Sunday, September 28, 2014

Ashes swept...Sunday Wordle


Today's list of 12 words to include in a poem for Sunday Swirl- I managed a short, short story, albeit subdued.

     Flames had taken all she knew;

     there were no discerning borders drawn
     Only her identity 
     was not lost in the fire
     Charred pieces of past joys littered the way
     as she crossed the intersection where LOVE 
     meets the street of DREAMS
     She built a shelter out of tiny match sticks,
     saw a child looking for her doll,
     no doubt swept away in the wind
     and rain that came after
     and quenched the fire
     Lives polarized randomly by disaster's scorn,
     she found herself tending to others
     till fear subsided and calm restored
     Selfless she helped at the time of most need,
     and swept the ashes 
     and broken glass into oblivion
     Without anyone to cling to now,
     she stayed with strangers
     In the spring she planted rows of seeds
     in the lot where nothing else stood, 
     in hopes poseys would grow -
     only a child herself, finally,
     she bent her head and sobbed

Friday, September 26, 2014

Flowers beauty contest...

For OLN I am contributing my poem written for Thursday's Poetics as I was too late to post by the deadline.
Gay had us writing about quarrels today, but not the obvious kind. They are poems
derived from the diamond shaped window quarrels of old.  They are 'falling diamonds' that alternate different points of view.   If you are interested, hop over to and take a peek at what others are writing.

                                       by klr

Dahlia's face
glows with passion 
mimicking architecture
of the sun; her golden heart
centered, beaming, surrounded by
a layered choir of many petals,
the colors of untold shades
of orange, each with
 it's own 
Held up 
by a sturdy stem
with large blue-green
leaves, she feels blessed to
herald fall's beginning in shadows
and sunshine, making her mark;
flaunting her claim for end  
of summer fame, her
  glorious face, first
                                         by klr  
 in the garden,
 almost arriving late for the
 year, the quiet hydrangea then
 appears, not as a fierce contender but
  rather a fine compliment, with friendship
  in mind, as they make their debut
  Svelte in her blue and white,
hydrangea smiles and
both flowers



Wednesday, September 24, 2014

The Tufted Titmouse..and other meanderings..

Small kingdoms rise and fall

in blithe forests -
My spirit floats among branches,
alighting on each one,
dancing, as it always does.
at the center of everything
Fleetingly, paper bluebirds 
design and dress my soul 
to express itself fully
The woodsy tufted titmouse song 
rides on invisible sauntering winds,
in the land where giant woolly 
mammoths once roamed
 Titmouse song

Our bodies are boats for identity's sake,
hulls sailing away with undertakings -                                         
the writings of symphonies, 
sculpting a man kissing a woman,
writing a great read
While orioles flash in the morning light
and thin lips of poppies grin,
we experience life in new ways,
not otherwise manifested
Secrets in empty seashells, 
the hammer, stirrup, anvil 
of the ear - bones 
born from salty brine,
touched by light unknown                                 
Only the faintest star
it's recent beginning
We are reinvented as falling rain 
or crystals of ice
upon a bed of dying leaves
We are the waltz, the show, 
the audience -
in an intelligent universe, 
Knowledge and vision, 
our salvation and reward,
we are part of forever's plan,
transcending all dimensions
in the form of man -
driving red fire engines 
in vast snowy skies
To rest in the knowing, 
there is no nothingness -
only new evolving tasks 
of the spirit,
eclipsing time, 
devoted to spinning pure love,
weaving on larger looms
in larger kingdoms, 
beyond everyday matters
Sweet ivy climbs,
gathering its own momentum,
winding through spokes of silver,
frame of prose and rhyme 
A universal trellis 
made gritty by our humanness 
yet sensitive,
yet heavenly divine

At today we were presented with artwork by  Brooke Shaden to tease our imaginations in writing a poem or prose poem..

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

The Road to Revelstoke...

We are writing travel poetry today over at is more prose or a story; I am sorry it was not condensed more, for the reader's time taken here, but it was hard to edit this or even make it into a form of poetry.  I hope all will enjoy the read, however, and I will be around to comment on others' poems over the day and coming evening.

