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

Meeting John Lee Hooker...

On a cool Paris evening improvisational blues fills the air    

clouds of smoke linger, filling the basement night club

A crowd gathers, dampered voices float up to the wet sidewalk 
reflecting wavy reds, greens, yellow lamp light

He had sought the louder acoustical guitar 

after performing on Beale St...

drifted to Detroit where he joined up with piano 
players 
Son of a sharecropper, his popularity grew quickly 

Live jazz in clubs crossed over then,                                                                     

from the heart of black and Latin entertainment

to what they called rock fusion 

But his style was 'talking blues'...

Then to white audiences, along with Miles Davis, Thelonius Monk, 
Sonny Rollins and Quincy Jones; he

even gave an early opportunity to the young Bob Dylan

I saw him when he was much older -

seated on a stool in an old watering hole
downtown, back to back with Fats Waller's
"Ain't Misbehavin"' and "Your Feets too Big"

Shuffling chairs to find a seat, we found a table

and sat close to him, his knee almost touching mine

Lips to the microphone, brow glistening with sweat
his eyes met mine and he winked at me 

His live show had a casual, rambling feeling

All who knew his songs moaned "Ahh- huh", "Yesir",

rocked their heads, tapped their toes, waved their hands....

bodies swayed to the beat

His music was also called the"front porch blues",
some were Boogie Woogie, others rock blues or Delta jazz

Music historians can easily place the time and

influences surrounding jazz from around the globe..

All I know is.... I know what I like when I hear it!

Antonio Jobim's genre of Bossa Nova 

 "The Girl from Ipanema"-

the smooth alto or tenor sax blended with deep bass;

there's a long list of names, each had their own style
Add an African or Cuban beat to kick it up a notch

Billie Holiday had it down..

I dislike loud crazy, to me nonsensical Jazz Funk

or leaps taken by fresh new groups I do not have an ear for - 

But with a cigar in his left hand, he talked right to me

..told me to "chill" (and chillen meant children) and "be cool",
my man wasn't going to do me no wrong
,.. long as I is good to him

"Blues before Sunrise" hit home for me

I was a little girl on his stoop that night -

 listening to my papa sing....

'bout slavery and the putting down of his family, 

lousy pay, how the summer heat won't let up...

Mama in her apron hummed right along

I knew him from a long time ago it seemed.. 

,,,and I just came by to say "hello"

Our souls took a ride through time and place that night

with folk who understand...enveloped by

music oh, so mellow


Gay at dversepoets.com prompts us to write 'Jazz Poetry'...anything pertaining to it or even our own composition of a song or the mood it puts one into when listening.

Sounds (rumors) of immortality...

The root record of the word is Greek, siphonia; 
pipe, or concord of sound,  carrying it's beginning 
 possibly from a wind instrument
'Sounding together';  it evolved into "symphony",
interchangeable with concert, orchestra, sonata or 
overture  - but not synonymous
Movement forms can be slow, fast or more like a  minuet (in the middle); 
I've numbered many of my ensembles, like Beethoven, his 5th;  
created symphonies within larger symphonies bearing witness to diversity, 
but always with love
All written from life's experiences, not without disharmony, but forever
recorded in illusive time, an idea only perhaps?
Some are composed as longer, larger performances 
with many instruments; 
others are smaller as in a band playing or choral group
In it's entirety a story told, in an operatic indulgence of pain, 
but with such a sweet indescribable voluminous 
overflowing refrain
The direction is crucial to finding meaning, 
even when the baton wavers uncontrollably; 
the richness and body of it can bring bountiful rewards unseen
Written intentionally with immense passion, 
drums beat to only your heart's desire..
Glimpse in the mirror at yourself, at your tuxedo tails or 
opera ball gown - 
at the disguise - this is not our natural state
As Mary Oliver well penned in her poem, 
each life is a  wonder,
we are all connected yet all individual flowers and we
create everything else there is....
the music is amazing -
it's idea implies immortality 
Imagine earth's hum in space and to what ear?
My score began in innocuous adagio form, then it  crescendoed 
into a trio of loves and lives divided  
The middle is made a rondo with whirls and twists, tango and ballet; 
it's highest pitch reached in a long intermezzo not unlike Mahler's 
raging exhausting opus
The rest is a long waltz with Haydn and silent applause;
black notes with their half wings soar into space, colliding, expanding into
the universe with the utmost immense joy, yet melancholy; 
at times unbearable lamenting,  yet is born of unbreakable chords 
It goes on and on, doesn't end anywhere, and spirals into infinity, 
carried by elegant fractal bands of protective love, 
taking me home,
 which is our natural state

   
    dversepoets.com

I remember summer '63...

