4.25.17 Written a few years ago. aka newbies

In a Day

When my bright moments fall away
When my bursting memories fade to gray
the pages in this book will stay
to faithfully remind me of my day

In what way was this day spent
was it torn, battered or bent?
Maybe it was borrowed, possibly lent.
Either way, it was a day, hopefully well meant.



Tell Your Story

Everybody has a story.
Everybody has a song.
Everybody has a way     to take away the pain that longs.
Each person's tale is different.
Each person's tale is strong.
But how can we make a difference,
   if we do not sing our song?


High Sky

The guitarman came on stage
He strung a cord
He played a phrase
Out in the audience, they did wonder
His peculiar take on the song
They tilted their heads
and twittled their thumbs
Then thought to themselves, this is just plain wrong!

Their ears did quake
And so did his
As the guitarman started to play again
The squeaks and squaks he knew weren't right
But he still smiled with pure delight

For he knew the time would come
When he'd strut on the stage and gleam
in the sun
And the crowds would cheer or so he assumed
That's why the guitarman is so persistant
while practicing in grandmas's living room.


A Hushed Prayer

His prayer was deep
His prayer left eyes
         open wide
He spoke of things most men avoid
The others mumble and fuss and
      lower their voice
But this man said what was on
his heart
He said persecution was on the way
And we really wouldn't know the day
  that it would try to break our bones
And scratch our throats to hear our
             groans.

So we stay inside our cozy homes
Our comfy lives and warm abodes
to push away the outside threats
Try and tell ourselves- it won't happen yet.

But as this young man recalled
Who are we to boast at all
For we all see it's coming soon
  It's coming soon.
And are we ready or are we not?
Because this name is no longer sane,
will we run or will we face?
It's not a hide-behind-the-curtain game,
and then he ends with Amen. and we breath
and open our eyes-to see our two hands and feet
are right where we left them
safely on the wooden desk that prepares to write
freedom's tale as a woman or man that can't remember
   why they were wishing their hair wouldn't get
wet in the rain outside.


The Free Ladybug

Oh there she is!
Oh there she goes!
Look, she's wand'red up a rose
Instinctively she crawls around
To inspect her dinner, to find her ground
Where she can merely be safe and sound

A wing goes up and then comes down
All in making but a sound
For curiosity prevails
As she jumps and flies from
leaf to pail

What if we were all as curious as she?
Flapping our wings and flying free.
Daring to reach the tops of our trees
To see all the wonder and majesty
Of our great Lord and King.

To explore the heights and seas and plains
The shining sun and soaking rains
To bounce from place to place
embracing each stage
As yes, if we were as curious as she.


To the...

To The                   ignored
         Deflat
               ed
    and     bro         ken hearted

 People will tell you it's okey.
 And you know it is.
But no matter what they tell you
       You have to tell you
       What you know
       to be TRUE
       so you can gR0W
    and be you.

Remember God made you
unique; beautiful; loving
in His    image egami

Week of 4.27.17

Sore Desires

You don't see that I grind my teeth all nights
So that my morning spit is tinted red
But I smile instead

I want to be like Roethke and Bishop--
painting with ink
If the pen bleeds freely
maybe my gums won't



America's Children in ENGL

I am a yellow apple writing poems in your class
A slowly dripping caramel voice glides over my cracked skin
I glance to see if it seeps into my neighbor's soul
as it does mine.

But we are in crates to be shipped to factory-less Washington.
To be eaten or displayed
So my classmates sit silently and stoically,
dazzled and bewildered
As they watch the caramel flow in this touch of paradise


I am better

Only once or twice or trice
Am I filled with loathing glee
As teasers from my past-in public- recognize me

Week of 4.17.17

On the page

Words.
Three words
Now five
Equal to the ink. Indescribable to the soul.
Like blood of an alien kind
impressed on our parchment.

This sharp mystery of life abounding from our fingertips
Onto empty space.
That held nothing
and is
Now full
to you.


Look at me

I wave a hand
  and you do too.
Yet off you go to count your shoes.
Perhaps they're green or red or blue.

But I shall never care or know
  You dropped your fingers
much too slow.
And thought to turn around and say--
but then you went the other way.

Week of 4.4.17

"Write down your thoughts"

professor instructs as the time ticks by.

My heart throttles in my chest
beating as a racehorse, ready to leap.
Jetting out this thick black ink onto paper
I describe..... my thoughts.

The task before my hand-and others too.
Contemplative, energetic scribbling,
puffed nostrils frozen in midair.
Brains scrambling for verbiage to dispose
on their cool white sheet.

Each thoughtful soul composed of history in shadows,
the tongues and twists through the pen.

Who me? the one to read your poetry?
My fingers flit as I beg for a cloud of rain
to drench my inflamed mind.
Not wanting to reveal the ice storm within.

Week of 3.28.17 Ekphratic poem

Around the Round Table ***
From Hannah Banks: "For the Beauty of the Earth" pottery

A feast of broiled chicken
legs with parmesan and deviled
eggs. I'd pocketed some parsley
for the buttery asparagus.

And twisted the table with fondue.
Chocolate strawberries, delicacies.
Hot cider steeped and cranberry
juice -But-each mug oneself brings.

Poppyseed dressing perfectly poured.
Carmel scones and lime pudding,
melons, mangoes, mouthwatering.
Finally, the doorbell rings.

The bronze, embedded mug of fall
October's ease of embrace
and a whiff of that earthy parlor
his fiery eyes delighted at the sight.

My darling April knocks it next
The luscious green of her mug
is filled with May's new daffodils.
A pearly, tender hearted soul.

The blue beauty July, my sister month
Then September with her
glowing auburn hair
August slightly cranky, March a tad late.

And November sweeps in at last
Twirling her smoothed and golden mug
February, January and December never show
We blame it on their ever frightful snow

And down we sit to eat
The year of tabled treats
Chipped, smoothed, dripping and colored
Are the mugs around our seasoned table

Week of 3.21.17 Villanelle

From John at Gethsemane***

When weeping willows have just come in bloom
In heavy heart, the low garden agrees
My maker rests before this broken doom

He says we are the bride and he the groom
An odd way to portray him on his knees
When weeping willows have just come in bloom

Hush'd words of solace will turn glee to gloom
Before a dank and dreary, poignant seize
My maker rests before this broken doom

The others do not know this fate that looms
The only hint- a tear caught in the breeze
When weeping willows have just come in bloom

These eyes have slipped, that I did not presume
Sleeping souls under languid hanging trees
My maker rests before this broken doom

I know he is preparing for the tomb
Yet careless guards have taken him at ease
Weeping willows have just come in bloom
To watch my maker take this broken doom

Week of 3.14.17 American Sonnet

Weather of a Wind Storm***

A lovely mess this raises in the heart.

My splintered trees among roads soon depart.

In orange helmets and valiant suits of gray,

are men that mend heaven’s cool disarray.

Storm travelers watch in wonder at this start

All other bodies play the worried part

They’re bumbling in anguish of the day

Our pansies nearly stripped and washed away

But large lights that flickered and broke apart

Cause wayward people to be rather smart

And countless busy-bodies to me say

“How’d you survive the weather yesterday?”

To which I grin and gratefully reply

“I sat outside and watched the lovely sky.”