In my cell I’m imprisoned,
I touch no one, none touch me.
Defined by this rectangle
beyond which I cannot see.
There are others: I can sense them
just beyond periphery.
If we’d only lift our eyes
from our cell phones we’d be free.
To honor my fourth grandchild. The first three:
Sun glides low across the sky;
Despite late rising, soon to set.
Scant light filters through the gloom
Diluted ‘til there’s no warmth left.
Still, give credit for the effort.
Kindle carefully the spark.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better, and
I’ll rise higher from the dark.
In response to
Burn the ballots, ban the books, bash the ones who disagree.
When did it become the norm to forego common decency?
Ignore the truth, assert your lies loudly and repeatedly.
And God forbid you dare to challenge ye olde patri-assity.
Why do you try to stop the votes, what do you fear so mightily?
Why must you foment rage and hate, distrust and blind antipathy?
Why lurk in darkness, wearing masks to veil your true identity?
Why hide behind your guns and flags, then call it Christianity?
I am not Dem nor GOP, to none do I pledge fealty.
I aim to act with common sense, with self respect and dignity.
Far from perfect, none too wise, often lacking clarity.
Perhaps we’re more alike than not. Let’s strive for peace and harmony.
A book is not about the cover that protects it.
A gift is not about the paper that wraps it.
A favor, though, is about all that surrounds it,
and not merely about the favor itself.
A favor is a gift of protection; of connection;
the resurrection of feeling secure and loved,
and the knowing that someone has your back.
A favor is about the wrapping; not mere trappings,
but the tapping into kindness and caring and
feeling seen and warmed by the soul of another.
When you do someone a favor, know that you, too,
will be fortified by the community you are
helping to create and maintain. Know that you, too,
will be enveloped in the love and wellbeing that comes
with the honorable act of giving.
“Crabs in a bucket.”
Anthropomorphized with ill intent,
they pull one another down
such that none escapes
ahead of another.
People in boxes.
We stereotype and generalize,
avoiding the rigors of thoughtful discernment.
Outside of buckets, crabs cooperate.
Without boxes, how might people be?
The gray sky is low, pushing down on me as my dog and I sidestep puddles in our path. A sense of sadness seeps onto me, settling like heavy mist on a wool coat. Unexplainable loneliness rises up as though from the rain-dampened earth and I am enveloped in a fog of… it almost feels like despair … that I know is not my own. My dog, a double-coated spitz, shakes his body in a spasm that sprays rain water off him in all directions. My pants leg is flecked with tiny droplets. Arriving home, I unbuckle his leash and dry him with a towel. He shakes again and the moisture from his undercoat surfaces. I touch his fur; it’s as wet as though I hadn’t wiped him down at all. If I were to sift my fingers through his thick coat down to the skin, it would be dry and warm. I, conversely, am cold and shivering and wet. An involuntary shudder courses through me, as my psyche tries to shake the melancholy from my soul.
Little cherub on mama’s lap, surrounded by strangers, crammed into narrow pews in a room she does not know. No color, no toys, no talking. No joy. She squirms, but just a little. Everyone stands in unison. An organ plays, slow and plodding. Grownups sing, low and droning. She doesn’t recognize this song, but music! Music is a familiar friend! She listens, watching mama’s lips move. The hymn ends. She knows what follows music. She claps her little hands together and gives a cheerful, “Yay!” The congregation laughs. Thank God for laughter amidst sorrow, and thank God, too, for toddlers who haven’t yet had to learn the somber intricacies of mourning.
Day Five of National Poetry Writing Month! Our prompt today from NaPoWriMo.net talks about the “juxtaposition between grief and joy, sorrow and reprieve,” and asks us to:
write a poem in which laughter comes at what might otherwise seem an inappropriate moment – or one that the poem invites the reader to think of as inappropriate.
It’s April, and we all know what that means: NaPoWriMo!
It’s National Poetry Writing Month, and the well-versed souls at NaPoWriMo.net are once again supplying us with inspiration, motivation and creative prompts to help us in the challenge of writing a poem a day for the entire month of April. I always have the best intentions of meeting the challenge, but sometimes life happens. We’ll see how it goes this year.
For April 1:
They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but they never said you can’t try to write a poem based on a book cover — and that’s your challenge for today!
As a resource, we were sent to The Public Domain Review’s collection “The Art of Book Covers 1820-1914.”
I chose to use a cover to Jules Verne’s book From Earth to the Moon. My endeavor:
When first we breached primordial ooze, our lungs inflating from newfound air, we turned skyward with clouded eyes, and there it was: a moon! We grew a spine (well, some of us), strengthened lengthening limbs, climbed mountains and – finding our voice – we howled at the moon. Torsos stretched, gaining balance. Minds stretched, gaining wherewithal. Desires stirred beyond mere survival. Straining upright, we reached yearningly to touch the moon. Stripped of innocence, we clothed our bodies. Sloughing naivete, we cloaked our intentions. Finding pride, we adorned our personhood. Growing listless, we set a goal: we would walk on the moon. Scarred and marred from our abuse, at a distance Earth nonetheless appears a shiny bauble; a marble expendable in our cosmic game, because we believe if all else fails, we will simply move to the moon.
We likely all know the trope of whether a half-filled glass of water is half full or half empty. In truth, the glass is completely full: half water and half air. Both are vital to our survival.
Like the cycles of the moon, our lives are said to wax and wane. Coming into my seventh decade, I am by force of nature inarguably waning, and yet my life is full to overflowing. As the cycle continues, I am quite curious as to where I will find myself at my own next new moon.
whole moon half-hidden
wax and wane like hide and seek
steadfast in the sky
What Rhymes with Stanza? 