Lips...and eyes...55 words

   Handsome hands  
encircled the cup -
then pushed back his 
tweed hat,
revealing 
thick salt and peppery 
brows;
his sculpted lips 
sipped coffee, 
moistening his silver mustache -
 when "fine lovemaking" 
came to mind
His jaw tightened -
 my body 
flushed 
creamy crimson
Our eyes locked, 
conveying 
"soul mate";
I knew I was going to 
marry him
someday

Today we are writing 55 words, no more no less                               

        

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Tides and Home Movies....

It's Open Link Night over at dversepoets.com  Take a peak at what others have to offer in the way of poetry...

Black and white flickers on walls, images
of we kids way back when in summers hot;
spliced film footage of us then, at waves' edge,
running on hard wet sand, white hot sand not 

Low tide found us exploring ocean rocks 
with pails, shovels, eyes sought unbroken shells;
seaweed trained ankles, agates filled pockets
Moats filled with foam as our sand castles fell

The present passed quickly by, just from our
jumping up and down; grandma waved and smiled
we poked anemones  assumed flowers

mollusks squirted up at us, crabs ran wild 

Sun tan oil, first aid, and steaming cocoa;

We ate charred hot dogs, blackened marshmallows
Starfish stared back at us; jellyfish foul
memories in a groove of time, kept safe somehow 

Somewhere, a lifetime ago, the laughter 
we saw on the screen abruptly ended 
The silent opera was over faster
than any of us ever intended

Reels spun out of control, film's tail flapped about 
Now do you hear the ocean far away?
Hold the shells to your ear if any doubt -
.. it's funny how fast we moved on that day?

Mom had a crush on Ben Franklin...but according to who's calendar?

Calendars in any shape or form is the topic Victoria gives us today at dversepoets.com  I had a story already written...could be considered poetry I suppose.  I apologize ahead of time if I breaks any rules..

Mid 18th century flying kites and statesmen wearing tall black hats meet the 20th century -   post two world wars and more.  The carriage drawn by high stepping horses stopped in front of her, splattering mud on her newly made long dress. Her thoughts were of their much anticipated conversation; she had invited him to dine at 8:00.

She believed they met in previous lives, reincarnated time and again.  The year was 1789 - Jane Austen had just published, first immigrants passed through Ellis Island's sieve.  It was still the beginning of our experiment called Democracy.  Women's lib and civil rights had not yet emerged. After our independence was fought for and won, a congregation of intriguing, inspired souls sought to write a constitution based on high moral ground founded on grace.   Paul Revere was now an older man, a decade since George III impressed his young men to serve.   Ben had a keen sense of business, adventure, humor, and theory.  He ducked down and stepped out from the coach right in front of her.

She had held him on a pedestal above all others - now,  the opportunity to pick his brain.  His stout torso belied how handsome he was as he then kissed her extended hand. Suddenly, the phases of the moon sped before her, streets of Paris and London came alive as she almost fainted. The moment confirmed what she believed to be true, it wasn't just the beginning of their friendship.  An aura of oneness permeated them at that moment...she  thought they had both lived during the early Crusades, were in South America when the Incas fought the Spanish; something connected their interchangeable parallel lives.  She was fond of him; they most probably had been lovers at one time.  She was going to dine with Benjamin Franklin. They shared the same sense of order of things, desire for equality, ideas on government and an unquenched thirst for knowledge.  Yet she did not want to give him the 3rd degree, but would be a patient listener. And so, they set out to solve the world's problems together over wine and food.

Beginning with the hashing over of details about how peacefully the snow falls in Washington D. C., and how to catch sun light in prisms through the small window in the alcove, experimenting with alignment of the planets so she could better understand how the they affect all, to philosophy and religion.  In the light of the Tiffany lamp, he found her attractive, was pleased to exchange intuitive ideas with someone whose curiosity matched his.  Tickled she was when he fed her stories of society's plights; for example, how tattoos above the knee spoke of sensuality. Progressing into the night, they drank sherry...he loved impromptu speeches, made contemporary speaking an art, was the original "toastmaster" and spoke of his inventions.  Abolitionist, author, artist, ambassador, with his quick wit and acumen he could make her chortle at the drop of a hat.  

