The squinting sun...

Thoughts of you and me falling in love that sunny spring day remind me how the ring outshone the sun, causing  me to squint from it's pointed reflected light

She squints as she drives out her driveway on her way to the doc, sunglasses not withstanding; she goes in for her first chemo round, but it's not such a bad thing she thinks; it's such a nice springy day

Squinting as he rounds the bend, the afternoon's spring setting sun makes it difficult to see; for the sun's glare led to a head on car crash ahead, causing him to swerve

Spring's sun after the thaw brings the finest show and we are in awe; nature's continuous IMAX  review of blossoms and summers' flowers is free to all

He squinted, smiling to himself, looking out the skyscraper window that sunny day; he had planned a special anniversary.  The silver nose of the plane ended all that instantly

Her squinting and laugh lines gave her face such character in her later years, my Aunt Jean

She squinted as the sun on her face locked the tears inside her eyes; she learned this morning her friend had a terminal illness

The blinding spring sun felt good as she rocked back and forth in the chair on the porch, not touching the pain inside;  her baby did not make it though the night...a tragic crib death, apparently

The bombings ruined my day, that afternoon I lost my legs; but the people and sun were out in force anyway

She had the voice that sang operatic soprano in springtime; her daughter was deaf so could not hear

Learning she was turned down for the job meant she would continue to press on, the sun causing her to squint as she left the interview, taking her mind off the negative

One can have the sunniest disposition; no one knows her pain; she tells no one of the suffering or fear inside

She raced happily for years, now nibbles spring's green grass in a meadow, did not lose her life to a broken leg

Too many people died on the bright spring morn of their wedding in Iraq;  life didn't mean a thing to those who set the stage  

The blinding spring sun felt good..tinted gold the fine, elegant hair on her brow

The blind man can't see the light of a cloudy day but can feel the warmth of a bright sunny spring day

They live in a shack, too poor to buy shoes, live on soup, rice and beans; the family is happy to be together, season to season, held together by love and honesty

In spite of the squinting sun, she hit the ball high beyond the fence for a home run

So many other examples of life's odd ironies, when spring's cycle alters the way you feel; when the sun on your face is the best and worst thing, it happens that way every day. Though we do not always see, we know someone, somewhere is learning that... to be is to be

                                          What we dream or plan or do not,

                                          what we choose to do or don't -                    

                                          all is a matter of relativity

                                          What we expect and don't receive,

                                          what happens or does not -

                                          attitude emphatically

                                          matters...makes the difference in

                                          our evolving philosophy,

                                          our adapting outlook

                                          between our survival and/or our insanity

No intention of being glum today..this is what just flowed out of my pen.  It's Open Link Night at dversepoets.com where Grace is tending bar.

Inside my paper boat ...

In circles I turn 

without practical training, 

backing into a lake's primitive bank -

stern side stronger 

than starboard right, 

dipping alternately, 

finding rhythm

Stillness settles, 

slipping o'er 

untroubled liquid mirrors, 

where ripples cease to repeat,

announcing pristine solitude

A distant hushed crystal splash 

reveals a rainbow's tail, 

free from hook, line, sinker

My boat meets 
no resistance

Tall wispy grasses 

give clues to movements 

mimed in life's underbrush

Ripening blackberries adorn

the roundness of it all, 

where tiny streams replenish 

dreams in my soul

Under my woven hat,

shading my face and red lips 

healing from sun ultraviolet 

With clarity of vision 

unknown before, 

I slip into an exquisite 

peaceful nap, floating                   

 For dversepoets.com Karin invites us to write about a trip..any kind of trip..

Three Sijo..Poetry Form from Asia..

Sijo is composed in three lines, each line having 14-16 syllables, 

for a total count of between 44-46 syllables for the entire poem out of Asia.  

Samuel Peralta over at dversepoets.com  is instructing us to write one, or two.  

