...Mermaid of OsoStrong...

It is the last Saturday of the month and Open Link Night over at dversepoets.com 

 No prompts or topics to write about, I couldn't help think of our neighbors less than 50 miles from here who have experienced tragedy this last week.  Whether you've read about it or not, it's something that could happen anywhere with all the weather changes in the world, and does in fact impact many from time to time, whether it be drought or storm. My heart goes out to the community.

Everyone is lending a hand in one way or another.

There was no duel or battle
as we know it;
no cloaks or daggers lay in disarray

No noble cause for which they fought,
Lives were lost in a war they didn't wage
The enemy disguised in global warming garb,
on Mother Nature's battlefield,
left them no defense to withstand
the dangerous shifting Lahar
Their names now immortalized in clay,
wreckage is all that remains
Under a mountain of Mississippi mud,
homes, property and trees
across the mile wide rural community
Violent like a tornado or earthquake,
horrific as the eruption of Pompeii,
now a burial place for some
in streets of brittle bones
at the town's feet,
exact locations unknown

But still I search for you at the riverside,
cold water rising, numbing my mind
Wherever you are I want to catch you,
hold you in my arms, save you,
setting you free
I'll sit upon this large rock,
waiting endlessly
Muddy brown flowers float unnoticed in debris
under a blustery rainy sky
After days of searching,
my body collapses and I cry
Then piercing between the clouds
a rainbow dives,
bending toward the swollen river-
about where our old swimming hole
used to be and we long ago met
And I see you there, as in a mirage
twirling your hair in your fingers,
as I used to do;
you are rinsing your hair in witch hazel,
playing among scented orchids;
and I see the smile on your face
as you look at me and wave -
from under the cool, clear waterfall

A king ....and his queen..a study..or how he lives in two worlds..

He's been to the most bottom of the sea
where long interred treasures have swept away
where seething green-grey dinosaurs once trekked,
where mermaids wearing wreaths demur to go
No pewter nets to tie him down captive,
or to liberate from captivity
Aquamarine undercurrents pound him   
He often sees things others do not; it's
not as enjoyable as one might think
His sensitivity colors his days;
like a memory of an early love
Colors fade at brink of evening light
But in a billion platinum years
we will all be forgotten anyway

                                                                            
Up there, too busy are they with their horns
of plenty, made of plums and mascarpone
An alternative would be to be lured,
caught on an invisible fishing line,
a certain final dead end of dove grey
Better alive and touring the country,
as if on vacation in Tuscany,
where faint sun rays filter from adobe
reflections miles above; visit the old
ships sepia museums, the year-round
global fish aquarium,  swim freely
 without red and yellow traffic signals
Grin if you like, but hold tight to your mask
                                                                                                                               
Not a perfect place, but  serves it's purpose,
protection of his pained alter ego
allows him to swim in his privacy,
suffer in his extreme desperation
So pray for him who is alone, for when
he has spent all his air,  he surfaces                                                                                    
Wishing on a fishing bone brings him back
safely to sea level, drifting upward
Landing on a hidden, white sandy beach
he makes a bed of chestnut leaves and bark
Under a pale blue moon he is content
to look at stars in a blackberry sky;
coconuts quench his thirst; in the distance,
an occasional cruise ship passes by

Anytime he can return diving deep,
plunging into murky falcon brown silt
Minimal, invisible oxygen,
allows him to swim brief hours of time,
Imagine, a man's inability
to relate because he is different,
with plaid chemicals streaming through his brain
He's a good man when you get to know him -
he's someone you know, your neighbor, a friend,
a family member down on his luck
He's King Neptune on his fawn toadstool throne
Salacia is his radiant queen
at his side aboard a glacial white wave
Legend has it he's our ailing brother
traveling life's road in baby breath's time


   We are writing blank verse today at dversepoets.com -  poetry that doesn't rhyme.  Writing poetry is not simply a matter of how a piece looks on the page or it's rhyming; it is about how it sounds and beats, as in music; the basis of how a poem sounds is found in its rhythm(s).  I tried for iambic pentameter and wrote a blank verse of man's struggle with living on the edge which is open to individual interpretation....

Lover's ode...

Thursday is Meeting the Bar at dversepoets.com where 
we have critique and craft.  Bjorn has asked us to write 
kennings (Old Norse metaphors) made up or new brief 
metaphoric phrases or a compound word which are 
underlined below:



I saw her today near the Heavens-gate
Sitting on a park bench quiet and still
peering between wrought iron bars ornate
She wrote on paper with ink, pigeon quill

Stoically, she thought, then penned her love-words
She had hoped his absence temporary,
flocks flew in the formation  missing-bird
Her soulmate rests in the cemetery

Poetry flowed from her heart to her hand
Remembering their love life together
He had given her a gold wedding band
love to last always and now-forever

To be his wife was her utmost desire -
now, ready to light the Juliette-fire
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Cinnamon boats..

