The Museum Visitor...

Today Brian asks us to develop a character and tell a short story.  I have several  started  but far from being ready to post.  I think this story might work for the prompt, although we don't know much about her  so there's no strong sense of her..or is there...- I'm leaving it to your imaginations  ;-)
dversepoets.com

A print of this painting is on a wall in my house.  Ever since I can remember my parents had it, and I imagined it was me for years when I was young.  It says so much to me.
I thought I'd sketch it  - and added a Rondeau which tells something of the piece ...

Never had she seen a museum door;
 faded painting  inside could be Renoir
Rustic door opened;  view more worlds therein-
framed art in her likeness? Could be her twin?
Never been in a museum before

A painting inside a painting and more
like  the Russian nesting dolls of folklore
smaller versions of herself can be seen
She never saw such artwork heretofore

Glass not  wavy like fun circus mirrors
and no reflection of clothes that she wore
Everything in varied shades of green
each looking prim in her hat,  shoes patine
She thought of possibilities in store -
No idea she'd  be art to adore

Mr. Petrie....

For Open Link Night at  dversepoets.com   - a memory from the early 50's....

Mr. Petrie wore a long white butcher's apron

over his workman's blue chino pants

A crisp white hat stood 6 inches above
   his slick black Italian hair -
or was he Jewish, Polish or Greek?

Often he stood outside his grocery store,
 gesturing with  one hand,
the other in his pocket; animated,
  he chatted with neighbors, customers

Tall with a build like Abe's,
and with a winning smile,
he wore shiny black shoes, and had 
squeaky clean rosy cheeks
He had a large family, I remember, 
 who lived above the store,
immigrants  no doubt who made a life
in spite of everything
Neighborhoods were separated by culture;
 Irish settled in one part of town

  Puerto Ricans, Chinese and Blacks in others;
and we knew where  skid road was,
we liked to drive by there, 
but we never knew the whole story
Many times we crossed  S. W. 14th street
 from Grandpa's house to buy ice cream,
waited for trolleys go by

Buddy welcomed us,  letting us choose 
our favorite ice cream bar 

Mine was usually chocolate covered 
vanilla on a stick.  I think my cousin liked 
the orange  cream sickle best

Mr. Petrie was his name
But we called him "Buddy"
'Thank you,  "Buddy!"  we said

 Ladies relied on fresh bread, eggs daily ;

men bought newspapers to take to work

Nuns from the convent converged at the deli
like clockwork for lunch
wearing their black and white habits

I never thought Buddy was different, 
only the epitome of the "good humor man";

I liked how he always winked at me
stooped down to say hello, shook my hand;
he was kind, friendly, and handsome
I had a crush on him -
 I was only  6 years old.

Much needed rain...

Rain rushes down slick streets,                                                                  

swirls into gritty drains,
oily grades of inky water -
cobalt blue, teal, pyrrol orange,
washing away,  
by product of many years; 
could be, from tiny aqueducts inside,
since childhood,  barrels
filled with cried tears -
from those of  a newborn,
multi-faceted tears of a child,
to those of teen angst years;
 'Something old,  something new' tears,
pink and blue ones unleashed
as births heralded

Guttural tears shed
in deep disappointment,

of misunderstandings unfounded,
 purple hued tears for bruises of the heart,
and the crueler kind,
 evolved to black and blue
 Presently a wiser gal,
common sense says she's through -
Bell weather forecasts more storms
seasons of tears and laughter 
yet to arrive,
alternating with blue sky
tears of the bereavement kind,
by far the most salty, refined
Amazingly, Grace makes these
supposedly easier to abide
History dictates no immunity,
so cry a river implies 
infinite  supply,
prolific reservoir system engineered 
to maintain, recycle, let go -
for tears can appear out of nowhere,
at the  dawning or ending of each  day

