Suspended (One Shot Wednesday) & (carry on tuesday)

Sarah Joncas (my fav)

My heart may be pounding fast

but I won’t scream for help;

falling head first

from unknown heights,

to unknown depths.

I am in a poem,

created by a writer who relives dark themes,

but he doesn’t create them.

I don’t think he wants me to suffer or die,

he’s seen too much of that.

Maybe he is just trying to create that last thought of a dying woman plunging to her death for no apparent reason?

This fine piece of art offers no detail of back story or conclusion.

Just a woman in a red dress calmly falling.

He won’t create beyond what he sees.

He interprets.

I feel safe in his mind,

suspended in thought.

Don’t fret over me,

I am in safe hands.

He’s allowing me to do all the talking,

I will live,

and you will see me again,

I promise.

If I stop talking

He will die,

Or move on.

Until then,

Here I am.

I have done so little,

But have so much to do.

He needs my help.

I’m sure I will be a study of peril again, soon,

but he won’t let me die.

He’s seen too much of that.

No tragedy here.

Just a thought he can’t let go.

I’m merely a tear

he refuses to cry.

A suspended tear with no splash.

A poetic time out.

No Fear (potluck)

Stalking darkness

Billowing freight

Angry carpet rolls ‘cross light

Blow and huff

Rant and rage

Flash and roar

Give your best performance

On my field-like stage

I’ll spin and swirl and dance in waves

Of thankful expectation

There is no fear of you in me

I love your demonstration.

Just make sure before you quit and fade away to mist

You share your rain upon my hair and leave me with a kiss

I love the way my golden soul

Contrasts your blackened heart.

And how your evil face of scars

Enables me to grow.

My Pacemaker (poetry pantry 51)

Evening horizon appears bruised.

Sunlight slithers off, silently.

Darkness creeps, cougar-like,

Crisp shadows chill skin.

And then,

Eyes erupt, silence shatters, tear’s heave.

Sheet of paper, official, type written,

Trembles in hand,

Rattling, snake-like, after a strike,

Fangs moist, blood stained.

Frightful words, venomous,

Surge though veins,

Numb arms, throat,

Breath paralyzed,

Death stalks heart.

Collapsed to dust,

Curl in ball,

Frail, tumbleweed-like,

Wind rushes by.

Pray to roll away, roll away

Swoosh along prairie flat

To wherever tumbleweeds go.

But I lay like a stone;

A headstone,

Marking the end of my life.

My Johnny

Won’t be marching

Home again.

And then,

A little heart renewed life.

I imagined it no bigger than Johnny’s,

When his mother,

Probably dancing with him now,

First told me he was coming.

Being a father was a good thing,

Back then.

The medal dangled from a ribbon,

Wide purple with thin white stripes,

Heart shaped, bordered with Heaven’s gold.

On the front,

George Washington’s profile in a sea of purple,

On the back,

“For Military Merit.”

It felt cool in my fist.

I clenched it,

Trying to find life,

A reason,

A power.

A hope.

The beginning of a prayer.

Anything.

And then,

I squeezed the medal so hard

My palm bled.

I looked.

I gasped.

I gazed.

I knew.

I sensed a breeze, warm.

A voice, I didn’t notice on the prairie.

With each wisp of wind, I heard,

“I Know,”

Reminding me, “I know.”

Every time the wind blew, a whisper,

“I know.”

I saw, I listened, I survived.

Johnny’s body stopped a bullet streaking for an Afghan girl;

A county’s future.

I wear the Purple Heart with pride,

Pinned over my own;

My pacemaker.

And now,

I leave the prairies to the tumbleweeds.

I spend a lot of time in the mountains,

Me and wind,

Standing on a great granite rock,

Taking turns

Saying,

“I know.”

Palpable Park (Single Impression 170)



Luiza Vizoli



Hands touched,

skin and skin,

mine and hers,

eternal spark.

