Cold and blustery
Across world, death in churches
Our Mother Earth grieves
Yet in this morning
The hummer sips her nectar
Flowers bloom their hope
(Image: Louisiana Zombie Afternoon, by Jenn Zed (UK) 2018)
Pistol packin’ mama
smoking’ dad
dressed you in pink taffeta
confined
behind
glass
trite knickknack
in their curio cabinet
don’t be like us
be pure, be pink, be perfect
When life’s earthquake
breaks you apart
but all you knew
becomes the glue
who ya gonna emulate,
learn to hate?
It’s too late
fated
to be
what they created
don’t be upset, statuette
Am I blue?
you’d be, too.
Accepted and posted On Line by Ekphrastic Review
My altar: Eclectic is my middle name. Karma? Heaven? Nothing? Remembrance for a short time?
Endless?
All that stands beneath the sky
will someday wither, fade, and die
so let us hold this life so dear
and seek adventure without fear
love and laugh and banish sorrow
it all will be a dream tomorrow
Although I know they’ll come an end
to your life, and mine, my friend
perhaps a bit of my bad rhyme
will be remembered over time
or cause a thought to rise again
from some young wiser poet’s pen
Prompt: Endless
Dancing on the Moon
Do you see me
dancing on the moon?
That slight young girl
long hair whirling
lithe body, leaping, turning
full of mysterious magic
for a brief moment
sure of herself in the world?
See the deep blue night
that empty beach
iridescent waves?
She sings Mr. Tambourine Man
reaches to touch the diamond sky
bare feet
circus sand
life’s swirling ship
not yet tested by storms
Do you see me?
Not these wrinkled
knobby hands, aching bones
Not the crone of the broken mirror
of the unsure step
Do you see me
Dancing on the moon?
Prompt: Dancing on the Moon
What Rhymes with Apathy?
I’ll write a poem, maybe 3
when I can shed this damned ennui
Perhaps it’s cuz the day is hazy
More likely though it’s cuz I’m lazy
I hope it’s only this 1 day
and tomorrow it will go away
Prompt: Numbers. Did I get some numbers into it? Ok. Mission marginally accomplished.
Broken
In those moments it was what I wanted
pottery cup held warm
fragrant coffee, soft in my mouth
its scent shared the garden
with orange blossoms, lavender
That blue cup fit my crooked hand
as if we had been together
for eternity,
now of birdsong
comfort in the cool morning,
warm hand
warm cup, warm mouth
Then came another morning
sweet grandchild
curious about the scent, the cup
carelessly left by the door when
I welcomed him
His tiny hand grasped but did not fit
and when grandma’s cup slipped
he cried over the wet blue shards
or perhaps the shock of the breaking
A grandmother’s fear first
grandson unharmed
I kept sadness hidden
After he left, I carried the pieces
to my garden, placed them
among well-traveled rocks and shells
near Monarch Milkweed
sage, sand
In this moment I hold a new cup
my fingers fit a different way
morning peace prevails
And as I contemplate the shards of
my once perfect world
my heart fills with love
for a tiny grandchild
a broken cup
another beginning
Prompt: Split in two (Hence, broken) Prompt from Workshop: In that Moment it was what I want…
Form: Anglo-Saxon riddle (not used)
Written in a workshop by Jim Moreno at San Diego Writers INK
Tibetan Mountain Pass
Tibetan pass, prayer flags
blue, white, red, green, yellow
sky, air, fire, water, earth
Vibrant, then faded
as color carries hope
to sun-silvered peaks
Snap and swell
Defy the oppressive giant
Answer only to sky stream
Color’s breath
compassionate wishes
in the wind
Prompt: What Color is it?
Thought: Faded prayer flags are auspicious. Colors fade as good wishes are carried to all. They give me hope for this tiny country held captive by China
A Sonnet for Today
How can he tweet such evil words and lies
provide weak men a reason to be cruel
ignore the world of suffering and cries
destroy the earth condoning fossil fuel
damn immigrants to live their lives in fear
and women to be subject to abuse
conduct a ship of state he cannot steer
his words a flood of racist acts unloose?
Though we were taught respect for heads of state
to revere acts of love and pure compassion
it seems to love this world is out of date
and caring for the weak is out of fashion
We’re now immersed in evil there’s no doubt
our world has turned completely inside out
Prompt: Inside Out
Form: Sonnet
Sometime Door
I must go through the door
sometime
but there is so much more to do
in this little room
I don’t just sit here
children grown with children
gardens harvested
students off to save the world
I’ve rearranged the furniture a few times
scary and stimulating for
prosaic and practical
grasped for the familiar
learned the hand that holds the shield
still succumbs to time
Sought solitude
feared loneliness
concentrated
meditated
traveled
returned to still me
Sometimes
when the walls press inward
when that word I know well
the one that belongs in my poem
refuses to reveal itself
I wonder, is it time?
What if stories go untold?
If poems remain unwritten?
I stand by the door
reach for the handle
but this old room is comfortable
perhaps I should just rearrange the furniture
one more time
Prompt: The Door Goes Both Ways
Form: Triquain (Did not use)
Fake Orange Quote
On an early autumn day, my mind muddled by
mindless oratory from an outrageous orange ego,
I descended in desperation to the garden
seeking to silence suffering through solitude
when a cloudless sulphur butterfly fluttered
to a magnificent Mexican sunflower, its petals
intense orange against garden green and I learned
not to judge a color by its connection to
a bad character.
Prompt: Opening–well I opened to the not judging concept and the sunflower opened to the sun and at one point the butterfly opened its wings and I probably opened a can of worms by misquoting MLK so horribly–or maybe I’m just rebelling?
The Poetry and Prose of Barbara Huntington 