Strange I  feel 24 years old again,
at heart,  until I see 
the reflection in a window pane
Clearly not a kid anymore,
but what bubbles up emotionally
 is a desire to plan a  surprise party
for myself __ to celebrate the rain
I loved the rain when younger,
puddles and rain on my face,
boots and umbrellas (still do)
But we make a down payment
on  a place in the sun - 
so why not flowers for the living
nurtured by the rain?
To be again that acrobatic girl,
who could walk on her hands -
ride horses on the sand for fun,
jumping everlasting waves
Rain in the northwest is common
but apparently not all people cry
It's  a game I  tell myself,
but winning's not the goal;
All that's recorded streams
videotape of truths and lies,
 cleansed and rinsed by rain,
refreshes and heals on a dime,
it means finishing in style - 
immersed in a sea of  love,
 what matters in the viscera of time

dversepoets.com

Poet Dulot's rhyming challenge...

drive, side, night, lied, wage, saved, made, face, nurse, church,worse, purse, 
back, that.



Bouts-rimés (boo reeMAY) is French for “rhymed ends”. It is the name given to a poetic game of the mid 17th century in which a list of words that rhyme with one another is given to one or more poets who then make their own poems, all of which use the same rhyming words in the order in which they were given at the end of their lines.   Tony at  dversepoets.com  has us writing these today and the words given are above...


Lovely evening to go for a drive
Bowing, he opens the door on her side
His motive this fine February night,
to tell her his secret, why he had lied
about the strange work he did for his wage
For seven long years he had scrimped and saved
Time to honor the commitment he made
What would be the surprised look on her face
After the accident she was his nurse
Today he is taking her to the church
He will marry her for better or worse
In his pocket a ring in a small purse
First saw her beauty from flat on his back
From poor to rich he did quite well at that

Lack of stars...

Sunset leans into night,
signing it's name in blackness;
nothing prepared me
for the lack of moon and stars,
when hope held up each hour
waiting for a sense of you

My eyes close in a dream of us

long ago
It was real,  and the ache
came back to me just now -
how could I have been so wrong?
I can't wait for the sunrise
to take you away again,
for the burning in my eyes
keeps me from seeing the road
I am traveling on now, tonight 

The Sunday Swirl...No 147

Rings of water flow outwardly larger,
rippling peacefully -
in a lake whose only wish
on a list
is to be more free;
to gather momentum,
carrying life invisible from above,
 that live therein and dream
 of swimming upstream,
grasping for more time -
desiring  to swim a mighty river
 where gutsier  fish are plucked,
a body of water who
gives herself to the sea
Emptying herself into the ocean
would be a more purposeful
  type of routine -
truly honorable,  more designing,
elegant and supreme
But by in large, a body as a  lake
would be most serene


                                   Written for:    The  sundaywhirl

Sketches in time..

Today Claudia suggests we write a "sketch", tell of an incident in a "sketchy" sort of way, in a colorful way....please take a look over at   dversepoets.com


Sketchers met 
at the restaurant's curved bar

to draw the intriguing view, decor;           
 dusty specks of gold 
shone from the floor,
aquamarine light refreshed
afternoon sun 
Even walnuts in the salad 
had a toasty brown shine; 
bread and Cabernet, with legs,
 aroma of columbine,


Food for thought were the 
red breasted robins,
tufted, plump, 
huddled, 
drinking from a shallow puddle                                                                                                                

What I think was 
a red winged blackbird,                                      
ushered in the start of spring?                                                 

with a whistling chirp
from high up winter branches 

The gals sketched the fireplace,
art on the wall, every unique thing,
 worthwhile afternoon, I  think,
spent looking across the bay 
where orca whales soon will play
In the background,
mountains newly covered in white
 I sketched the waitress 
with brown pigtails, 
the aluminum kitchen sink,
Music on the CD player - "Fever";
 now I remember who sang it originally -
 bugged me, searched the internet -
Peggy Lee
One more month of winter,
no time to hibernate
Better to partake of an activity
 with others, hugs all around,
of similar sensibilities -
  art, chit-chat, 
and to think that we approach 
or are already in our 70's, 
 sketching each other in 
earthy watercolors 
and black ink

I need to make a clarification:  in the sketch of the women, the one with the white hair is an error I tried to correct..in fact she has black hair and was wearing a scarf as a headband..I ruined it and the only way I could think of to correct the big mistake was to paint over in white...

