Thoughts while shopping online.
Crayola
I read reviews for Crayola washable
markers, just want to color, not all that
creative.
I find out kids these days
color themselves, their clothes, their friends,
the walls.
If we’d tried that, my generation,
we would have been smacked all the way
into next week.
But things change. Things change.
(1st Poetic Muselings Summer Poetry Challenge)
~~~
Dirt and stone beneath my feet,
clouds and mist above me,
in my ears, the sheep’s high bleat.
Dear, I know you love me.
As I wander down the road
I leave you behind me,
standing in the field I hoed.
Shafts of sunlight blind me.
My way is long and dark, alone.
I won’t be returning.
Will our child remember, grown,
a father’s love so burning?
Yet I must this journey make
else my soul be fettered.
Your love you gave and I did take,
but it left me tethered.
Ancestor Worship
The ghosts crowd around,
like shadows at 4 o’clock,
fragile as butterfly wings,
persistent as memory.
These shades are invisible,
seen only by me
in the span of your brow,
in the tenor of your temper.
Ancestors won’t leave me alone.
They thunder through my family,
Vikings on a rampage,
pillaging as they go.
Should I sharpen my axe
and join their company?
(1st Poetic Muselings Summer Poetry Challenge)
Defensive Driving Class
But the post jumps out
at me.
Surprise!
Headlight knocked out.
No real excuse.
Except that at 80
you do whatever the fuck
you want.
She’s earned it.
Earned it in spades.
Bonus: a discount
on the car insurance.
(1st Poetic Muselings Summer Poetry Challenge)
In class today,
Jeff said the essence of Tai Chi
is in the moves we make
at the start
Warm up spine,
hips, knees, ankles.
Engage finger tips
to explore the air
Bring moves
from core to skin
and back again
and again and again
Fill the space
between vertebrae
shoulder joints, tip of head
and soles of feet
Open, stretch, synchronize
nerves, mind, and heart.
Ah! Form gives meaning,
but embrace and savor foreplay!
Another contribution to the Poetic Muselings Poetry Challenge!
I recently survived an intensive sewing /clothing construction workshop, which got all synapses bouncing frantically in my head. Here are the first poems in the Sewing Series:
To reach the hidden,
and create the obvious,
I must feel what’s true
I must learn to love
vanilla, forgo Cherry Garcia
for a while
feel the fullness of the lone
acoustical note
reverberate into echo of echo
go back to the first
line dance step
that took so long to learn
back to basics
unadorned, Shaker-quality,
where the answer is found
crawl, then toddle through
imbalance, see, hear, smell
what surrounds me
when I understand
the woven thread
I’ll be ready for the wider world
Strip away the complex first,
sew straight lines and curves,
inch (or centimeter) along
To sleeves and swirls
Michele M. Graf7-17-14
My first contributions to our Poetic Muselings Poetry Challenge. Anne — this counts as two poems, right?
The Poetic Muselings (Michele Graf, Margaret Fieland, Mary Jensen and Anne Westlund) are having a poetry contest to see which one of us can write and post the most poems between July 15th, 2014 and September 1st, 2014. The author who writes and posts the most new poems on the Poetic Muselings Group Blog will win a writing book of their choice from Amazon.com.
Rules:
1. To be counted, poems must be written between July 5-September 1, 2014. Older poems posted must be marked “Old Poem” or “Previously Written Poem.” Older poems will not be counted.
2. While new poems can be posted on the individual poet’s blogs, to be counted they must be posted on the Poetic Muselings blog.
3. The winner will be announced on Friday, September 5th, 2014.
There will be opportunities for reader participation. So watch this space!
Here’s my first poem for the challenge:
Long Division
I didn’t used to like math
until I crossed Peggy’s path
now I get excited
whenever I’m divided.
~~~
and almost time to read what I’ve supposed
to have been writing,
poet that I am . . .
and
Because It’s Tuesday . . .
and no great insight bled from pen to parchment,
demanding ink
— nothing new to share —
and
Because It’s Tuesday . . .
and my doctor just said I must learn
to be selfish and fill the well
— or I’ll be the late Care-Giver of everyone else —
and
Because It’s Tuesday . . .
and the emptiness isn’t paying
the dividends it did for so many years
— that account is now bankrupt —
and
Because It’s Tuesday . . .
and I must nourish my body as well
as my soul’s soul, I went radical
— cleaned house and started a shopping list —
… instead of writing the poem I need to share —
* Yes, I know it is (late) Wednesday on the West Coast, not Tuesday, but . . . that’s how it really happened . . . before . . . and I just got back from a cross-country trip . . . and . . . and . . . and . . .
For the first time in my life,
I’m in control of colors that surround me.
Always the good girl in the past,
I chose what seemed right
rather than what made me smile.
For the first time in my life,
I’m responsible — me, responsible —
if it works, is dreadful,
or simply tolerable . . .
such a heavy weight to bear.
For the first time in my life,
I’m listening to that passionate
inner me, the one who wants
brilliance shining, nudging
me to try more scary things.
For the first time in my life,
my office will have a Rose Parade
red wall, cheered on by dove gray.
I’ll make my own bulletin board as
a canvas to hold treasures.
For the first time in my life,
the loft next to my office
will share the dove gray
with Albuquerque Teal
to remind me of joy.
For the first time in my life,
Victorian shades of magenta, tinged
with orchid, will define my bedroom.
Rich, sensuous, ripe, emotional,
dramatic dancing colors.
For the first time in my life,
the rest of my house
will pull in some glorious greens —
true connection to the beautiful
backdrop we see from all sides.
For the first time in my life,
I am boldly going where I’ve never
gone before. Courageous,
steadfast, scared of my swatches,
I’m a fledgling on a colorful limb.
I have sleep apnea, and am in the process of getting treatment. Yesterday I saw the sleep doc and gave her one of my cards.
“Have you written any poems about sleep?” she asked. “I’d be interested to see them.”
I went home and checked. I searched SLEEP and NIGHT in my large Google Docs colletion of poems. I have a lot.
Here are a couple of my favorites:
Weather Report
The far side of the room
might as well be Europe.
I conjure morning’s gray sky,
stumble over backpack,
piles of pillows
tossed onto cold, bare floor.
I need a new lamp.
I knocked mine
off the nightstand,
my hand unsteady
from sleepless nights
dozing over a book
until four AM.
Coffee spilled
on my kitchen floor,
a wild whirl of my arm,
some time between
sleep and waking.
Night Journey
I drift weightless in nothingness
On my left is a yellow pail
Full of sea shells
On my right, a dirty white fox terrier
The terrier barks and runs towards me
I walk at twilight down a road full of shadows
The only sound is the clack-clack
Of my buster brown oxfords
On the uneven pavement
I round a corner and the fox terrier
Jumps out from behind a bush
He clamps his teeth around my ankle
I walk on a beach
Of smooth pale sand
That slopes down
To a navy blue ocean
A sliver of moon hangs on the horizon
The wind blows in my face
I turn and the yellow pail erupts from the sand
My fingers melt onto the handle
I scream
The fox terrier crawls out of the hole
He jumps up and grabs the pail in his teeth
He pulls and I am free
The next morning the fox terrier
Is curled up on the end of my bed
A shell sits on a table by the door
My feet are wet and sandy
annewestlund
feywriter
lin52
Margaret Fieland
Margaret
Michele
Poetic Muselings 