Along life’s path
we cobble together experiences,
lessons learned, loves lost
and found.
Some leave no stone unturned
in their search for meaning.
Others piece their stones together
along an uneven trail,
and do not mind when
moss gathers to fill in the gaps.
From the dVerse blog for Tuesday Poetics: May 29, 2018: “Here’s what I want you to use tonight as inspiration for your poem. I’ve listed some street names for you, and I want you to imagine what the street is like…or who might live there…or how the name came about.”
The street name I selected from the list is Buttgarden Street.
We pass this way most every day,
my faithful dog and I,
and on this street a man we meet,
his mutt heeled at his side.
We greet as neighbors tend to do
a nod and friendly hi.
Our dogs sniff at their private parts;
we turn a modest eye.
A garden for the neighborhood
some volunteers commenced,
fronts this street for several feet
behind a cyclone fence.
“I wish they’d put this somewhere else,”
my neighbor groused aloud.
“This used to be a quiet street.
Now every day’s a crowd.”
True, many gardeners come each day
to tend their tidy beds.
With backs bent low, they weed and sow,
as blood runs to their heads.
Perhaps someday we’ll see green stalks
of veggies grown with care.
But until then there’s just a crop
of butts up in the air.
I should have taken the I-5 freeway, I tell myself even as I commit to the onramp of I-84 East. Traffic is at a crawl as drivers jockey to merge into the three eastbound lanes. I choose the center lane. A red Volvo in front of me switches to the left lane even though it, too, is at a near standstill. My line begins to move and I pull past the Volvo. I bet they’re sorry they changed lanes. I smile smugly. A mile later, my lane slows, and cars are passing on both sides. The Volvo, now in the right lane, zooms past me. That’s okay. It’s not a race. I stay in the middle lane. Dance with the one that brung ya, right?
drivers on their marks
finish lines are self-described
bring your own trophy
For the next six miles, traffic ebbs and flows. Compulsively, I check my progress against cars on either side of me. No, it’s not a race, but there’s that nagging need to prove that I chose the best lane. I reach my exit and check my rear view mirror as I ease over to the off ramp. The red Volvo is right behind me. Ha! For all its lane changing, I still came out in front. Had it been a race – which of course it wasn’t – I would have won. Yep… dance with the one that brung ya. Fidelity always pays off. Until it doesn’t.
crows raise strident voice
choruses of morning birds
solos every one
Sometimes I see that you are sad, upset… In pain I don’t know what to say, other than, “I’m sorry.” you retreat, You say, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” lick your wounds We both know that it’s not. Not my fault – at least not this time – and not okay. What is it that keeps us unseen. from being okay with life not being okay? What is it that keeps us Unseen, from allowing one another to be with us in our sorrows? I am with you when you are down. I bear your pain I am with you when it’s not okay. I am with you when it’s not my fault… and remain even when it is my fault. If you do not wish to be with me, or just aren’t ready right now, that’s okay. Or maybe it’s not. But I will be with you in my heart, in silence. even if not in yours.
In response to dVerse Meeting the Bar, May 24, 2018, where it is explained that, “Contrapuntal music is composed of multiple melodies that are relatively independent that are sounded together. In the poetic world, contrapuntal poems are poems that intertwine two (or more) separate poems into a single composition.”
Come outside, it’s raining!
Damp tree scents tickle our noses;
delicious, earthy chills.
Raindrops splash in puddles.
Watch them dance; taste the freshness.
Hear the rain trickle through
moss-furred branches overhead.
Feel the wet soaking in.
Then back inside to shake it all off.
dVerse Quadrille: Don’t rain on my parade!
The Daily Post weekly photo challenge: Liquid
HEROES WANTED
Must have crisp capes and masks with
just the right balance of intrigue and
mystery.
Must have superpowers of seeing through
rumors, lies and half-truths; and
leaping over small thoughts,
imposed barriers and festering hatred.
Must be unflinching in the face of
introspection, and have the wisdom to
acknowledge that there are no difficult answers,
just difficult questions.
Must be of such mettle that –
perchance the mask slips –
revelation of the hero’s true character
can withstand close scrutiny in the
oh-so-harsh light of day.
Most importantly,
beneath the crisp cape and behind the mysterious mask,
must be a human with foibles,
vulnerabilities, and the willingness to risk
love and forgiveness.
White horse optional.
“Will you deliver the sermon?” he asks me.
One Sunday a year, the pastor teaches Sunday School
and asks parishioners to lead the worship service
in his stead.
Ha! Me? Preach a sermon?
I preach to my kids all the time,
mostly in the form of
“Do as I say, not as I do.”
A potential theme for a Sunday message, for sure,
but would it play well to the gray-haired majority of
this small congregation?
I think not.
It doesn’t even play well with my kids.
I hate public speaking!
And I’m none too endowed in the reverence department, either.
No way! I say to myself.
“Sure!” I say to the pastor.
On the given day, I rise to the podium.
(“It’s called a pulpit, dear” an angel whispers encouragingly.
“Shows just how qualified you are to stand behind it,”
scoffs the dude with the pointed tail.)
I look out over the sea of blue perms, bald pates, a few mullets…
and I gulp.