They were in awe of and mutually adored and respected each other.  As highly educated as he was, she was grateful to bring him up to speed on anything current she could.  She knew he could not have conceived of the magic of "windows" and PC's or i-phones or mattresses that remember one's form, but he would realize the importance of technological advances better than anyone else of that time. Time sped by as they talked of inventions, tolerance, economies, the many troubles of the world...politically, the time was ripe for change.  They agreed on a progressive approach. 

Flushed with new promise of further communication between them, she bid him good night when the carriage returned at the stroke of midnight.   He waved,  traveling out of sight from her on the same wet cobblestone street where John Adams used to walk. She pulled out her handkerchief. Their relationship was eternal and they would meet again before the next millennium, in a world very changed, due to hundreds of years of unfathomable influences.  The tenuous balance of power teetered perilously many time over the years; taunt tightropes had to be walked by our leaders to preserve peace and justice.  

Their business had just begun, she mused, as she held tightly onto her black floral hat being blown about by the night's bracing north wind.  Lovely was the brief tete' a tete' with her longtime friend...she could think of no other person she would have cared to have the pleasure of dining with, and no other time on the calendar to visit.  My mother passed in 1996.

Ode to my new doctor,..

My doctor, my new doctor, bless her soul
humbled was I at the waiting room door
New patient meets seasoned doctor, her role -
pick up where the other left off before

How does one cram 66 years into
one hour's  exam...hope she won't retire soon.
The lump in my throat grew as loosened my shoe,
causing the slip on wet maple leaves strewn

Elbow and knees met the pebbled pavement;
sometimes life seems like being in a cartoon 
I chose her to be my new confidante
She will soon learn that I'm a crazy loon


Doctor, oh, doctor,  my  story is long -
connections I have but no real roots yet
Tears welled up when I should have sung a song,
some saw my fall but right on by they sped 

Disheveled with minor skin scrapes, I knew
a wrench had been cast into the feeling
of honeymoon new;  always a good clue,
my smugness brought to an abrupt reeling 

My doctor, wise doctor, listened and poked
"New to the island, I said"... understood.
Noticing my new woolen scarf was soaked,
she replied, "your blood pressure is quite good!"

I realized that, after  a big move, 
things have a way of catching up with you
Certain matters resurface I'm  behooved
to believe, to remind us not all's new 

"Come back in a month and we'll do blood work..
eat all your green veggies, buy better shoes"
she said,  "follow the path that by some quirk,
brought you thus far.  Keep the feet warm with socks, too."



Tony at  dversepoets.com asks us to write an Ode..Neruda style...well his are sensual and beautiful and I am not in the frame of mind to attempt a similar one...therefore, something that happened the other day is what I wrote about..

Love is not enough...American sentences..

Today at dversepoets.com Gay tells us about the 17 syllable sentence Allen Ginsberg invented,  a form of beat poetry...thought I'd give it a try with these sentences with images: 

Love was not enough to save them from catastrophe but came his hug

Babes in the woods, never off her mind, her first love and first born, princes

 She held herself prisoner for years because she could not heal his wounds

 A smorgasbord of art fills our plates before us, nourishing our souls

Not without hope misty mauve years passed inching into cold black midnight                                                                   

Perhaps all mistakes are blessings disguised as a wolf in sheep's clothing   

Watercolors on the stairs....

Claudia invites us to write color poems at dversepoets.com

I.
The charcoal black egret at night waded
close to the unseen midnight blue shore                 
 jet black treetop shadows fell into  

perfect pale chiffon yellow moon light, 
slipping into inky blackberry sea - 
Then awaken long brown eyed cat tail, 
from ruddy sepia-green grasses of the marsh;
wet thin blades of multi-hued leaves rise -
striped cappuccino, wine gold, Merlot, 
blend against cognac-ivory linen morn skies

II.