Whining, we did not wish to go
Over the mountains, through high peaks
of Glacier National Park where we saw  goats
grazing precariously  on the steep slopes
Crossing into Canada's lower provinces,
we first stayed at Harrison Hot Springs Resort
There was horseback riding, a lake for boating,
a pool where my brother learned to swim
and I learned to dive in great form
One afternoon, we were to go on a hayride
while our parents went golfing and were not pleased
Peas were on our menu; so they went golfing anyway,
made us wait in the car for 4 long hours....
we hated peas

Winnipeg, Medicine Hat, Penticten -
I don't remember the order now
Our road map lined in dark blue ink
Driving through British Columbia
on the way to the Calgary Stampede,
the only route from Saskatchewan
through Moose Jaw was "the road to Revelstoke"
Newly graveled, the two lane road cut through
open plains territory;   cattle, horses,
views of flat farmland were all we would see,
the small dot on the map was where there would be
new asphalt, giving us momentum,
(I don't remember many cars)
a road less bumpy

A four hour drive at most, but as the hazy blue sky
turned whiter,  we crossed miles of dusty terrain
It seemed like forever, with many stops -
made slower because we kids were carsick,
had to pull over many times.  Finally,
we arrived at a small dingy motel at dusk,
far away from civilization but there were bathrooms
There was one light bulb overhead on the ceiling
in the room;  we were unable to sleep well
Not only were there mosquitoes but we
discovered bed bugs and cockroaches in the morning.
Our father complained about the dirty conditions
That was when we first learned the word "asshole".

I traced the winding inked line on said map
with my finger.  We had reached Revelstoke,
and soon the gravel road would turn to smooth
tardown and traffic in four lanes
But instead of four hours, as the road curved
north across Alberta and British Columbia,
by the time we arrived, it had taken 12 hours
(total) to get to the Calgary Stampede
Stopping for water often, it gave our parents a break
from our bickering; we grew tired of puzzles and
word games, singing the same songs,
their nerves  had to have been
very frayed

Once settled,  we saw the rodeo and logging contests
We wore our little red and brown cowboy hats
Alan had a toy holster and guns;  it was hot but we
had a pool at the motel, so no complaints
4H shows and rides, lots of things to see
We were ages 9 and 12 - I remember a large crowd
at the fair.  One night we ate at a fancy restaurant
We had by that time, learned to order politely
our manners in check
It was dark with romantic lighting,
and from the corner a piano player sang
"Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes" -
sounded just like  Frank me, I thought,
for he looked my way occasionally as he played and sang
I was blushing, a strange sensation came over me
but I'm sure my parents could not see;                                                                                    

Onward we went, going south to Banf and Lake Louse,
the same as my middle name and
the name of my grandmother
It had to have been named just for us
Country western songs on the car radio
and an exciting baseball game
kept us entertained as the climate cooled
Still, the sky was true blue and was reflected wonderfully
in the Frasier River winding below and beside us
Rounding a mountain with a canyon on one side
I could not  look out for fear of height
Nature's creation of the huge ice blue glacier above
made the lake an even deeper shade of blue
In the distance we could see chunks of ice fall
splashing into the water

Heading south, we waited in the long line
so the border patrol could inspect the car;
it seemed strange to us, did we look suspicious?
The arches meant friendship between nations;
it was time to make a trip to the restroom,
take more pictures, rest a bit, as our parents were tired of driving
Arriving home in Washington, it was good to see familiar sights
We rolled in just before bedtime and although we thought
a lot of the trip was boring, we couldn't wait
to to go back to school and tell our friends where we had been
We had two little sisters who didn't go and whom we loved,
but one thing we didn't miss was their crying and yelling
We told stories  of the trip we call "The Road to Revelstoke"
which was nothing more than a speck on the map
an X with a circle around it marked the halfway point of our trip
which I still can see in my mind's eye


Friday, September 12, 2014

Lace is...

  We are writing metaphors and dragging them out today over at  Karen is the host.

Lace hangs her head sadly these days
thinks she has been profiled,
feels alone, betrayed
She thinks style has given way to trend,
she's destined to a dull life,
won't talk about it,
feels close to the end,
she cares too much what people think
She wants to do as her peers -
go somewhere different everyday
in all kinds of weather,
travel more, hang out with the sweaters

French, Swedish or Irish Lace
make beautiful souvenirs,
but Lace herself is a complicated beauty
She dazzles the eyes of many a man,
but lately is reluctant to appear,
would rather be a recluse
Lacking feelings of self worth
she is depressed with growing fear
of other fabrics take the limelight,
new designs and textures steal the day
This makes her feel boring,
tired and old-fashioned; people will look
the other way

Satin is a cool competitor, as is silk,
but Lace just doesn't care anymore
Other fabrics mix impressively -
jeans and linen changing their roles;
new designs like flannel shirts and bling
Lace would like to be more useful
when it comes to attire
Tired of hanging with ribbons,
she wants to be more versatile
She'd like to be cotton, ride in a rodeo;
she could be sewn into uniforms, sportswear
be attached to winter coats