Palpable Park breathed life,

kaleidoscopic spectrums exploded,

fresh light filtered prism; set free.

Heart’s eyes perceived

rainbow leaves,

stained glass grass,

burying doubt beneath expressed reflections

of blue skies

above.

Unmistakable;

the colorful chorus of truth.

We faded in the manifest presence

of love.

Trance (Haiku Heights 45)

By Matilde Caceres-Zelinger

Subconscious layers,

Fragmented thought united.

Eyes close, mind ignites.

I Hear Her Now (Sunday Photography)

Photo by Scott Wyden

I remember now.

Her voice

Feminine

Frail

Echoed weakly

Floated like a loose feather

On crisp currents

Of steep concrete canyon walls.

Her song

Pathetic

Pale

Floundered

Skipping like a scratched record

Between a sliver of blue

Of steep concrete canyon walls.

Her words

Pained pleadings

Wailed

Fluttered faintly

Flying like a blind falcon

Through swirling winds

Of steep concrete canyon walls.

The leap

Ill-minded

Ire

Flailing

Falling like lone confetti

Amid silent parades

Of steep concrete canyon walls.

The echo

A haunting

Choir

Lingered lastly

“Doesn’t anybody care?”

Staining red the street

Of steep concrete canyon walls.

I hear her now.

Though

Just an echo.

Her death

Fortissimo

Thundering kettle drums

Accented

With

Crashing cymbals

Vibrating

To silence.

The symphony

Singes

My soul.

In the cavernous

Steep

Concrete canyon walls

I ignored

An echo.

"Doesn’t…

Anybody…

Care?…"

God forgive me.

I hear her now.

Below the Haze (Wordle 6)

Leaves of green mourn in black

Cry alone in fire’s rash

Striding fast are foxes red

Tails burning flee their bed

Fire hungry monster glut

Fallen firs choke in soot

Twilight glows ember ash

Wind whispers evil laugh

Against the sky’s smoky craze

Planets pray above the haze

Against the spread of blazing dead

Afraid of cancer’s cinder spread

Dreams Between (Sunday Scribble 269)

Dreams soar free in colors high

Waves of hope fly and glide

Far above

Rocky cold

Jagged cries

Of glacier why

Slicing low of winter’s gray

Swirling storm of icy rain

Flocks of dreams

Squeeze between

Heaven’s mirror

Of mountain’s rage

That's What I Read (games)

I read the newspaper at day's break
A young boy
Twelve
Big smile
Toothy … some spaces
Pre-braces
Stuck a ten point buck
With bow and arrow
From fifty feet
Quite a feat
I thought
Fifty feet
Bow and arrow
A young lad’s nerves
Striking a blow
Through a fleet
Deer’s heart
He tracked him for an hour …
The story read

I thought …
Not reading …
Just thinking … pondering … imagining
The buck was strong
Bled for 60 minutes
Running
Stunned
Frantic through woods and thicket
Gasping breaths
Frothing
Finally collapsing
A crash of stunned … exhausted carcass
On coldish grass … next to a cool stream
Between a pine … tall and lean
And a greenish bush
At dusk
Panting …
Tongue straining … to reach
The cool brook … stained in sunset red
Lapping a final taste
Snorting his last
Alone
An arrow in heart, broken
Dead …

I wasn’t reading … just wondering

I cut the picture of the boy and the buck out of the Daily Gazette
I wanted to place it in my Bible
But …
I didn’t know where
I just knew it was significant … in some way …
It must have been exciting
I was thinking … again
For the teen
Like David or Jonathan
I’m sure they hunted
Were skilled
And celebrated
A kill … and feasted
Until they parted …
But … I felt a kindred sadness
For the deer
Bountifully alive … fellowshipping with creation … one minute
Then … suddenly
Struck with fear(ish) pain … the next
Followed by … silence
All in 60 minutes …
I’m sure they …
The teen’s family … said grace
Ate the venison … back strap first … of course … the most tender
And froze or gave away the rest …
He
The buck
Didn’t die in complete vain
He fed them …
The hunters
I didn’t read that
Just pondered
Instead

