Mag 214 - Into Blue

Into Blue 

Rise up as smoke that filters from the wreckage. 
Send up your spirit to mingle with others. 
Feel a lightening of heart and a catch in the breath, 
as soul energy passes outward and upward into blue. 

There is a place where others gather above that spot, 
a hallowed arena of remembered images from the multitudes. 
They pass in and out and around that special place of loss, 
And day and night they pause, imagining columns rising into blue. 

Dust swirls around the heart’s remembrance. 
Faces dim and memories pass in, out, and around corners. 
One night though, a glance upward makes one pause 
The eye follows a glow, a stream, a call into blue.

9/11/09 

This image is very haunting to me, reminding me of the loss of loved ones on the morning of September 11, 2001 ... one might forever reach for the dust in the light, trying to touch a loved one just one more time.

shared with other writers at Magpie Tales

Apartment To Let - Magpie Tales #207

Apartment To Let

Can’t tell me no one heard

The kid hid in the closet

Heard every smack and groan

Windows open to the night

Sirens screaming by below

Party in the place above

Breaking glass and laughing

There’s always a break you know

Everything stops for just a minute

The rest of the world butts in

Can’t tell me they didn’t hear her

Thumpin’ up against the walls

Fallin’ over furniture

Wailin’ like the sirens

Spittin’ blood and cryin’ out

Cursin’ life and love

Makin’ for the hallway

Puttin’ space between hurt and the baby

I hope the fucker fries

I hope the neighbors have bad dreams

I hope the curtains twitch and haunt

This neighborhood but good

... shared with others at Tess Kinkaid's writing share called Magpie Tales ... 

The Mag 188 - Love's Invitation

Love’s Invitation

we built these walls around our world

across the landscape of touch and word

they sunk over time to the roots of love

and stood firm as life filled in around

tread hard as you like upon these stones

sit for a while and brush their cracks

rest your bones on their sun-warmed dips

smile at the sky and listen to the grasses

you’re welcome to add to our great wall

stay and lend this place your touch

let life fill in your cracks and crevices

join us here between the grass and sky

- SM-L -10/1/13

My reaction to this prompt was fast ... almost immediate. Consequently, this poem got very little editing. Perhaps I'll go back to it at a later date and work those trees into the verse somewhere, but the stones will remain at the center.

- shared with others at The Mag 188 - thanks, Tess Kinkaid

The Mag 187 - Elusive Bliss

elusive bliss

you cling to light

chase dappled sunbeams

round mottled tree trunks

over rustling goldenrod

toward western sun down -

then flee to the porch light

flutter wings and limbs

tap relentlessly against the pane

beat the back door’s swing

to rush headlong for the lamp

this light pulls you in

exhausts you as you come close

feeling deadly heat until

a mirror’s reflection distracts

it’s then that you stop

flitting close to the glass

seeing the mindless quest

for what it is and settling

harried and bedraggled

as the light is turned off

rest here in the dark

let body and soul still themselves

until the moonlight wakes

another urge to curl and fan

your wings anew 

shared with others at The Mag 187 - Magpie Tales

Image Credit - 'The Moth and the Lamp' - Cesar Santos

The Mag 184 - Sister Moon

Sister Moon

She steals the dreams from off my eyes

Rattles branches on the breeze

And climbs up to the treetop high

To whisper words and memories

I lie asprawl upon the bed

And watch her through the window glaze

She oft repeats what’s oft been said

Over and over for many a day

The words make clatter in my brain

Rustle sheets and chill the marrow

Until she quiets her harsh refrain

And softly makes way for the sparrow

That gentle flutter lulls me low

Whir of wings, a plaintive peep

And with the light of day’s first glow

I fall into the depths of sleep

-SM-L 9/4/2013

Shared with others at Tess's Magpie Tales

Painting: Dodos by Jeanie Tomanek

The Mag 182 - Mami Wata Sings

Mami Wata Sings

The bonds that tie you up tight

Are nothing to the surge of the tide.

Just relax, my dear. Float light.