A Sailor's Dilemma 

Unable  to  hide  love or  smoke,  he  sails  in  the  morning  to  drift

 into  the  colorless sea  life  pressed  within  time's  dusty  pages -

between  old  and  new,  to decide if  he  still  feels  the  same for her

~~~~

 A Pioneer's Tale

Lewis & Clark at mouth of Columbia River

Fearlessly guarded in her Bible, between books Matthew and John

since 1853, for spirited native hearts unbroken   

a four leaf clover still wafer thin, picked from a burnished meadow

~~~


A Pink Moon

Gathering at cusp of twilight, they honked under their breaths, gaggling

A pink rouge of sun set behind the mountains, their destination

 little effort ascending to greet their domain, dark silhouettes

Not enough rain..

There once was a time for sloughing
what we had was gone
dampened by infidelity
You said I did nothing wrong

No rain fell there to rinse away
aching arteries
barricaded by loves locked chains
heart and soul still cindery

There was not enough rain to wash
away fallout left
letting particles cling about
irretrievably bereft

Along came the rain to erase
old ways of feeling -
refreshing downpour, detailing, 
waxing, waning, then healing

Now hovering on my shoulders,
a white cloud holding
no rain, for the heart, mind and soul
together are enthroning





For dversepoets.com   it's Open Link Night

..just a little bit of spring..still chilly out..pansies 

with various textures..stained glass, ocean and music..
     For Nancy Claeys' Tuesday Muse

                                                                           Original

 

Spring boutonnieres...

SpRinG is the subject today at dversepoets.com.com where Claudia leads us to write about any aspect of it our heart desires.

.. spring morning dew
imbues violet hyacinth petals,
 yielding their marrow's oils -

 pats of pigment, hint of black,

 tincture begging to be lifted
by an artist's new soft brush
to paint on canvas,
exuding potent perfume 

 ... pink-veined white Rhodies
slumber,
awaiting fog's parting by
noonday rays of light,
brighter today than yesterday - 

we breathe in earth's raw aromas,
 rake soil's dark history,

expressing
air in, out again

... cherry trees hail pink snow,
 dogwood trees just know
the miracle of life,
intimated season after season -
taking me back to

renaissance pastoral scenes
gleaned from volcanic born
cadmium yellow, lapis blue,
crimson,
illuminated by
a Vermeer-like glaze

Spring unveils
aesthetically -
seeds cast on breezes,
carried high where
swallows wing;
paths of fallen birch twigs,
wet leaves,
  tones of nature's achromatic blend;
Streams flow outwardly
 singing their premiere,
 nurturing future ivory, red, pink
boutonnieres

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

To the peacemakers...today we are challenged..

For dversepoets.com today we are asked by Anna to write something about catastrophe.  Like many, I am wary of the ugly news, politics as usual, and general slow decline of humanism.  First I re-posted what I wrote two years ago on 9/11; then I added what I wrote today, paraphrasing what President Obama talked about at the interfaith service in Boston.  I was struck by the girl in the children's choir who was fighting back tears and hope she/all will heed his words of optimism, even though it's difficult to be other than angry, depressed, and pessimistic.  This is not the idealistic world I grew up in - it's dangerous.  How can some sleep at night for not passing legislation that we all deserve?  First and foremost, we need to move protect and prevent more innocent children, men and women (families) from being killed.  The poems soft perhaps, the deep anger not released here, as I don't have the energy today.

by klr 9/11/2001

                         Hear Them                          

In a mist of confetti
souls floated away
Incense of their innocence
their lives were betrayed

Heaven bent lights honor them
Pools soothe aching hearts
Wreaths and speeches give tributes
Doleful bagpipes impart

But for a lasting world peace
candles and prayers are not enough
Heed their breathless cries