In my half-buttoned safari jacket pocket
I placed my worn, smooth black leather Bible
We were the first at the veterinarian’s office
My Lassie and I
It was a cool autumn morning … shadows were shrinking though
She was ill … that one kind of ill … a final ill
An aged friend
Panting in my arms
She didn’t weigh as much …
Anymore …
We should have been on the river
But …
I handed my friend to my friend
The doc
He tried to smile … failed … but tried
I followed them to the back
And opened my Bible
Page 857
I had it marked with the picture of the boy and that deer
From the Gazette
I had read when the shadows were longer
I thought about the buck
He did not fear the arrow …
But that he would not make it back … to the brook
One last … time
That’s what I pondered …
And when Lassie lay on the cool
Of the table
In the back
She licked my hand
And
I whispered in her ear … loud enough for both of us to hear
“… You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day … “
That’s what I read …

Taking a Break

I'm on a VACATION!

Protector (Wordle 5)

Yellow warning flares surrender beneath the flight of gathered angels.

Rearranged risk dismantled at hill’s crest.           

A window frame of golden armor protects,

defies absolute,

lulls intent.

Tragedy waned by the utter of Providence,

“Not today.”

Mayhem takes flight,

my life spared.

Can you see my protector standing there?

Wait (HH#44 solitude)

Photo by Joe McNally

Hope feels morn's quick pulse

Sharp brisk light slices dark thin

Bride's lone shadow grows

Grace: A Place of Solitude (HH#44)

I've seen the darkness
At the end of the tunnel
And I turn
               a
              r
            o
          u
        n
     d

The Dance (fri poetically)



Chidi Okoye


Battle forefront rages
Blazing fires
Flame lit smoke
Framed in
Swirling darkness.

The general
Atop his steed
Sword drawn
Peers rearward
O’er squared shoulders
Toward the dawn.

The moment
Frozen
Captured on canvas
For eternity.

His love’s eyes flash
Like twin suns
Pleading
Peeking
Reaching
Through the throng
Of faceless patrons
In the art gallery.

She poses in silence
Gloved hands clasped
Eyes fixed
On the distance
Her cheek damp
With one lone tear.

Two separate paintings
Of a final second
Hang on opposite walls.

The General
A moment before death.

His love
A last glimpse
Of her strength.

At night
Ceiling security lights
Create circles
On tiled floor
In the quiet
Empty room.

A Spark
A twinkle
A sprinkle
Of golden dust
Floats from above
To glittered floor.

The general
Dressed in stiff
White shirt
And creased
Black pants
Sheaths his sword
Alights from his stallion
And stands tall
In shinny black boots.

His love
Steps from wooden frame
Straightens flowing
Blue gown
Her smile broadens
A white gloved hand
Wipes the wetness
From powdered rosy cheek.

The General waits
In the light
For his love
Who reaches for his
Scarred hand.

He gently kisses
Her fingers
As he draws her close.

The General
And his love
Dance and twirl
Hearts beating
Lips quivering as they
Step and move
To the melody
Of their love.

The General’s lips
Whisper gently
Softly in his
Love’s ear
“Tell me again
Of your prayer
As I rode to my
Final battle.”

His love’s eyes
Glisten
As her breath
Speaks in their
Embrace.
“I prayed
To Dance with you
Once again.”

“And you
My love
Your thoughts
As you glanced
Back towards
The dawn.”

The General
Kisses her cheek
And pulls her
Nearer to his heart.
“To dance once more
With my love.”

In the morning
A broom
Sweeps
The mysterious
Gold dust.

The General
Gazes back
At the dawn.

Across the gallery
His love
Prays for
One last dance.

“Until tonight,”
The General
Whispers.
“Until tonight”
His love responds.

