Tag Archives: poetry

with you — unseen (a contrapuntal)

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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.”

Dog Weather

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rain cabin

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

Tall Order

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heroes

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.

Preacher

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“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.

sg 11th partial

NaPoWriMo challenge, Day 23: write a poem based on sound. 

Driving in Reverse

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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.

 

couch

Narcissus

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jonquil

“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. 

moving mountains

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mountain 2

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. 

Last Chapter

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identity1

If I were to write my memoirs,
the title would be “Reaching.”
The chapter headings:
How Far
How High
How Pretty
How Wealthy
How Meaningful
How Memorable

Maybe not in that order,
but probably so.

There would be a Foreword to explain
I’m not competitive (even against myself),
nor am I status-conscious, greedy or an overachiever.
Well, maybe just a little of all that.
It’s not about aspirations, goals, achievements…
just… reaching.

A reaching born perhaps of the low-key work ethic instilled by my parents.
(is that an oxymoron, “low-key work ethic?”)
Like this:
If you take one step, you might as well take two.
If you’re an apprentice, you might as well become a journeyman.
Once you’re a journeyman, you might as well aim for foreman.

There might as well be a chapter in my memoirs called “Might as Well.”

My memoirs would describe how I progressed through life in this mindset.
And how one day it flipped.
If I lost a step in my journey, I would likely fall back two steps.
If I missed a rung in my ascent, soon thereafter
I’d likely land on my butt at the bottom of the ladder.

And so it was.
Until finally I just stopped.
No up, no down.
Just full stop.

◊ ◊ ◊

Two summers ago I took up whittling.
I sit on my deck on warm afternoons
in the shade of a lopsided black walnut tree.
Opportunistic squirrels steal green nuts from the branches above me.
I place a glass of water or sun tea next to my chair,
and I whittle.

I don’t whittle to carve shapes into wood,
or to carve wood into shapes.
It’s just relaxing to take a sharp knife and a found piece of wood,
and shave away layers until I’ve reached… no, not reached…
until I know I am done.

Maybe this is the perfect last chapter for my memoirs.
I will call the chapter “Whittling,”
and I’ll describe my practice of peeling back layers
to see what’s beneath.
Not like some deep introspection, where I
lay bare the depths of my soul to reveal all the
rot and grisly scars.

Much simpler (and much more interesting) than that;
kind of like a low-key work ethic.

I just whittle
on found wood,
one shaving at a time
to discover the layers
of life,
of nature,
of squirrels,
of being in this world
on my deck on a summer afternoon.

finished

In response to the NaPoWriMo prompt: What does y(our) future provide? What is your future state of mind? Seems I had to go to the past to get to the future. 

RE: Journeyman/Foreman: my parents were of a non-gender neutral generation, but they never discouraged my career choices based on gender. 

Take Two

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Here’s another take on Days Five and Six of the NaPoWriMo challenge, combined. Same photo, different poem, different experiment with line breaks. 

Mt Hood 

feel this day
with the soft touch of your gentle eyes
inhale this view; safeguard the scent in your heart
listen to the sunlight; taste its warmth on the mountaintop
tuck this day into the brightest recesses of your outermost soul
and share it as often and as loud and far and bright as you possibly can
for not everyone has the means nor  place  nor time nor the luxury nor sentience
to feel days like this

 

NaPoWriMo, Day Five

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I’m participating in the National Poetry Writing Month challenge, writing a poem a day based on a specific prompt. So far, I’ve been running a day behind, but today I’m going to catch up and try to stay on track.

Today’s prompt is a bit involved. The gist is to choose a (relatively random) photograph, then find a poem in a language I don’t know. Ignoring any accompanying English translation, “translate” the poem to English as though the poem were actually about the random photo. The prompt says to “Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph.”

Whew! Hopefully easier done than said.

So I opened up the photo gallery on my laptop, closed my eyes and pointed. I came up with this shot I took of Mt. Hood in Oregon, USA in 2013. So far, so good.

Mt Hood

Then I went looking for a poem, and found one written in Slovakian, coincidentally titled “Mountain.” The poem was hecka long, though, and seemed rather daunting. I decided to see what other bloggers were up to, and checked out “Mexi Movie the Third” to see Manja’s entry for today’s challenge.

Wisely, Manja had chosen a four-line poem written in Afrikaans. Now that seemed much more manageable.

So I stole her poem to translate. (Hope you don’t mind, Manja 😀 )

Here’s the original poem, as written by poet Hester Ley Ney.  (Hope you don’t mind, Hester 😀 : )

Hierdie dag
wat ek graag wou vashou
het gesmelt
en weggedrup uit my hand

Okay. Time for me to “translate” based on my photo:

hardy day
what a great view shown
and smelled
on the way up to it with my hand

Well, now. That was interesting… Wonder what fun tomorrow’s challenge will hold.