Look to the sky. Enjoy the ride.

Feel your troubles unwind and flick

Harmless against your arms.

Look to the light. It’s no trick.

The water washes away all harm.

Then, my dear, float free and think

Smile about the morrow’s plan

Draw a deep breath. Curl and sink.

Then, kick upward. Swim for land.

The Mag #177 - Haiku

Opportunities,

shine eye bright, unexpected !

Grab them up, young one !

The Mag 176 - A Lady's Resolve

Image Credit: Super Moon - New York - Julio Cortez

A Lady’s Resolve

She never thought it would be easy -

She stepped into a concept

She settled into a nation’s psyche

She watched nascent dreams grow

She suffered the flaws of fanatics

She shook away the cynic’s acid

She raised the strong arm of resolution

She steeled herself for posterity’s sake

She softened her face for the new

She shook her tablet at the established

She looked up and away

She never said it would be easy -

this welcoming of strangers

this holding high the hallowed lamp

this watching the skies

this picking up rubble

this pushing aside fear

this building anew

this act of forgiveness

this moving on

this raising a new bastion of freedom

this clearing collective vision for the future

Lindquist – 7/11/1/3 

Initially, the second verse was the first verse .... but then ... personifying Lady Liberty seemed a fun way of approaching this prompt. The things that have happened around this monument are stupifying ... if only she could talk to us.

This piece is shared with other writers who visit Tess's weekly writing challenge at Magpie Tales ... this week's challenge can be seen here. Check it out ...

The Mag 175 - Mother Love

Mother Love

Tired feet cracked and worn

Brown from the dust

Hot from the road

Step aside to the matted grass

She shifts the watergrass bundle

Switching arms and shaking

Loose a tired shoulder

Before picking up her basket

Moving on toward the village

A shimmer on the horizon

Hummocks to anyone passing

Home to her and others

Eyes scan the humid skies and hope

Come evening the rains come

Grasses soak and soften

Pliant in a tub of the cool water

Along with her tired feet

Her legs swirl the long blades

Gently work flexing toes

Stretching ankles easing aches

She weaves baskets and hats

Staring out at the evening sky

Fingers and wrists move in rhythm

While she dreams of market day  

When she will sit in the sun

Waiting for traders to come

Her hat will shield her eyes

Picking the best will be hard

All are made with skill and love

Her hands will hold the coins tight –

Her daughter will go to school

Wear a clean blouse and shoes

Blue paper booklets a shiny pencil

These will do to help her on her way

When she is grown and far away

Perhaps she’ll remember

Baskets carrying more than dreams

Hats shielding a head full of wishes

A small pouch and coins of passage

Unabashedly sentimental, but I cannot help but crawl inside that woman's skin as she walks along the wayside,  loaded with the makings of ... what ? Is it fuel, or bedding, or the raw materials for a basket like the one she carries ? The photo begs a story.

This piece is being shared at Tess's weekly writing group ...  Magpie Tales -The Mag 175. Others have posted before me, go see what they've written. 

The Mag #173 - Fair Warning

The Promenade - Marc Chagall

Fair Warning

When we walk out in the morning air,

My thoughts soar high and away.

I watch the breeze lift up your hair,

Send collar and coat tails astray.

You always tether me close to you,

A soft hand to stroke and hold.

At first it comforted, now I rue,

For your clutch seems far too bold.

I am my own blithe spirit, sir !

You may not hold me too close !

For if my soul becomes a blur,

Or reflection of yours, at most,

I’ll soar away, reclaim what’s mine

And leave this love that’s heady wine.

A weekly pilgrimage to see what others post at Magpie Tales - this week is Mag #173 ... check it out.

Untitled Rictameter - The Mag 171

Time flies.

Yesterday’s gone.

‘Take flight’ - my new mantra,

it’s that I care to softly sing.

I could beat the dead horse and beg for more

I could, you know, but why prolong

What drags and brings us pain ?

I must be gone.

Time flies.

This poem is shared with the writers of Tess Kinkaid's Magpie Tales weekly writing share. See the link for more pieces on this week's Mag 171.