A Freebie for the Bean

Evil

No evil

Fear no evil

Shall fear no evil

I shall fear no evil

Even in wonderland

I am not alone

I am not

I am

I

  Shall fear no evil

Blowin' Cold (Poetry Potluck)

Brief breaths

Swirling red haze

Hendrix’s fogged Hat

Reveal eyebrows raised

Smacked upside down riffs

Rainbow chords in clouds

A rainy day

Free verse brain

Janis injects transparency

Veins bleed clear soul juice

Screams

Growls

Moanin’ at midnight

Cold winds blow Too soon

Before noon

Shadows grow

All along the watchtower’s

Ball and chain

Wind cries mary

And bobby mcgee

in

Brief breaths

Blowin' cold

Too soon

Beware

Too soon

Since (poets rally 44)

I haven’t smiled
Since…


But today

I feel wind blowing
                  from
          a new
direction


Rusty weathervanes squeak as they turn
Colorful kites soar over unfamiliar park trees
Fisherman, baffled, walk to the sunlit side of the pond, to cast
The cautious buck pokes his horned crown out from bristly brush
A red stained wren sings a song solely for newly opened windows

I feel wind blowing
                  from
          a new
direction

Though my eyes still ache when touched by sunlight
I clearly see a narrower path, now revealed
As giant firs drop their arms in homage to the keeper of wind
I smell the aroma of pine sap; tears of joy from the forest that once only whispered its secret in soft night breezes

Though I woke
In the wake
            of yesterday’s
                               storm

Today

I sense wind blowing
                       from
              a new
direction


And
I smile
For the first time
Since…


POET RALLY 44 WINNERS: http://promisingpoetscafe.wordpress.com/2011/05/22/the-perfect-poet-award-4-rally-week-44/

Soul Tanka (3 word wed)

Of swords long sharp face

Of rifles rapt refusal

A warrior’s soul

Blood red strength brandished weapon

Managing his soul prospers

                             

 art by: Dennis Knecht 

Colorful Souvenirs (One Shot Wed. #46

I’ll be in jail
Shortly
Because of my skin’s
Color.

Police are on their way
My pastor tipped me off
He was upset.

I’m waiting in a black suit
Black tie
Black shoes and socks.

Just left a gravesite
The funeral was overcast
Blackish storm clouds swirled above
Umbrellas were black
Sunglasses darker.

A young black boy was dead
Shot by another black boy
On a darkened street
In the “black” part of town.

Both boys attended my Sunday school class one summer
We bussed them in
An outreach to the less fortunate black kids.

They were smart
Funny
Liked to laugh
Cherished the bibles I gave them to carry home
To the “black” part of town.

I remember their smiles
Getting off the
Bus
And I turned and drove back
To the less “black” part of town.

After that summer
We all went back
To being …

Except they were in the “black” part of town
And I
In the less “black” part of town.

I took a trip to Ghana that autumn
Helped at a school
Brought home colorful
Souvenirs …

All the flowers at the funeral had no roots
(The ones that weren’t plastic arranged to look real)
Just clipped stems
Stuck in glass vases.

Strange
Not one whole plant
Root, stem, bloom.

The flowers were delivered
And will soon die
At the gravesite.

The police are here
I’ll be charged with arson
I burned our church bus on my way
Home.

Pastor didn’t understand.

Five Haikus (Magpie 66)

1

If my brain exposed

its inner matter revealed

would look like worn books

2

Roses warm my soul

Magnolia’s sweet smell smiles

But old books, scent breath

3

Sacrilegious dust

and master’s words never touch

in my library

4

Wisdom weeps on bookshelves

Orphans pleading to be picked

Know me, love me, please

5

So you want new ink?

Baby’s name needs company?

Word tattoos your soul.

Love's Not a Dream (Poetry Potluck)

Thomas C. Fedro

It’s not stars

drawing your heart to castle walls height,

misting bathe of full moon’s light.