All fabrics have their ups and downs,
ins and outs as to what is popular
She'd like to be on hats and pants,
not always in wedding gowns
But she needn't be envious
for she's much more than she knows
She's the shape of trees and shadows  -
black negligees that frame the stars at night
Lace is the bed of flowers on a spring morn
She graces women's heads as they grieve
She's a spiritual, intimate friend, birds in flight
the edge of a hanky that wipe away tears,
the object in someone's art
Perhaps if she reads this she will realize
she is blessed in all our eyes and hearts

“If you are always trying to be normal, you will never know how amazing you can be.”   - Maya Angelou 

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Let your little light shine..
photo of Mukilteo under Sept. moon 2014   by klr

It's okay to keep some things to one's self, 
but some are better shared
We do the best we can;
it's all we can do
 But often when, unselfishly, 
our souls are truly bared,
our philosophy bends and finds new ken
Yesterday I found remnants from the past,
 today I am reclaiming my domain -
clearing my browsing data, managing 
my settings, putting my outlook in sync
Refreshed constantly, scanning 
the right and left sides 
of my brain

Content to be nowhere else,
I sit on a log to distill;
by the sea I breathe, meditate
Bees vie for the last wildflowers,
Mother Nature's winsome quills writing 
in the winds of time
Letting my guard down a bit,
insecurities trimmed, checked,
put out of sight,
I find balance to create
All that matters today is one more light 
shines somewhere; an individual's
internal resolve, 
with nothing but kindness and love,
will join in to begin to change 
how we evolve

As invisible gates opens,
those who see enter easily,
 never were they closed off entirely
Basic elements and truths on earth 
give us rich, raw energy  to do 
what we are supposed to do
 More steadily I walk trails to the beach
 and ask myself 'why must life seem so bleak?'
Such a waste to wrestle with life, 
though I understand perfectly
Answers may not be forthcoming, 
but I think nothing is more important 
than listening,
In this world of half taken breaths,
smile for the love already here,
be the joy in the making

I'd like to undergo regressive life 
therapy...find out if I  lived before
A lot in this world is unimportant, trivial
I think I know the reasons why 
 I hear an angel whispering: 
"Don't think 'oh woe is me', but let others 
know you care, for there is no dilemma 
 greater today than lack of 

Dreamlike, I fall 
in and out of consciousness,
metallic dragonflies zing by
Nature speaks most honestly
Insects talk among themselves,
have private conversations,
inside stories, a tight group; perhaps they, 
to a small degree, are aware 
of what I speak
Don't think I could be all wet,
but then again, it very well could be
I'm barking up the wrong tree
 Eagles are carnivores, 
as I hear his hungry cry
A garter snake sneaks in front of me,
passes between rocks and blades of grass,
pretty shiny black and green,
Woodpecker bangs a tree

In this long poem all I'm saying is- 
we have to have the conversation,
for conversation's sake,
of what it means to live more 
selflessly, less selfishly    
There's order in the mayhem,
especially when you dare to set 
a different pattern in motion, 
            set the table for everyone              

Awake now at twilight I see fireflies 
find their way through a storm collectively
  My little light shines amongst
 all of yours, 
So let us make it be



Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Art and poetry as in Claudia -

Mary at has asked us to write about fellow poet Claudia Shoenfeld's' artwork by choosing one of her watercolor sketches over at Flickr .......I chose 3 of them.

Once upon a time a lady
painted her self portrait as a quick exercise
From behind her sky blue tinted glasses
we see visions through her eyes
Her full ruby red lips symmetrical
sip coffee in the plaza where she sits,
sometimes on the ground;
she records in ink passersby,
traffic, details in a scene,
adding her own twist
She observes and translates
characters and their habits,
her sketch pad reveals subtle truths
She tells stories and write poems,
brings them to the pub to share
She is avante-guard, whimsical, and camp
Her artwork is like her poetry with
a certain savoir faire -
reflective, contemplative, upbeat;
she is unique, intelligent, a tiny bit kooky,
and we like her childlike imagination
Her sketch of St. Andrews draws the eye in;
feels like we are in a fairy tale,
not to mention her Van Gogh-like skyline
While she is a serious artist and poet
who communicates with grace,
she finds new hope without fail
Her freckles attest to her playfulness,
always hits the head of the nail
She works hard, is a mother and a wife,
has nothing but passion
for her family, for life
They just spent sweet time in bonney Scotland,
perhaps another honeymoon -
by the look of their feet in one painting,
one might deduce-
he's taller than she,
but her big toe looks like it could touch the moon!