Friday, October 31, 2014

Field of dreams..

The smell of hay and horse -
 she lifted the latch of the wooden fence
How does one really know
when one stays too late
for one or the other's sake;
what is it about fences and fate?

She fill the water trough,
puts wild oats in the feed bag,
 Large nostrils spray saliva on my shirt
The two lovers dallied by the barn
his arm around her waist -
the blazing sun went down

The sanctuary of a heart welcomes
and echoes love's shouts and
occupants step in it's open door
When someone occupies one's heart, 
then leaves, never to return,
is it in the finer scheme of things?

It was so perfect,
to ride those long summer days
Her withers shuddered
as her buckskin hide was brushed
Sable eyes sucked in affection,
boots closed the fence gate with a slide

He left her when 
he said he loved her most
She felt it seep into every pore
During a lifetime, she wondered,
how many have just one day
like their 10 months before?

Like being served warm apple pie 
with two scoops of ice cream -
 The sweet tooth of youth
is the sweetest illusion
One can't really lose love
if one doesn't have the best kind

Does life imitate art mostly?
Or did she simply borrow him?  
Did it really happen?
She wanted to know true answers,
what she did wrong?
She built better fences with her pain
keeps her horses in meadows green
 What does she sing  for a refrain?
For if one blots out the blood
it still leaves a stain

Claudia at dversepoets.comasks us to write about seeing things around us, looking at them differently.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Prophet vs Profit...

How dare I - who am I,  to paraphrase his beloved work...his vision and wisdom put forth in one small book?   A masterpiece - the face of his soul on the cover of the little black book on my bookshelf..I read it again, it bears repeating, so the world can hear...

When a storm comes
         and winds shake our world
             we wonder how to navigate the discord?
And when the serenity of the hills
        gives us peace, how we exalt each new day!

But in our souls we sometimes struggle
        between right and wrong,
            justice and injustice
On the other hand,  we sing melodies and praises
         of all that's right and within our reason

How are we to be
         our own peacemakers
              when the battlefield is within ourselves?
 For without one, we do not understand
         or know how the flip side might be

The other side of the coin,
         so to speak, clashes; therefore
               the rivalry between good and evil
All creates a battlefield in our souls
         where we misplace our common sense

Reason becomes fused with appetite;
         appetite fuels passion that smolders
               In the sea of reason, our judgement
wages war against oneness
         Our sails and rudder broken, we drift or burn

 Destructive fears and pain
         take the place of reason,
               and turns around  passion in our sails
 In spite of nature's propensities for violence
         and inhumanity, our faith fails
 Instead, let us me mindful of balancing,
         attending to our Yin and Yang
               Let us direct our energy
 to live and breathe love and faith
         to cultivate passion with diplomacy

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Making lists...

Have you ever seen the website called ?  It's handy for some and fun..a list for everything!  I wrote a villanelle, not sure why, for Tony's prompt at today, which is to write a poem about lists, list making. There are many, many kinds of lists. I guess this is a partial list of what to be grateful for. 

Writing daily greatly eases one's soul 

to list each day how our hearts are gladdened
For all the bounty, how empty our bowl

Write lists to prioritize, self control

exorcise from within what has saddened 
Writing daily is easing for the soul 

Words to express just how the bell did toll 

written to tell the world how impassioned
For all the bounty, how empty our bowl

Writing down things to do, fulfill our role
puts into perspective what has happened
Writing daily is easing for one's soul 

More than errands to run, gains to extol

writing keeps one from becoming maddened
Lists help to remember what makes you whole

Preferred lists help one fall out of a hole,
describe how 
it felt to be abandoned

Writing daily is easing for one's soul 
For all the bounty, how empty our bowl

Friday, October 17, 2014

Ebey's tree - haiku..

Ebey's Tree - haiku

                                                           by klr

Eighteen sixty three
when the white man settled here
tribes fought for salmon

Indians attacked
 killed Captain Ebey one night
then smoked the peace pipe
There still stands the tree
where the lighthouse meets the fort
near Ebey's Landing

Thick trunks to crawl up
shady place where children play
 Tree branches reach wide

 It welcomes the ships
passing through the narrow straight
eagles come to nest

Dark mountains saddle
 evening's rose-pewter clouds
Fog rests on the sea


Thursday, October 16, 2014


In 1999 the poetic form called a Pleiades was invented, after the constellation.  I  didn't know - it can be defined as a seven line poem with each line beginning with the same letter as the title and having six syllables in each line. The title must be of one word only.

Interspersed sparkling stars
insight our most vivid
imaginations yet
Inky dark matter holds
inflated heavens weight
In truth the cosmos are
infinite in their wake

Inclinations persist
interactions exist
If life is recycled
in solar winds and dust,
indeed it inspires new
ideas poetic

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Rolling river...