Or wisp of breeze,

whispering please,

lulling you from maiden’s bed

to wake and search and wonder.

Instead,

my love draws smooth

across strings of shadows

below your gaze,

and archers aim

from safety

outside fortress iron.

You’ll be the Queen

on castle walls;

I the rhythm of your dream,

in shadows gray and lost.

May we meet

Heart to heart

With full moon’s light

In between, plenty and want.

Until then,

I play my strings,

Love’s not a dream

To me.

Eternal-ized (Single Impression)

Peter Dranitsin

I saw us hanging on a wall

In public

A last moment

Frozen

Our reoccurring last kiss

Eternal-ized

Time’s swirling clouds of collapse

Swallow memories

Of jets and buildings

And your desk

On the 70^th floor

I still feel your

Lips

Soft whisper,

I saw us hanging on a wall

In public

I cried

Again

Surrender (Sunday Scribblings)

Julia Ranson

I wave a white flag

    bloodied by knives in my spine

Even you, Brutus

On That Day (Poetry Pantry)



By Betty Henderson



Live life my lovely lady on that day,

When black is worn and shovels turn fresh ground;

I scribe, stand strong, allow our sons to play.

Old men in suits with books are bound to pray,

Lanterns will dim and light will not be found;

Live life my lovely lady on that day.

Young saints still wet with words will warn to reign,

Your ears will hear it’s time to keep kids bound;

I scribe, stand strong, allow our sons to play.

For you, my wife, you’ll want your hair to gray,

Don’t let cold grief silence our children’s sound;

Live life my lovely lady on that day,

I scribe, stand strong, allow our sons to play.

With ink and feathered quill I fight for life,

Not mine, you see, but yours and Luke’s and Paul’s;

Don’t buy the lie I died and stole your light.

With string and skin and twigs I built a kite,

It needs to fly in sunlit days of fall;

With ink and feathered quill I fight for life.

Don’t veil your heart and lose our hope of flight,

Remember sure the power of our call;

Don’t buy the lie I died and stole your light.

Some eyes will moist and yours might wish to cry,

I write my prayer for strength where boys stretch tall,

With ink and feathered quill I fight for life;

Don’t buy the lie I died and stole your light.

I scribe, stand strong, allow our sons to play;

Live life my lovely lady on that day.

Tattoo(less) Behind (Wordle 4)

Painting by Judy Sprano

I hide well

above brackish water

in a brick bridge house

with ivied smoking chimney

in the English Lakes District

alone with my crowd of fire   stoking psychosis

slurping rural textured walls   with my muse

spanning the salty inlet

of my disguise.

I’ve substituted

the infusion of brandishing toxins of “The Dream,”

now filtered

through my hideaway of bridge dwelling bohemianism ,

and eke an existence

to stop the world from tattooing

“sucker” on my arse.

And I speak prose into existence

in the English Lakes district,

alone with my selves

and tattoo(less) behind .



NOTE:  The prompt for this "poem" was a collection of words called a wordle at "A Whirl of Wording Sundays."

Ocean City Poet (One Stop- picture prompt)

Photo by Fee Easton

Lost on a desert island,
rolling,
wind shaped dunes,
two battered skiffs
grounded
on vanilla beach
of finely crushed stone.

The sea,
brilliant blue,
gem-like,
gently rising,
falling
as it breathes.

The sand,
singing solo in offshore winds,
clean shaven and barren,
captive,
between
searing sun
and gentle waves.

The survivors,
tattered Khaki pants,
barefoot,
unbuttoned,
white sweat-stained shirts,
tattooed crosses,
on reddened skin ...

“Enough, Judith, can’t we ever just come to the beach?  This is Jersey for crying out loud.”