Song (Ode) for a cedar tree...

Skins of nature - mixed palette of salad greens,
cappuccino,  mottled beans, 
 strains of eggplant purple to hazelnut cream
Statuesque cedars trees, born of circles of rings, 
surrounding me now, assembly of kings
To you I must bow my stalwart friend (s)
for your many talents hiding

Here's to your transcendent roots
for longevity
your viscera  so real to the touch,
your classy irresistability,
infinite tolerance 

Your strongest suit - a canopy     
                                                   

of boughs, 
Shadows within
your brackenwood pulsate,
pair with  patches of blue sunlight 
Streaking through you,

patterns of nature, 
flickering                

You charm me to sink 
into arms comforting
on shivery nights -
to commune 
with the full ochre moon

Meanwhile sable feathers fall 
from wings of owls 
in flight 
From you I draw strength 
and serenity, 
in this world of contradictions 
And when I'm old and tired, 
I reserve my quiet place 

 From your sacred cradle,  
 - where I will lie my head
in bed of cedar branches
on pillow of eiderdown,
I'll inhale your ambrosial scent
And upon hearing  
celestial carols sung from above
I'll smile and step
 onto stars' threshold  
You by my side,
our imprint but a fold in time__________
             eternally ______


Today's theme is lyrics or to write a poem song at   dversepoets.com  where Gay is hosting the bar.  Far from Leonard Bernstein  - remote to Bob Dylan, and in a short period of time, I thought this would suffice as it does have a tune.    I added the lullaby tune after the fact, thinking it more or less has the melody I was trying to get across...hope you can hear/see it.

Wordle No. 146...

Tiptoeing through bucolic pastures,  
wide field of wildflowers spread before me
Welcoming me collectively, 
 varied species amid tall grasses
All the scented colors of the rainbow 
fill my lungs, float upward, 
potentially reaching others' senses,
inviting all to partake 
I miss being a child again
To embrace in full measure 
to run and play,
no gates to throw me off balance, 
I kiss delicate petals, 
hold them softly to my cheek
Their  synergy flows outward,
creating preludes in the sky
with kites and eagles fly  - 
afar to an alternate universe,
 perhaps, or return to their former state                            
I  lie down on my back, 
eyes follow cirrus clouds,
opening to skies of blue
Wildflowers bend and sigh in the breeze;
 earth rotates around the sun, 
a dramatic rhapsody
I see no end to the halcyon beauty,
no edges to limit my dreams.

It's the Sunday Whirl.  And our beloved Seahawks are playing in the Superbowl in New York and we are all there in spirit.  Today's 12 words to be included in a poem are above and underlined as well. Coincidence that we fans are now known as the 12th Man.

Mementos ...

                                   


                                  

A puppet is among my souvenirs 
dangling dutch boy blue legs, funny red hat,
strings by which he dances, moves his stray arms;

Eyes wide, jaw clacking, wooden acrobat,

I bought him from a man named Geppetto

Intricate black lace waves causing a breeze, 

hides a face or sometimes sends a signal 

Spread open or closed, while Tango dancers

tap toes, shake maracas, brass bells jingle 

A fan also among my souvenirs

Faded photos - mother, father, five kids
taken long ago in Old Mexico'
cathedrals, speeding taxis and trumpets
delicious sopa, pan and pisco 
fond memories among my souvenirs

                                   

Riding the northern train to Old Cape Cod

Met a woman in the food car, we talked;

she had known Katharine Hepburn, my idol,

built her theater near the old town clock

Journal notes are among my souvenirs

Wedding bells, long held passionate kisses 

kept Valentine card expressed love and joy 

He knelt on his knees and held my left hand, 

put a ring on my finger, sailor boy 

It too...
         came to be.... 
               among my souvenirs

There is an old song about this, but these are not the words...Karin has us writing something today that is repetitious over at dversepoets.com