I remember the summer when

all they played was "Sukiaki"
 over Portland's  KISN

radio  91.3

Age 15, I lay down a towel

on the hot cement to sunbathe

only to bring to the surface

more freckles on my arms and face

Looking over the river to

another bigger little town

freighters made their way East and West
we, unaware of lives aboard 

No concept of "What Was Going 
On", as Marvin sung out his song

Protected we were from it all,

we had idealistic dreams

Rock 'n Roll and hot summer sun

"Don't worry, there are no regimes"

they said but we did anyway

I remember when "Teen Angel,

Can You Hear Me?" made us all cry,

haunting us as we wondered "Why?"

School on Monday seemed a long spell

from Saturday's four o'clock show
TV's dancing with Dick's "Band Stand"

The years all run together now
 From 1955, Brothers
Righteous and "Unchained Melody"

to "Ba Ba Ba - Ba Barbara Ann"

 don't forget that "Old Moon Bilbao"
"A Summer Place" and "Mack the Knife"
"Sugar Shack" and "Be My Baby"
I remember the music well,
just yesterday we were crazy

For dversepoets.com today Karen from manicddaily  invites us to write about
 "remembering'...as in "Try to Remember" (by 

The Brothers Four).  I quickly wrote this.

Lilac tree, very pretty...

Sit awhile in my lofty arms,

morning sun warms my velveteen chair 

Tiny faces debuting yawn -
From violet to thistle to eggplant to plum,

lacy blossoms flounce ruffled skirts,

hang from my branches nicely turned

Hummingbirds dash by your cheek blush rose,

seek out my romantic fragrance to drown in

Bees kick up pollen powder for 

your shiny pug nose 

Seasonal rains nourish me; 

stout leaves serve as suitable aircraft, 

exchanging seeds with other corner gardens

Swallows return to see petals 

falling to the ground below, 

providing soft landing for angels arriving on whispers

So place my blooms in a vase...
or in your auburn hair with a bow  

Fellow writer Samuel Peralta told us about ancient poetic riddles today....we are writing our own either 
in the old or the newer way! for dversepoets.com  I wrote about being a lilac tree...

Drifting away to Djibouti...

Dreams unrealized 
drift against green grey silk 
pillows oft cried in;

no more pulled covers over her head
while she sleeps,

as Kingdoms transition and fall -

even under the most 
abiding skies...

The good ship "false hope"

steams across safe harbor's bay;

mirages of new truths appear

o'er jeweled seas of 

love and trust,

where gossamer fork-tongued 

bridges span years of time.

Ninety degrees west of there -

floating colors in hula hand waves, 
 pinwheels of childhood,
and farther still, shorelines 
that embroider her name - places like 

Spain and Djibouti 

Upon awakening she turns and 
looks from whence 
she once came

and stares at the world anew,

 sees things no longer are the same;

finding wars she did not expect,

lies she lived in others' eyes -

feeling betrayed

Roses bearing full weight 

of droplets held that wait to 
be cried down again, 

washing away her signature

from the sands of time,

freeing her soul 
from pain

This was a fun exercise as Claudia today asked us to write about one of the paintings by Judith Clay. Both are from Germany and we see the fairy tale and whimsical traits they both have in their respective talents.  Read more over at dversepoets.com

In a small town...

After a long break from writing, instead cleaning, bending and moving, my home has sold and the mixed emotions run deep.  It was what I wanted nevertheless, but now during the closing process much more needs to be done.  Hoping to be back with my muse by Oct., I will celebrate new surroundings and join you all here again at the pub.  I know I've missed a lot of good poetry, but there has been little time for reading, believe me!

Today Brian over at dversepoets.com has asked us to write a 55 - count them, a story in just 55 words to submit to our friend at G-Man's poetry site.  
I hope all of you are having a slow and peaceful summer,
Katy

In a small village in the mountains,
silhouetted by evening's sky,  
 dwellers work, play, pray.
Clouds cherry pink encircle peaks white, 
softly enough to touch dry a 
baby's skin after bathing.

Night falls -

 hear only lullabies of the earth,
  eyes of the night sky blink

open, closed, watching  

 o'er the tranquil town 
 slumbering with angels

"terra cotta"

ter·ra cot·ta  n.  "baked earth"; clay used in fired unglazed ceramics

ter′ra-cot′ta, adj...a brownish orange 

...rolling on the paint, dipping and saturating the oblong roller brush at the end of a pole into a paint tray...exerting pressure with criss-crossing motion, using long strokes to fill in the rougher areas.  This is what we did to redo my previously dull atrium in my home to get the house ready to sell.  Whether it's a selling point or a drawback, it's ready for someone to do what they would like to do with it. Immediately green bamboo leaves contrasted with a pop against the bright wet paprika painted concrete floor.   It soon  dried to  a flat eggshell terra cotta colour;  a fan helps to move the warm air out while a cool breeze travels through the bright room.  A small old burner stove stands modestly nearby, asking the bougainvillea to climb up the wall.  There is pond where a waterfall softy recycles itself.  The Aloe Vera plant appears swollen, ready to use to heal a wound.  The camellia bush's shiny leaves and the cacti provide texture, as does a new colorful accent sisal rug.  It is a more vibrant space.... almost begging me to stay and enjoy!  Clearly, the indoor terrace has the ambiance of a courtyard in a casa en Mexico;  cozy, warm, and comfortable, with beams of vaulted wood..open air from above...and the color, terra cotta...I tried samples of tan, gray and red, thought of expensive tile or polished stones, but this was the best choice.  We repaired some rotted woodwork, painted the trim, washed and cleaned the entire area.