My First Haiku: Clarity Heals

Thomas C. Fedro

Mahogany blush

Sunset whispers through stained glass

Clarity's presence





The prompt this week at Haiku Heights is HEAL

Mist of Mint (Wordle 3)

Tom Fedro http://www.verybigart.com/thomasfedro.html

She breathes a mist of mint on my lips

Want slides, pushing aside pride

Conscious is released, clocks out, turns its head

Mists of mint

Supersedes tugs of guilt

Evaporation of resist is quick

A flooding river in reverse

Mists of mint

Release sweat

Tiny drops of water wet my unbuttoned shirt

Seaweed handcuffs tickle

Just right, then too tight

Mists of mint

Left me for dead

On the shore of white sand and black stones

Bruises of shame embroidered my neck

She breathes a mist of mint

Beware

Pearl's Song (Big Tent)

Pearls

Mini-worlds

Barren wombs

Strung as one long string of lies

Tears

Rolling fears

Crying blooms 

Flood as one long wave of pain

Come back home
My old friend
Leave his turquoise dreams alone

Allow your soul
to breathe again
Jump the fishbowl of his hold

Dreams

Seed-like hopes
Tied with ropes
Pull you straight back home to us

Prayers
Tearful pleas
Crying please
Give you strength to find your way

You're a pearl, Pearl.  Come back home where pearls of white are true. You're not a goldfish anymore.

NOTE:  This is the last prompt from Big Tent Poetry.  We each were to supply lines from some of our older poems and list them.  Then we were to pick one or two to use as this week's prompt.  I used a part of a line from Irene, "My dreams are the color of turquoise."  Haven't been involved with Big Tent long, but I have enjoyed them.. Thank you.

Walk Away (inspired by Surviving Picasso)

Picasso

Why shocked?

Expecting diamonds,

a jeweled crown,

love?

No tiaras here, only

burlap sacks of unused respect you wear on hips and under eyes;  gravity doesn’t lie, here.

Wrinkles too, etched with rough charcoal truths;

it’s not pretty at dusk, under swirling gray clouds,

in shadows, alone.

Welcome to the Minotaur’s labyrinth,

wasted cubed objects of consumed passion;

as if you didn’t know.

But come near,

feel cold glass,

read my bloodless lips,

listen to yourself,

Walk away.

Walk away.

Walk away.

Effects of Light (One Shot 45)



Monet



Death by drowning,

even beneath Monet’s

floating water lilies - white,

beautifully disguise

death’s pale grasp;

submerged in muck

of old duck bones and turtle dung,

in channeled currents veiled from

the effects

of light.

Life by breathing,

even below Van Gogh’s

starry nights,

hauntingly mask

insanity’s surreal grasp

in reflected heaven’s - dark,

of slashing comets and dying suns

in mirrored orbits veiled from

the effects

of  light.

Be Not Stone (Mag 65)

Feathers of stone cannot soar

Hands of stone help no poor

Eyes of stone see no need

Lips of stone sing no psalm

Ears of stone hear no cry

Hands of stone plant no seed

Hearts of stone know no love

Help me please

Be not stone

Orange Butterflies

Butterflies of black wings dipped orange in flight
Flutter high on breeze push pillows white
A half open window blows curtains blue
Harmonica’s lament leak tears in tune

Lover’s lies of wrongs sing loud goodbyes
Mother sighs at songs sung soft and cries
A half open window blows curtains blue
Iridescent events hearts beg aren’t true

But prayerful wings
Fond of orange butterflies
Cured blindness with love
From a new Father’s eye
And mothers don’t cry

Blue curtains stay dry
Because of prayerful wings
Fond of orange butterflies

Basketballs of young dreams deflate at night
Left alone in blindness no father’s sight
A half open window blows curtains blue
Ephemeral moments short lived like dew

Windows stay shut at our old home these days

Blue curtains catch dust grow mildew and fade

It’s quiet outside where a lad once wept

Listening to lyrics with sad intent

But prayerful wings

Fond of orange butterflies

Cured blindness with love

From a new Father’s eye

And basketballs bounce high

Blue curtains stay dry

Because of prayerful wings

Fond of orange butterflies