices were made and we were not heard 
for the din of disdain; 
but we are still not satisfied
Deer and chipmunks grow thicker coats 
as the woodpecker pounds his 
five hundredth hole
....sated by the fields' harvest,
spent amid the smoking leaves -
we still try to find our peace

Fall

A leaf detached lands on a branch
beneath it, awaiting currents                                                                    

to further it's graceful tumble-
surrendering to it's demise,
it's descent dignified, humble
Having spent a lifetime turning,
changing and allowing new growth to flourish; nature restoring itself,
ferried by wings of love