Smoke Signals - Mag 170

Ponytail by Last Exit

smoke signals

those early days burnt hot

smouldering experiences

that we banked like coals

saving the memories
grey tendrils curling

upward to scent the air

until we needed warmth

then we each found

coals that glowed

yours in your eyes

mine in my fingertips

just enough heat

to start a fire 

wisps of smoke

from seasoned wood

and then a flame

a fire worthy of

december’s chill

This poem is shared with the writers who contribute to Tess Kinkaid's weekly writing circle called 

The Mag - to see what others have given this week, click the link and read on ... perhaps you will be inspired to join in.

The Mag 169 - Down East

                                                                                                                 Lighthouse Dandelions by Jamie Wyeth 

Down East

On golden May dandelion days

we joked about spinning gold.

We’d be millionaires, you said,

if all those flowers could be spun.

Instead, we made wine.

Dandelion dreams took you far

but I am like a bumblebee,

content to ramble o’er our hill

nuzzling clover and comfrey

instead of flying up and away.

I walked down the field today,

nudged the blooms aside and sat,

craning about like Christina and

willing you to bring the wine jug.

Instead, I talked to the bees.

The sun continues shining.

The clouds pass over all.

The waves beat on incessantly.

Our home is just as cozy.

I miss you, dear friend.

Turn your back on golden neon,

towers and streets all straight.

Soar back with the gulls

from the city garbage heap.

Come at spectacular sunset.

Come when dandelions nod.

We’ll lie on the hill and

blow wishes to the heavens.

plant seeds among the stars

and sip our wine together.

The Mag 168 - Terminal Talk

Photo credit: Toga Gokbakar

Terminal Talk

I know you, mein Schatz …

You’re thinking of coffee.

Just smoke your cig, dear!

The stuff in the machines

Would rot a hole the size of

Hoboken in your belly.

How ‘bout we sit ?

No? We can’t sit? No?

These new rules are killers.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know!

You know, we should quit

But then what would we do?

We could hold hands?

You old billy goat, you!

I know you, Liebling …

Just smoke your cig, dear!

We’ll get coffee later,

If the bus isn’t too late. 

Tess challenges us to write to this old couple's snapshot ... others have posted on The Mag . Check it out ....

Benediction - The Mag 167

                                                                                Young Woman Picking the Fruit of Knowledge, 1892 by Mary Cassatt

Benediction

Cast off the virgin cloak to see

The world –

Pull on a bright white talisman

Of truth –

And on it write all your heart

Craves to know –

Hold close the best and cast

The rest to crows.


See what others are sharing with the writing circle over at The Mag - this image should help bring out many interesting poems! Thanks Tess, for another interesting prompt!

The Mag 166 - Bounder Bash

Bounder Bash

party animals

slink in snarf wine knosh tidbits

pinch bottoms galore

laugh too loud dribble

careen around the dance floor

draw smirks and whispers

rowdy louts push shove

behave boorishly shout out

stumblebums shamble

vomit in the hall

kick the door shatter the glass

wake the neighborhood

such a bloody shame

a good party ruined by nine

how ‘bout moving on ?

party animals

make excuses slink on out

drop cups, sticky crumbs

finger prints stains butts

chipped plates cracked glasses

tinny music echo

sigh clean tomorrow

tumble to bed morning vow

next weekend their house

I'm hoping I'm not the only one who has had a party that they regretted, that got out of control, that made one feel like a dreg at the bottom of the keg. Mine was a high school bash that turned into a sodden fiasco, that I had to explain at the end of the night to horrified parents, that I will never live down, that I hoped would be visited on the boorish party crashers, at some point. 

Ugh ... I still close my eyes and re-visit that night in flashes of images and sensory impressions. 

What should have been a good party? Gone bad, what can I say? 

Let's see what others are offering up over at Tess Kinkaide's place ... behave yourselves!