Today at dversepoets.com we are writing poems for the vibrant artwork of Sunita Khedekars.  See what others had to contribute.




Cinnamon boats with magical wings
wait to carry those who dare
over embossed lakes to the other side,
beyond the grove of buxom trees
that sway in autumn skies;
Cinnamon boats travel patterned peaks,
look down on glazed aqua seas,
They voyage through the atmosphere
on golden paths in meadows pea green
Light shines on diagonal fields of coral beans
highlights garden rows designed to symbolize
fertile ideas yet unborn, possibilities
embedded in rich soil, layers of
uncounted shades of orange,
the sun's flaming aura

As people in sugary white houses
watch the parade of boats drift by,
bleeding hearts arch forward
Paisley white-capped birds of winter
navigate, raise the sails
singing songs of happiness
Beyond the hills and vales,
behind sweeping curtains
of fall and winter, where
cobalt blue patches of spring emerge,
changing the skyline yet again
Amidst the advent of spring,
Solstice's quarter season
nudges cherry blossoms to bloom
Unmeasured rain and sunshine cue
familiar fragrances to disperse anew,
unassumingly, so then spring will
salute warm roses' summer dawning

Dreamweaving...

Today over at dversepoets.com we are writing about closing our eyes and writing without the use of sight..about what goes on using all the other senses..what would it be like?

Weaving a dream from my old wicker chair
on the porch with days of spring arriving
I feel sun penetrate my shoulder blades;
when it hides I feel a shadowy stare
and taste the sweet clover tips' fare

I hear loud chatter at the bird feeders,
the pffst, pffst, pffst tweet of a chickadee, 
a kind of squawk from the two woodpeckers
Goldfinches  Kingfishers, sparrows and grebes
 have yet to knock on my door;  one sure thing - 
someone will count the hummingbirds this year
I have yet to hear the first robin sing
though I'm told they and nuthatches are near

Winds merge cedars' scent with salty sea air  
Chipmunks out of hibernation, scratching
up a tree, soon to arrive the sound of bees
I'll have flowers planted in colors of the rainbow
in the old wheelbarrow, I  imagine....

As I sip tea, I hear pages turning, 
ask my grand daughter what she is reading;
ask what she's wearing to the 8th grade dance
did she find the baby amaryllis,
see hellebores blooming mauve and cream?
Voices in the distance carry off key;
they tell  me much more than the eye can see

Feeling comfy with pillows for my back,
 shoes off per usual, meditating 
I no longer feel my feet connected
Childhood dreams in my heart's own mind fading
Tugged here by nature's wider amplitude
my marrow is as much at home here as violets
that I know grow low along the garden bed,
True feelings of having much gratitude 
for we are all part of everything

Ernest Hemingway's book sits on my shelf
He used the quote in  For Whom The Bell Tolls
  "No man is an island - entire of itself"   
Interdependent, butterfly effect 
one person dying diminishes us
our good is mirrored, in faces we reflect
So let the breeze blow the chimes and toll the bells   
to reach the ears of those who cannot hear
so they can listen to of the nature of things

   
                                                           
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

Lucky penny...

dversepoets.com


In 140 characters or less, write a macro poem with a macro photo -

Shiny penny in the sand,
  glinting 
 put it in my pocket, 


  the sun escaped   
Then wetness  met my welcoming face 

rolling down my collar bone 
It is March after all 
and the lion roars 

Maybe some questions shouldn't be asked because you might not like what that person has to say, or how long they will go on!!!

Well,  Anthony over at dversepoets.com  asked for it___(sorry, but had to write this for my response and get it out of the way) for us to write a poem that is influenced by certain times in your life that made you the poet you are today or how in any manner we have evolved as poets.  Gosh, I'm a poet? Probably the inclination stemmed from roots planted from before,  but by in large with the onset of mental illness in my family that began when I was 20, I went into a shell, so to speak -  first my  husband, then my son at the age of 15.  Creativity   seemed an impossible option then.  Some of you may have read a previous poem regarding this.  I apologize in advance for it's being so long...understand if one doesn't want to read it....it won't happen again.