Smell of sandy, burly grey driftwood fires, 
kindled by fiery red confidence
and buried pristine blue self reassurance 
clears the mind of fuzzy slate grey doubt
Watercolors flow down the stairs, out, 
into a transparent world of unseen 
angry ultra-violet despair, where 
great pains once were taken to save 
lighthearted spirits stolen, that even brittle milky quartz
should not weaken -now replaced with champagne 
pink martini dreams


III.
Ugly dark puce guilt clogged her arteries
Unsought, deep coffee noir' wells of loss
crept into her misty hazel eyes
Although the diagnosis was acute 
and blizzard blue storms freeze minds 
and missing hearts unable to thaw or process, 
the best and worst thing you can do -
I think, is to don your curry yellow leggings, 
Prussian Blue jacquard tunic, 
 ruby red jester hat and tufted gold toe shoes..
...and stand outside in plain sight !!!

The more who walk....

The more who walk, the more who will survive

motto of October's fervent fund drive

Poems written by countless ladies touched

by mortality's fateful cancerous

disease based on birthing humanity

women's war with her own anatomy

So personal and private....yes, saintly

First heard of in groups murmuring faintly

Pause given to those who did not survive

How many of them could still be alive?

I met her Monday in the library

struck me with her witty commentary

Books on learning French she had just returned 
"Not me... I'd rather walk the plank!!" she said

"Bah, here's a good mystery to read instead!"

I asked her, "..so what would you recommend?"

"Walking the beach each day -" she replied, 
"it's how I've survived, what keeps me alive....

was diagnosed with breast cancer stage four;

it's been eleven years now and more."

                she continued,

"You must download the tide tables online-

you want to be sure it's there when you arrive!!

It was low at noon today...I go every day!"

Attractive with peppered salt hair, I'm sure

she had the best perspective to endure.

Whatever malady I can stave off, I'd know one thing

life is a miracle worth extending

Today the cure is still unknown for some,

but for many it has already come.

I will join her book club and follow suit

using laughter...and beach combing to boot!!

dversepoets.com  Joe Hesch hosts Open Link Night..write about anything..I have only a couple of friends who have had this type of cancer and I cannot even begin to imagine what it must be like.

True fiction...

Inhabitants of a small tranquil town in Alabama - 

-

What terrors, specters in shadows await them on Halloween?
Haunted houses, goblins and ghastly ghouls, 
fearless shapeless witches on brooms, 
cobwebs hung from tree limbs
What actually brews in the kettle in the crackling fire seen 
through the window of the old woman's house?  Apples roasting?
What antics would they encounter as they walked the path, 
twigs breaking, through the woods to the pageant at the 
schoolhouse that autumn night ?

What stories wove around the sounds that prevailed in the air?
Murmurs, tapping, tales of casting spells, and apparitions of
a trooper hurrying in the gloom of night...the galloping 
headless horseman;  leaving the graveyard on the back roads 
near the church, looking for his missing head, lost in 
a battle in the Revolutionary War...returning before dawn.  
These legends fueled the minds of Scout and Jem as 
they stayed within the boundaries of the usual safe route
from home to school.  Birds perched in rows watching
them go by; owls buried their heads.

Scout, dressed as a ham with only a peephole to see through,
was escorted by her brother, Jem, too old to wear one.
On their walk homeward, near the big old elm tree, Scout is captured.  
She struggles to get away and ends up turned upside down in her 
costume.  She sees the real hero who saved her and Jem from 
evil doing that night.  Boo Radley, a recluse, came from nowhere
it seemed and carried injured Jem back to their house.  
Of course Atticus, their lawyer father, was grateful and everyone
learned lessons that night.  As they sat on the porch swing later,  
Atticus lit his pipe and told this children why it is wrong "To
 Kill a Mockingbird", teaching them tolerance and respect.

I watched the sun set again last night...