Mag 164 - Musing

Musing 

The air is smooth today

Coming soft across the meadow

Its brown scent creeps

In around the starch of my collar

Chills my breast and billows

This Sunday dress

How immodest letting it

Stir the silk of slip

And moving me to look

Far beyond the chatter of this

Day

The air teases softly today

Sweeping up across the meadow

Lifting me far beyond this place

Gravity holds us here

Gravity and obligations

There’s chicken to be fried

Greens to be rinsed and torn

Pie sliced tea brewed

But primrose sweetness hints

At a ramble into the promise of

Green

This breeze will still

The light will change

The birds will chortle and still

You’ll reach out a hand

And I’ll feel one last wisp

Brush my starched collar with longing

Stir tendrils at my cheek

Draw my eyes and heart away

Just for a moment

Before heading toward

May

An offering for Tess and other readers at Magpie Tales ... ah, Spring is in the air!

Mag 163 - Morning Bath

Degas - Woman With a Towel

Morning Bath

You said “Stop!”

And I, a coquette,

Languished

I murmured, “What?”

And you, a rogue,

Smiled

You chuckled.

And I, a vixen,

Ran …

Degas' bathing women can inspire a sense of stolid domesticity, but this model's round beauty and arched pose brings to mind a tease show or a playful attitude.  I so wish that she would peek back at the artist so that her facial expression could finish the flirtation.  

This short poem is shared with others at Tess Kincaid's weekly writing group, Magpie Tales ... head on over and see what others have written in response to Degas' bathing woman.

On Entering the Fray - Mag 160

Faun, Horse and Bird 1936 - Pablo Picasso

On Entering the Fray

The three come to the precipice

But only one looks down.

Another sneers and rears on back

Foot pawing at the ground –

A heady height, this mountain ledge -

Air thin and views obscured

Should they proceed on further

Ambitious, glory-lured ?

One faints with fear and gasps

A plea to stay below the fray

The other stamps and pushes on

Inpatient with delay

And one stoops low to contemplate

The nature of these wayfarers

A grasp at fate, a swoon and faint

He turns aside for prayer –

Let truth arise and fly up free

As we confront this day

Let all the froth of anger

In this blue be washed away.

Let meekness overcome the wrath

Of mighty tyrant's roar

And peace come to that valley

As it was, let it be more

And so they turn, rise on up

Turn back to hero’s chase

One eager, one with trepidation

The last with inner grace.

Each will earn a hero’s wreath

All in their ordered way

I wonder which one I might be

Were I present on that day ?

3/20/13 - edits, to follow

Note: Some awkward lines still need work here … but this piece fell together, as I contemplated the nature of war and battle and confronting fears and pushing limits. The classic nature of the image reminded me of the romantic and sometimes lyrical (?) nature of the poetry of the 19^th century soldiers, hence the rhyme and rhythm of the piece. 

This piece joins others submitted to Tess's weekly writing circle over at The Mag - pop over and see what others are sharing.

The Weight of Water - Mag 159

The Weight of Water

Walking up the rise, the bucket sloshes-

small waves slog back and forth,

curling against the ash staves, droplets

splashing up and over to land cool on dirty feet.

The grass is green here, surely as green as there.

The sky is as blue and the sun is as bright -

acchhh, surely as blue and golden …

Still, there, half a world of water curls green as jade

and the sky holds a golden coin, shiny as Da’s

Friday pay and is as blue as chicory flowers by the way.

Waves, high as the cottage roof, roll soft until the crash

Birds scree and ride the air, dive for stones

That might be bread.

This bucket holds naught but a drop compared

This belly, full with just a bit more,

Sloshes up this hill weighing down this heart

Small drops fall to christen this green earth

with the pain of separation

A fast write … there is so much more that I want to convey in this piece … more images, and the crucial bit about a child waiting to be born in a new country, who will perhaps never see the green of the other place that his mother misses so desperately. 

This leads me to a question about your writing process. How do you work up the concepts in your poems? How does your story develop? How do you block your poems? 

Acchhh, this poetry is a hard thing sometimes!

This post is shared with the other writers who participate in the weekly writing share at Tess's Magpie Tales. Check it out ...