Sunday school teacher
white-haired and diminutive
lessons lost on youth.
late harvest
3
Category Archives: humanity
Revolt – ing
Don’t turn your head and dab your eyes.
Face square the scene, then raise your cries.
Such treachery we must defy,
prosecute and rectify.
The People’s House they desecrate.
Within its halls they defecate.
Seditious cowards’ acts of hate
true patriots will not tolerate.
capitol
tear gas, shattered glass;
bloodshed, no shred of honor.
Winter in my soul.
ruthless
Beware of snakes
selling snake oil,
especially
if you
frequent
the same dens.
Room to Think
“Welcome to my house!” The little boy pulls aside a low hanging branch and gestures into the shadow of an old growth cedar tree.
“What a lovely home!” I look around the imaginary room: the evergreen walls, the mossy drapes, the soft carpet of aromatic brown needles. The boy grins.
“And that’s your house over there!” He points to another tree, and then to a fallen limb. “And this is your thinking bench.”
“My thinking bench?”
“Yes. When you want to think about things, you can come out here and sit on this bench.” I sit on the limb and marvel at this three-year-old’s creativity, and it occurs to me that every home could likely benefit from a thinking bench. See? It’s got me thinking already.
roughhewn cedar bench
space to breathe unfinished thoughts
warm breeze stirs the mind
Day Six: Ekphrasis
Day Six of NaPoWriMo.*
Today’s prompt asks us to
“write a poem from the point of view of one person/animal/thing from Hieronymous Bosch’s famous (and famously bizarre) triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights.”
I used a different painting, Franz Marc’s “The Fox” for my poem, but with the same concept of using the subject’s point of view.
Here goes:
Outfoxed
As cities crumbled in disrepair,
we watched from forest shadows,
not understanding what forces cause
a species to implode.
As flora died in poisoned air,
we retreated into denser woods,
left to fathom such machinations
that place greed above survival.
With no place left to seek reprieve,
we huddled amidst brambles,
hiding from blind ignorance
that sought to take our lives.
And then the whole world shattered
into a million pieces.
We raised our heads to face our death,
and instead were met with
blue skies free from factory smoke,
waters clear as young fawns’ eyes,
fish emerging from the depths.
plants burgeoning in replenished soil.
We snuggled in comforted embrace
as nature reassembled,
as order rose from chaos
under Gaia’s healing eyes.
New Reality
Day Three of NaPoWriMo.*
My offering:
New Reality
I despise the vile duplicity,
the partisan stupidity,
the rank and file idiocy that
purports to be our polity.
I’m aching for tranquility,
serenity, simplicity,
stability, integrity,
sincerity, morality.
I’ll cease my lame profanities,
I’ll work to restore sanity,
take every opportunity
to dignify humanity.
I’ll learn to live sustainably;
this planet my new deity.
I’ll protect its viability
from human greed and vanity.
I do not know my destiny.
Will I go down in infamy
or die in anonymity?
It matters not one whit to me.
I’ll fight the fight tenaciously
with love and light and empathy.
The world will right inequity,
our fate lies in our probity.
*National Poetry Writing Month, Day Three
I didn’t stay completely true to today’s prompt, except for the part that said, “try to play as much with sound as possible, repeating sounds and echoing back to others using… rhyming and similar words.”
Happy Hour
Day Two of NaPoWriMo.*
Today’s prompt:
“write a poem about a specific place — a particular house or store or school or office. Try to incorporate concrete details…”
My submission:
Happy Hour
Almost six p.m. Happy hour.
Parking lot is nearly full;
it’ll be jumping inside.
Sure enough, the long, narrow, windowless room is packed.
Folks old and young. Well, not too young.
Drinking age. Mostly.
Most every seat is taken.
I shoehorn in anyway, and
sit near a bleary-eyed fellow,
drink sloshing in trembling hands.
Next to him, a woman, talkative.
Soft, brandy-colored eyes.
Voice smooth as well-aged whiskey.
Men bellied up to the long table,
retelling the day’s events.
Conquests, struggles,
anecdotes about their work mates.
Fellow at the far end checks his watch.
Pats his beer belly. Clears his throat.
Shoves his coffee out of the way.
Picks up a big blue book.
“All right, time to start the meeting.”
The room goes suddenly quiet.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Brian, and I’m an alcoholic.”
A full-throated, “Hi, Brian,” reverberates around the room.
And thus begins the AA meeting
at the Grace Episcopal Church on Second and Main.
Dodge Ball
It’s Day One of NaPoWriMo!*
Today’s prompt: “write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances.
My offering:
Dodge Ball
An odd game, dodge ball.
I learned to play as a child,
in a windowless, cramped gymnasium
that smelled inexplicably like old wet dogs and
burnt rubber.
Unless I missed the finer nuances,
the gist of the game is hit or be hit.
Two teams at opposite ends of the court race to the center line
to acquire as many weapons — er, bouncy balls – as they can,
return to their respective territories.
then lob their missiles indiscriminately at one another.
You try to get out of the way or, if you can,
catch a missile and shoot it back at the enemy team.
Once hit by a ball, you’re “out”
and spend the remainder of the game
on the sidelines.
When all of one team’s players are “out,”
the other team wins.
I have learned, over time, that
the real way to win at dodge ball is to choose
not to play anymore.
Please Fasten Your Seat Belts
Today it is cold, wet and windy outside. From my living room, I watch jets coming in low as they approach PDX three miles to the south of my home. Usually they are high up and flying due south when they pass overhead, but with high winds, they must change their approach to an alternate runway, and so they pass across the view from my front window in a westerly direction, appearing almost as low as the trees.
It is January. A new year, a new decade no less. And with my birthday falling within the first week of the month, I face a triple mile post of time marked, and the reckoning that elicits. Have I spent the past year well? Wisely? And what will I do with this blank slate of 2020?
I will fly high, I vow, when conditions allow. I will be open to alternate approaches when circumstances turn dicey. And even through turbulence, I’ll take full advantage of the journey. because that’s the way of the determined traveler. I’m buckling up for 2020!
winter winds bluster
branches swing on steadfast trees
holding through the storm
For dVerse Challenge: Beginning (again) ~ Haibun
What Rhymes with Stanza? 