                    Art by Kim Rembil

 Photo by Dale Heron

Watched the sun set again last night

No two can ever be the same
Apricot plum skies set aflame

striking the sea in filtered light
as the crescent cove welcomed night 
electric clouds lined in neon's frame                              

Mirrored rainbows touched down became                               
sun's hide and seek bouncing ball game
tinted canyons' metallic sight
Watched the sun set again last night 

The skyline's fine art states it's claim

pats of light buttered wild to tame
by Nature's own palette knife
curled waves of silver secrets bright
how earth's green mansions gained their fame 

Watched the sunset again last night

                                                                                                                                  We are asked by Tony at   dversepoets.com   to write a Rondeau poem, it's rhyming going thusly:  3 stamzas  Refrain-aabba, aabRefrain, aabbaRefrain                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

               
                                                                                                                                           

                                                                 

As I grow older.....

       I'd like to climb into Cinderella's pumpkin carriage,

escape to the land where Monsters go to University -

       my guardian angel will drive me down untaken roads

 where the orange fired leaves of autumn burn,

       and fairies decipher digital codes

       I'd like to fly into that night sky where Peter Pan

           flew with lost boys who are lost no more -

          I would trade my frown for a smile anytime, 

             dance on a roof with Mary Poppins, whistle with dwarfs,  

or learn from Wizards for a spell 

     

        How I'd love to go to faraway places not scary 
           made of peppermint chocolate ice cream cones -  

       I'd ride Aladdin's carpet, waving to people below,

     I'd hang from the mast on Captain Sparrow's tall ship

       sailing the wild Caribbean

Arabian knights and Tom Sawyer's tales

       speak to me from days gone by - when Huck Finn

knew the Hardy Boys and Heidi sat on her grandpa's knee

Oh, how I'd like to soar the skies 

in Buzz Lightyear's spaceship with a pig or donkey

I'd like to, as I grow older,

 still wish upon the first star I see at night

Whether in a wheelchair or absent of mind,

I'll always love Micky Mouse and the wind beneath 

my swing, and behind my high flying kite

dversepoets.com 

Wild mushrooms ought to be strawberries...

Wild mushrooms break out in the green-
brown carpet of the forest floor 
Cool temps now, not ready to freeze

their smooth brown stained skins like diamonds
in the rough, as we trek along,
They sprout like small emotional outbursts 
calling for help or attention
Hunting for that delicate food,
be they Chantrelle, portobello, 
or morele, brings delight to the soul 
And upon a crash of thunder 
and split second lightning flashes
arrives quickened rain, teasing
out summer's end
Retreating flowers still decorate 
their heads
The beat goes on though, and fate
heralds autumn's decor
as testified to by Sonny and Cher
We hunker down, covering up our trails with
compost or wood chips
Odd souls find comfort in seasonal changes,  
ever longing for the distinction
between the times
A hopeful generation, we,
reaching the autumn of our lives
Prone to gaze at a rosy reflections, 
to succumb to the powers of 
wood smoke or bay leaves steaming
We knew it wasn't right 
and little has changed
Night is closer in now, fog rolling in - 
we devour steamed mushrooms, 
lush mussels with butter and bread, 
in turn raising a glass of wine
The best of us didn't leave;
 it was buried by the debris left,
still littering our clean forests
A childish government jealous 
of it's own leader I believe
Sad, for it could be too late 
to build anew, review,
- if by candlelight,  
Be an advocate or scold them
with pen and paper
Struck by the smallness of the world 
on a screen, we click to misfortunes 
on a large world scale
We would rather look to mankind's best self,
but privately we weep -
Choices were made and we were not heard 
for the din of disdain; 
but we are still not satisfied
Deer and chipmunks grow thicker coats 
as the woodpecker pounds his 
five hundredth hole
....sated by the fields' harvest,
spent amid the smoking leaves -
we still try to find our peace

Fall

A leaf detached lands on a branch
beneath it, awaiting currents                                                                    

to further it's graceful tumble-
surrendering to it's demise,
it's descent dignified, humble
Having spent a lifetime turning,
changing and allowing new growth to flourish; nature restoring itself,
ferried by wings of love