Writing about music in any way, shape, or form, but in a poem @

Rolling on the river, roll on
Hold me in your major C chord
Rock me with trombone waves
that bend and break,
back and forth repeating
Can you hear the drums
underscore the melody?
The splish splashing 
of the mermaids tails, 
the trickle of liquid keys?
When you hear the bass strings thump
behind the piano's tune,
you are rolling on the river,
riding the river's blues
Sometimes it plays another song,
if your ears are keen;
more like the Lindy Hop
or a lounging smooth beguine
Rolling on the river, roll on
It is music for the soul -
can make you tap your toe;
it can sing you to sleep  
in murmurs adagio
or send your heart racing
when the undercurrent eddies 
and flows
winding, piping arias into the sea,
imagine Huck Finn, you and me..
Rolling on the river, roll on

Monday, October 13, 2014

From brownie to digital

For a change, I am contributing this poem to and Tess's Sunday photo challengs?

From the time I was a young girl
when asked "What do you want to be?",
photography came to my mind,
I gave my brownie camera a whirl,
to reflect my world
to record pleasant places and times

After photos of horses,
cats, dogs, my school friends,
I aimed my camera
at forces of nature,
considering wondrous colors 
in wilderness panorama

From meadows of flowers
 erupting, rivers forever flowing, 
birds on branches -
to young and mature faces
Later I recall trying to capture
moments I found touching

Like what brought smiles and tears,
and empathy - I'd shine light 
on all culture gaps,
capture a newborn's soft  skin
Taking shots of textured yarns,
cowslips at morning's dawn 

I'd find new angles to shoot the moon -
evoke what's in the heart of me
Now It's now about digital art,
macros and micros 
of a weighty salty tear
in your shopping cart 

From his hushes to her blushes
photographers take joy in beholding,
conveying the essence of life
in this Milky Way so dear-
the good and the bad 
in the historic story of man

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Do's and do-knots..

Another attempt at cubism poem for

Progressives clump when clover hums,
skirting spirits in orange rooms
where anecdotes live unbridled
Hardened by homeless queries
They wore
wore starry headdresses,
sable fur and ate claret berries
Tugboats toasted silent trains of morning leaving
and pledged
pledged unknown amounts of
turmoil to cowards on the beach heaving
Antiseptic allies march
as trinity flaunts her new shoes
Snake pits are no one's pleasure;
meanwhile Ivanhoe leaps
into the lap of Zanadu,
and I cradle the
incense leather and watch the spinning of canoes

Flipper - for Dverse

Bjorn has us writing cubism today at  We are challenged to write true avant-garde in the spirit of Gertrude Stein, focusing on sounds an simple words

Dolphins bask and flap their flippers
- then there's Flipper,
the screen star flapping his fins,
flip flops, my shoes
Flipping pancakes,
the first one, of course, gets thrown out
because it's never perfect,
usually burned, not nicely browned
Like kids who are thrown out
of the house, live in the streets,
but the dilemma is more
than meets the eye;
they cook Meth, do drugs,
and generally don't care -
parents' despair
They burglarize to support their lifestyle
which is no style at all
Glad I am not a young mother now,
When I reach the age of my mother
when she died, will I die?
Or will I pass before? Or,
how far beyond will I surpass
her time on earth?
But she is not of this earth;
she sits on the middle star of Orion's belt,
Alnilam,  or is it Betelgeuse?
Or Beetlejuice?
She told me from there
there's an excellent view
and she's probably conversing
with Gertrude Stein about art
I can't be sure, though,
maybe she said the star was Rigel,
or Bellatrix ?

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Just the other day..

Marina has us write poetry along the margins at today, poetry that happens while we're busy with the important things in life and maybe almost miss the small but really spectacular and life-changing things going on around us..

We walked the sandy beach that day,

in search of shells, 
and watched the dogs and
their owners with no leashes
Only there, do I feel as they do,
unleashed and free 
to romp and play, 
though in a more subdued way; 
seaweed and broken shells swept away 
by incoming morning tide 
The wind was balmy, no chill on my neck, 
warmth inside me;
clouds allowed a narrow strip of blue 
to open on the horizon
I looked afar and studied the surf,
kicked clumps of sand with my boot
I searched for the little girl who frolicked once, 
used to jump incoming waves,
who learned to love the sea 
early, its smells, the fog, 
seagulls calling, hidden caves
Reminiscing childhood days -
when brother and sisters 
played at her side, 
where tender dreams were born and fed
of places she longed to set her feet,
far away lodgings she wished 
to lay her head

It was a lifetime ago, 

but voices can still be heard 
loudly and clearly;
the sad-eyed basset wagging his white tail,
howling as we buried ourselves 
in the warmth of soft sand and sun
Gone are those times, 
but for photographs and old movies run
But supposedly, they are recorded by 
heaven's quilled pens in mighty script,
in the sky, giant graffiti wisps -
with notes in the margins that read 
"families that play together
 stay together and...."
Abruptly, the thought came to an end
Suddenly, in the present day,
I let my legs get wet; 
water cold, but I didn't care; 
took off the boots, my bare feet
needed to sink 
into the sand and foam, 
my thoughts let out to roam,
like strings attached to kites soaring 
with my soul to the treetops
where eagles watched us below,
 a good salty taste on my lips
No unbroken or perfect shells 
to put in my pockets that day
just thoughts and feelings to take home,
pulling at my heart strings 
like a giant bow,
unmercifully telling me 
that little girl is me,,.and she is free..
to ' let it all be' -
'just let go!'