A voice I don’t recognize delivers anecdotes
mixed with pious postulations;
a splash of bible verse, a dash of poignant quotes
and a twist of lame joke.
Stirred, not shaken.
At one point, I tell a story about my young daughter
and I use the word “mom” a couple of times in succession.
From the rear of the sanctuary, a toddler responds.
“Mom?”
People laugh.
“From the mouths of babes,” I say.
Soon enough (or not soon enough, some may think)
the service ends.
Polite parishioners approach and tell me how well I did.
Truth be told, I thought it went pretty well myself.
A diminutive elderly woman tugs on my sleeve.
I bow slightly so I can hear her comment.
“You gave a very nice sermon,” she says, patting my arm.
“Thank you!” I beam.
“Of course, I couldn’t hear a word of it.”
She turns and slowly totters away
toward the cookie-laden tables in the fellowship hall.
At first I’m dismayed that she would complement
without having heard my sterling performance.
(“Performance?” the angel arches an eyebrow.)
But then, I think, maybe she’s on to something.
Without being put upon by someone else’s message,
she is free to rest in a pew on a Sunday morning,
surrounded by congenial peers
(“… and some noisy rugrats,” the horned heckler interjects),
and worship in her own choice of words.
Amen to that, I say.
Amen, says the angel.
Whatever, says the sulphurous cynic.
“Can we go home now?” asks my daughter.
“Let’s.”
Thus endeth my preaching career.
NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 23: write a poem based on sound.
NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 18. The prompt “sounds a bit more complicated than it is, so bear with me! First, find a poem in a book or magazine (ideally one you are not familiar with)… [C]over everything but the last line. Now write a line of your own that completes the thought of that single line you can see, or otherwise responds to it. Now… uncover the second-to-last line of your source poem, and write the second line of your new poem to complete/respond to this second-to-last line. Keep going, uncovering and writing, until you get to the first line of your source poem, which you will complete/respond to as the last line of your new poem. It might not be a finished draft, but hopefully it at least contains the seeds of one.”
Well, it wasn’t hard to find a poem I’m not familiar with, as I’m not much of a literary reader. When I came across a poem written by Sheryl Luna and titled, “Neighbors Smoke on an Apartment Porch Owned by a Mental Health Agency,” I knew that would be perfect for this challenge. You can follow the link to read that poem.
Here’s my reverse response. I guess I’ll call it Mental Faculties.
Waiting their chance to bloom,
strength belied by failing light,
old habits won’t die today.
Rheumy eyes remove the hues.
Calm comes with slowing down.
Peeling bark, in rough contrast,
remember they once blossomed, too.
Come in to the sobering shade,
rise and heal thy pain.
It’s all relative, so we’re told
a tale of plums and prunes.
Wishing never leads the charge,
sinners peddling soulless fates.
Free to fly once weight-relieved,
yesterday’s work, today’s debris,
smoothed as with a butter knife,
carried high on joyful wings.
What’s left from those who sow and reap —
saying so won’t make it true —
forestalls, refusing to leave.
Stalwart nature, man-made trees,
far from home yet searching still,
if only one could hear.
They care more than one might think
of being heroes or villains.
Do-overs can set them free,
enlightened by the truth.
“I never did like Narcissus,” he says,
though I hadn’t asked for his opinion.
“Narcissus? Why not?” I ask.
“It is such a presumptuous flower,
So simple – banal really –
yet it pops up first thing in the spring
as though the world has been awaiting it
all winter.”
“All winter? Perhaps so,” I say.
“It is so beautiful and colorful
and a refreshing change from the ugly winter snow.”
“You know what I think?” he asks.
I don’t know, and I don’t ask.
He tells me anyway.
“I think these narcissus flowers bloom early
just so they can admire their reflections in the melting snow.”
“The melting snow,” I say. “I don’t care. I love them.”
I reach down to pick one of the flowers,
but it won’t come loose of the plant.
I pull harder. It still refuses to budge.
“See that?” he says.
“Narcissus won’t even let go of a bloom.
He wants to keep all the beauty for himself.”
“For himself…” I muse.
I begin to feel faint.
I feel as though I am disappearing.
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“Going somewhere. Yes… somewhere… somewhere…”
“Say, I didn’t catch your name,” he calls after me.
“Name? Echo. Echo. Echo.”
“Nice talking with you, Echo.
My name is Nemesis.”
Nemesis. Nemesis. Nemesis.
NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 21: Write a poem that plays with the myth of Narcissus in some way.
Some days the mountain sparkles in the sun with its snow-covered slopes. At other times it is invisible behind clouds and fog and – sadly – smog. But it’s always there, always a touchstone when crossing the bridge that takes me from my town in to the bigger city. Another mountain, easily distinguished by its volcanic rounded top, is more of a surprise when it appears, as I can’t seem to remember where to find it. Does it move across the landscape when I’m not looking? I have to keep my eyes on the road at least part of the time, and it would be easily missed. A third mountain is even wilier, and sometimes I mistake it for the first. Perhaps I need to concentrate more to get my bearings. Or maybe it’s just hard to see the mountains for the molehills.
branches in the wind
go to ground in my garden
dog hunts scent of birds
NaPoWriMo Challenge, Day 12: Write a haibun that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 