I'll miss the sound of rain on the sun roof....

Tiny Baby's Breath creeps through begonias and ferns.  It would be the epitome of tranquility, to  lye in a hammock or sit in a wicker chair with a good read, a bottle of Chardonnay on the table; I can almost smell from the kitchen a meal of chicken adobe, beans, rice, tomatillos and flan prepared by Frida Kahlo. I hear her ruffled long skirt swish as she makes her way to the brick oven, laughing voices, and I hear a faint guitar.....

.....o.,k....but back to reality -

Large drops of fresh dark red cement paint on my pants; oh well, I don't need them anymore anyway.  My hair, toes (I always go barefoot), arms, and hands bear thin trails the color of blood, as though I had fallen through a window and been cut by shards of sharp glass.  The hard work of refurbishing a room reaps its rewards of new possibilities; new ideas present themselves.  Already a small garden of ferns and a water feature, I add flower pots, a healthy new strawberry hydrangea tree and a zinnia.  Wa-la! Time to put up party lights and dance (sometime after the second coat of paint dries) and after the big garage sale tomorrow!  So for those who wish to know, I am still very busy here and unable to focus on my blog again this week.  Just so some know, I am hoping to return to it and writing as events allow me to. As they saying goes, there's a lot on my plate at the moment.  I have had many "looky- loos" coming to check out the house almost every day, but so far no takers.  All it takes is just one person - and perhaps a little negotiating ;-)

To curtsy or to bow..

It's Open link night at dversepoets.com today where we are celebrating the two year anniversary of this supportive and welcoming worldwide poetry website...
We love parades,
adhering to elaborate traditions, 
pomp and circumstance;   
ceremonies seem oh so relevant,
but why are the Who's Who 
of an empire, heads of state, 
uniforms, polo 
and prominent noses important?
What about who designs planes,
who runs in the special Olympics,
or what about a man on the moon?
Isn't the balance of power out of balance?
What does it mean to want to be top dog, 
to eat from a silver spoon?
Britain's monarchy is at the center -
with a stigma of being Stuffy, finding change difficult yet
However, we love kind, down to earth Queen Elizabeth; 
we remember her beautiful sister, Princess Margaret
They began their reign with important reforms -
Optimism above all, expressing a need to be
near the people, dedication and service
People love having their lives linked with affection 
and loyalty - and royalty remains
as set examples to emulate -
of virtues and artful living, caring for one another
Even though she lives in a palace in London, 
she gives her 100%; she put up with The Beattles
burning holes in her rug with cigarettes
So the future king or queen will be borne this week,
to perpetuate the family's domain;  
Surely a prince or princess will resemble William and Kate,
let's hope he or she is a cute baby,
for often it's not the case 
when two such attractive people mate
I hope in spite of all the pandering and ceremony, 
there is kind of normalcy;
for with new leaders of a kingdom
the marked emphasis now should be
the content of one's character, 
not what weight the crown in jewels or gold, 
nor taste in hattery.
Kings of old may have acted insanely;
today their soundness of mind will lead 
us into the future;
And when the new baby arrives,
we will salute him or her,
pray goodness and mercy
shall follow as the old is replaced with the new. 
Soon we will know whether to bow or curtsy -
whether the royal diapers will be pink or blue

On the horizon...

by klr

Water runs clear in the creek bed;

streaming moss grasps its hard pulled roots

Smooth mottled rocks look back at me,

gold tones hit thigh high wading boots

Light plays into stained glass ripples; 

Shades of evening gather and turn 

still pools to aubergine ink wells  

Gone is midday's white brittle fern

And all fools wish to love again; 
when all is said and done and fish 

swim no longer in murky dens, 

but frolic with faces clownish

Rising, flying to halfway heights

between the green sea and blue sky

Lofty hymns, pianissimo -

air and gulls' wings thus carried by

Heard only by the steadfast ear
they recall a sailor's lost joys, 

tribulation's lost salty tears

preserving crimped hearts as alloys

Flutters of wishes unfolding
fragile spirits lift sacredly

and in the throws of leaving cry 

the clouds for birds nigh achingly

Beating still louder, red gold wings, 
flocks of one million butterflies -

What was a lifetime of verses

disappears bidding it's goodbye's

Over at   dversepoets.com   Claudia has invited us to share our version of a mirage or heat wave, a kind of fantasy about real and the unreal...I had this already half written, although it doesn't suggest "hot", just that fine line between our visual and imagined horizons...and will be reading all the other posts tonight after dinner out.