With Resolve
Would I be that person again?
Am I not, still?
The anger that stewed within is gone,
resolved with understanding. Loss
weighs heaviest when dismissed.
Recognized, accepted, it still lives
within me, an empty space
never to be filled yet always holding
those who cannot be replaced.
This is my response to Reena’s Xploration Challenge #241, which offers this line as inspiration: “The only ghost that scares is a past version of you.”
Shared with OpenLinkNight #321 Blast Off!
Missed, in Any Weather
The farthest thing from my mind
when I’m chipping away
at the frozen layer on my driveway
on a chilly, mid-Missouri February morning
that, as usual, has as much rain as snow
is to wish for more of the same.
But here I am on a ninety-six degree day
in August crossing a Target parking lot
as I wade through heat waves
rising from the asphalt that remind me
of that Vegas hospital parking lot
in early June of ’93 after visiting Dad
and thinking he’d be flying home soon –
we know how that worked out –
wishing I could have one of those
ice-crusted snow days. Or better yet,
just one more minute working beside Dad
at Overland Express back in Buffalo
in the ’70s with the snow blowing
between the trailers and across the dock,
his face just as red from the cold
as it would get if he were here with me
on this hot, August Missouri day.
This is my response to Twiglet 290: ice-crusted snow.
As it happens this also meets the challenge for Poetics: Sometimes August isn’t recognized, the prompt from Sanaa at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
Blackbird
The time has come.
A flame long lit rises higher
with each generation.
No longer meek
or following a creed
that dictates second-class status,
this sisterhood, each woman
who walks this earth, grows
with each bridge crossed.
Do not ask me to refute this,
for I can not. Nothing will stop
their search for equality.
Its progress may seem slow,
but a blackbird in the wind
will still choose its course.
This is my response to Wordle 577 at The Sunday Whirl.
blackbird / flame / wind / time / cross / me / woman / meek / seem / creed / search / earth
Shared with OpenLink Night #319: Midsummer Edition! at dVerse~ Poets Pub.
solitude
fear of conformity
this loneliness
that keeps me from joining in
must minds be alike
to get along?
am i so different?
the same needs
a desire to belong
without judgment
perfection
though not requisite
the mind’s obstacle
is that it
the fear of judgment
that holds me back?
fear of failure
to conform
all in my mind
This is my response to Poetics: When it comes to Peer Pressure,
the prompt from Sanaa at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
This is my response to Day 28 at napowrimo.net, where we are asked to write a concrete poem. This may narrowly fit within the definition, as it was adapted from a poem written in verse to fit the shape of a drop of blood. (The original appears below.) I wrote it in 1998, when I was donating platelets at Roswell Park Cancer Center in Buffalo, NY. Framed, it was still hanging on the wall of the donation center when I stopped donating platelets in 2006. It was published in the hospital newsletter at the time.
Since it was written in 1998, I’ll be sure to write a poem later today, to stay current in National./Global Poetry Writing Month.
Shared with OpenLink Night #315 at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
this is apheresis
faces
filled with cheer
expressing gratitude
reflecting
optimism necessary
for survival
shared
by some
down the halls
forsaken
by others
beyond the walls
industry
devoted to
saving lives
seeking
to aid
those in need
replenishing
vital components
of a precious nature
welcoming
donations from
a precious source
sometimes
a jab and
a mild twinge
sometimes
the sense of a feather
passing over my arm
either way
any sense of intrusion
is soon gone
replaced
by thoughts
of those in need
departing
with no need
to return
living
with no
of urgency
thinking
of those
who know urgency
returning
to offer aid
expecting to see
faces
filled with cheer
expressing gratitude
this is apheresis
There Is Nothing but a Memory
There is nothing to the reports of my early –
or not-so-early – demise.
There is nothing I would like more
than for that to not be true.
There is nothing to be done,
when all is said and done.
There is nothing to see here.
There is nothing more to say,
except that there is nothing.
This is my response to Day 22 at napowrimo.net,
which asks us to write a poem that uses repetition.
Wheat Field with Crows (1890), Vincent van Gogh
Too Smart for My Own Good
No way. Never would I name you.
Ghosts. Closets.
Sure we had some good times.
Too good, at times.
Too much drinking, not enough
time spent on studies. Playing cards
was not the math I needed. The physics
of dominoes and falling cards
did nothing for my grades.
After two years, I engineered my way
out of school and into the job
building stereo and TV cabinets.
Thanks for getting me in. Of course,
you were always in control, but the boss
telling me I was too smart for my own good
was the best thing that could happen to me.
I went on to drive trucks. And drink less.
You went back to school. It was too late
for me to plant those seeds. You were
the wheat field. I was the crows, leaving
the darkness behind. Where would I be
now, if I’d stayed?
This is my response to Day 21 at napowrimo.net, in which were asked to “write a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time. Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question.” (The name can be found in the first line.)
Coincidentally, Departure, written in 2016, also uses Vincent van Gogh’s Wheat Field with Crows and touches on the same topic, although indirectly.
Image source: Wikimedia Commons
Whispers Without Words
Listen, and you will hear
soft whispers without words
in the hush of wings lighter
than the light that shines
through them. Just as light,
their homes of paper
that will never know ink,
nor hold the words
you were not meant to hear.
This poem is my response to Quadrille #148: Papered Poems, the prompt from De Jackson at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use a form of the word paper in a 44-word poem (excluding title), with no required meter or rhyme.
Image source: MorgueFile
Not Even Remotely
Separation is the weight I carry,
feebly countered by
a digitized simulacrum.
The scales are out of balance.
What is distance,
when nearness
is measured in pixels,
tones that pass from hand to ear?
They may substitute
for touch, the warmth of presence,
but they cannot replace them.
There will never be enough bandwidth.
I may travel that distance,
share presence for a brief time,
but with every return
I note my own absence.
What Is Before Us
for Stephen
Plain sight cannot deny
a truth without camouflage,
your subtle brushstrokes
never relying on memory hidden
within the ebb and flow of life,
always open to the new
as it unfolds, willing
an insight of what may be
repeated, though never taken
for granted. In chords
that stroke the soul,
I have seen your true self.
This poem is inspired by The Quiet Places, by Stephen Tanham.
Please read the original. It’s a short read, and the source of the photo.
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