Born with need to express ourselves,

let me count the ways -

tantrums, crayons to finger-painting,

doodling in notebooks in idle time, writing letters, 

But for years my artistic libido went,

 for the most part, unsatisfied,

and I realized I was inside

the "Snake Pit" with Jane Wyman

hearing the echoing cries within
mental hospital with antiquated procedures

I felt like a prisoner of war

Circumstances had me taking a detour 

through tunnels with little light

For a long time I felt I was leading 

the Underground Railroad or a revolution

In my family there were those 

who needed to get safely to the other side;

while the mental health system cracked

we struggled in it's wake

My creative faucet shut off when

I became their advocate,

 being wife and mother, breadwinner

Looking back to the time in my life,

when all pathways were usurped 

by forces out of my control

Random acts of disturbing behavior

led me on a bizarre journey,

took me for a scary ride

(that theirs was scarier than mine is a fact)

Voices radioed via tangled ganglia,

sent them off course, 

one crisis on the heels of another,

sapping my energy

All the love in the world doesn't change things; 

I was their support, 

and for the doctors and clinicians a guide

For 35 years and more it took all I had

to raise my daughter and maintain my own sanity

Hence, I stepped outside myself,

relied on my reserve,

focused on a different world, 

 "Living With Schizophrenia"is a good book

 and I can recommend one for bi-polar disorder.

I was engaged daily with confusion,

and a wayward minds,
learning to let go over and again;

 when the fog began to lift 

and I had done all I could

I needed time to find new footing,

with wavering polio little used legs,

Time to filter, sift through the debris,

I was vulnerable, tired;

others could not relate, understand,

 they stigmatized

No personal issues were to interfere-

rule number one for work atmosphere

Not unlike an amnesiac, I had to reclaim my life.

At times I felt I was the one

in a straitjacket most of my life...well not quite,

but as a metaphor it works just right.

Anyway, some people abandon you - 

you abandon them, too.

In an ideal world that's 

the last thing you want or need to do!  Right...

Small steps brought less stress

In 2000 I emerged as a grandmother, 

began to enjoy life again

Not healthy to be in a state of unresolved grief

Both feet were wanting to be in the same world

like before when I was 18?

Was there a place in line where

I could squeeze myself in again?

I stretched anew  

muscles of my heart and mind,

signed up for a creativity class online.

Suddenly there was much to say!

Crosswords became my obsession, 

I started to read books again

A desire to push myself further was rejuvenated

I stuck out my neck, picked up my camera, 

got excited that I was creating 

something called art.  

So I got started on the road to following my Bliss;

I started to play with pen and paper

           A fresh deep desire to write            

came from deep pockets of my soul

Words tapped free from the heart

found their way out, fit into place

my mind soared

Unnecessary guilt subsided

I wrote haiku and poems and dared to share them,

joined a poetry website (many poets juggle more) 

Gradually I poured my thoughts onto paper, 

creating something uniquely mine

I did not just get off the Mayflower

but it was as if my native language
had started to come back to me;

 after smoking a peace pipe with myself

I got out paint, brushes, sketching pad -
and pen

Hence, my poetry, stories, artwork, 

such they are, forget graduating summa cum laude,

but I could now use tools I had

not unlike Helen Keller

Today I can function
as the full person I was meant to be
Poetry empathizes

We witness in awe and record 

the nuances of the world around us 

We capture moments for art's sake - 
we write to portray and express what's deep inside 
I always hoped I would

help to raise the spirit of man 
so that others might benefit,
 describing the indescribable - 
through poetry 

Making coffee..ironing sheets..

I.
Looking out the window,
beginnings of another spring,
thoughts of previous gardens grown,
funny how the mind takes wing
Then,  loud ringing of the phone
my grandmother - gone
Right away my mother goes back
 to her routine persona,
fills the house with aromas 
of  freshly roasted coffee beans, black toast
She did not let me take her arm,
help her out of the car  that day;
red and yellow rose garlands on the pews
did not take the sting of reality away
Living an active middle age life,
heaven would just have to wait for her, 
she paid her dues
Clearly there is no reason or need 
to take the small soft hands with
 mauve painted nails -
that tucked me in at night, 
felt foreheads for fever

II.
Too soon came the day,
 while looking through my sheers
at the demurely tree lined street
the phone beckons, expected, 
though my heart is numb;
trees give birth to hot china pink blossoms 
landing on the ground
Clouds had parted for her last breath to rise
In short order I found myself
in a department store;
soft bamboo fabric against my fingers
 He asked  "May I help you, Mam?"
"..no  thank you," I said, 
" I'm just looking for new sheets for my bed",
one day after their 50th anniversary

III.
 I'll join that lofty parade one day
where rows of  kindred legacies
march on silver glittered clouds;
And when peace settles all around me,
and if there is a call,
I think she will not at first cry                                                                                                                         Clinically, she will flash a beautiful smile,
then put on her running shoes                                                                                                                             she will go for a long distance run
I will want to take her pain away
 I'll fly like a bird and perch                                                                                                                        somewhere in  Andromeda
And there will be silver cord, 
coated with infinite love, 
for future tears and years
Still connected  for talk and laughter;
 as always we have  done 
 Seeds of the past are reborn;
walls of blooming sunflowers in her yard
This is our gift to each other,
passed down, 
linking us forever
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Invisibility is our suggestion for today - to write anything on the subject 
              over at .dversepoets.com