Put neon stars out tonight
Find the true rose of justice
So no more will die

~~~~
                                                                           

by klr on 4/15/2013

 Today we are challenged                                         
- wherever we might be, 

the peacemakers -

children of eternity,

channeling grace
 into our broken world

Today we are challenged
- to build together,

in generations to come,

a strong spiritual community, 

inspired to help others,

toward a faith richer, denser

Today we are challenged 

- to repair together, 

for our spirits are part of
the realm of something bigger,

to reconstruct and renew
in spite of pain and despair

Today we are challenged

- to heal and endure,

revealing the best that we are,

extracting strength from weakness,
 lifting up what's good
in the face of terror

Today we are challenged

- to give of ourselves
in the form of hope,
compassion and comfort,
beyond
hate, fear and violence

 For the peacemakers,
great is the reward,
for our suffering -
drawing this world together
 with the power and grace
to love,

God's last word

Monsters ..en plein air ......

I was four when one dark night lightning struck; 

I, in my jammies in Grandma's kitchen, 

a perfect rendezvous, weather just right

Electric missile shards knifed the cold air,

merging monstrous clapping thunderhead clouds,

terrified me at very first sight 

"Don't' worry" she said, reassuring me

" it's just clowns bumping their heads together.."

but my fear heightened as the sound carried
I imagined big fat heads colliding,
frowning mean rumbling clowns surrounding us -
We peered out the window; they moved closer

I saw them then, painted grumpy faces

ominous charcoal folds, falling over 

one another, wind blowing hardily;

misshapen faces, dark purple rain filled,

 threatening, stormy, jet grey bluish-green,

slamming the ceiling door, cracking loudly

Changing moods - as extensive as our own,

more flashes of light and serious BOOMS! 

Then a bruising downpour on the pavement

"Monster clowns, Grandma, may I sleep with you..

please?" But later when the storm subsided,

I looked up again ..now the clown faces 

had changed; were they a foe or protector?

All of a sudden they seemed friendly, wise

 As she took my hand, I turned and looked back,
 didn't tell grandma they winked at me

I gave them all names as they left my sight

Sleeping, in my dreams they sometimes rumbled

and ranted, but I was never afraid 

In funny clown hats, they had a flair for 
simply returning in another disguise,

sometimes they tried giving me a good scare

blase` was I,  for they were my allies

So now on a given summery day

I paint them on canvas and 'en plein air'

  

Tonight is 'poetics' at  dversepoets.com  and Brian   
invites us to write about monsters,  scary, nice, or whatever

For a long time in my childhood I believed in the image instilled in my mind by my grandmother when she spoke of storm clouds in the sky.  I was sure she used the word 'clowns' instead of 'clouds';  not until I was old enough to understand what she really meant did I realize it, but I still think about it every time there is a thunder storm.  My brother corroborates my story; she did use the word clowns.  How many faces to you see in the quick painting I did?

There are 8 after I added in Emmett Kelley in the lower left and a clip art shot in the lower center.

Trail of orange rinds...

Open link at dversepoets.com tonight where everyone contributes their "slant" on life through their poetry and any topic goes...

Orange rinds strewn 

leave a trail to the edge
of the island 

below the boardwalk
She sits on her knees bending 

in the sand, forms 
herself

into an upright  "W"

Reason for his no show, 

unknown - 
tightly she grips 
handfuls of sand, 
letting it sift through 

her fingers over and again

Little consolation

the evening stars, 
shooting and landing in the sea
.. it seems,

small distant splashes 

gold, grey, salient green

She walks between the large rocks,
anemones reach lazily,

floating seaweed trips toes, 
she stops,  listens for his voice,

steps on broken crab leg debris

- plunging into the salty sea 

headfirst, submerges herself, 
holds her breath 

til she can no more,

stokes into the night waves,

now the same color as the wet sand,

she goes to the beach blanket,

table setting for two,
basket of food 

and wraps a large shawl around 
her shoulders

to keep goosebumps, tears 
from welling

Canaries sing their nightfall lullaby,

glass souvenirs ride frothy waves 
of whiskey spiked butter cream light 

The namer of winds had none 

for the taut, maple sugary breeze 
that now plucked the silvery threads 

of a spider's swaying web -

sea and floral scents filter through 

palm leaves, 
balm for a newly broken heart, 

as she falls asleep counting 
velvet ribbons 
of night sky

Then morning cries - out loud
the old sun new again, warm 
promising, bright

she knows it's better
to be alone

than with someone who 
does not tally, hold his own,
want your company
- the tide ebbs, as she does -
island girl - bred by the sea

Old factory blues..

Two views of the same abandoned old factory in the industrial area of Tacoma...a little texture here and there  to make it  just a little more interesting...for  Nancy Claeys'  Tuesday Muse where you find  her A Rural Journal as well.