Faith came much easier when I was young.
I believed in Purgatory.
That half-way house you might need
before your final reward.
I’d say three Hail Marys for the one lucky soul
who needed exactly that many words
to move out and ascend to heaven.
My lips moved silently,
hands folded, head bowed, like I learned
in Immaculate Conception Grade School.
Then I’d say a very loud Amen and grin.
Good deed done for the day!
These days, as a septuagenarian,
I realize that for some people
hell is right here on earth.
Hail Marys don’t seem to cut it
when a Black man gets shot in the back
while innocently jogging down a street.
I don’t grin anymore
at the end of my prayers.
Shared with dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today is OLN LIVE from 3 to 4 PM and OLN. I’m hosting today….so hope to see many folks there. Photo is my hands this morning.
Curtain billows in wind.
Candlelight flickers,
flame shivers, dips,
almost snuffed out.
Metaphorical
for our predicament,
but a gentler scene.
Healthcare systems threatened.
Tsunami of violence,
hatred, inequities.
We cup our hands
around the flame of hope,
trying to protect it
through these storms.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we’re to include the word “shiver” or a form of the word (not a synonym) in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM, Boston time. Come join us!
* A derecho is a wide-spread, long lived, dangerous windstorm.
Just before the world ends
cockroaches, horseshoe crabs,
velvet worms and millipedes
shall gather in one place.
Perhaps atop a tower of rubble,
or a desecrated piece of earth
where once redwoods stood.
They are the superior ones.
Earth’s five remaining humans
grovel nearby, scarred by cancers,
and unspeakable genetic defects.
Expected, given their disregard
for the natural good.
They drool pathetically.
Neon spittle sans words,
drips from radioactive tinged lips.
The superiors,
once considered the vilest,
issue only three words:
You were warned.
Sincere apologies to Maya Angelou. Day 18 NaPoWriMo’s prompt was to take a chapter name from a book of poetry and respond to it in a poem. One chapter in Maya Angelou: The Complete Poetry is titled “Just Before the World Ends” which I used as the first line of this poem. For whatever reason, my mind went to the other side today. The creatures names are some that have existed for millions of years.
Apologies. I promise, tomorrow will be sunny again!
Winds ripple
wind chimes sing
I sit basking in autumn sun.
Winds howl
news spews discordance
I cringe in easy chair.
Storm breaks
Covid strikes hard
I blink in disbelief.
Where is the calm
as sirens scream cross seas?
God help us all.
I am usually a Pollyanna…..but these times can test our frame of mind and make us feel the gloom and doom. I choose to write out my feelings. It is a way to rid me of those I do not want to harbor. Having done that, I now shall smile with hope. May we all somehow do our part to brush away the storms that seem to surround us these days; and pray for those who are caught up in them and suffering in these times.
PROMPT FROM TOADS FOR April 30: The final day of National Poetry Month 2020
“A few minutes from now, you will lose all means of communication with humanity. You will not die, but will no longer be able to interact with the world. Whats the last thing you say?”
Entombed in silence,
solitudinously cocooned
in diaphanous gauze,
but nothing to see.
Nor can I hear.
Senses extraneous
when it is only me.
No exit,
only an aperture to my mind.
And so I choose to hum
not aloud, but in my mind.
Hesitantly, quietly,
internally.
Until my head is screaming
screaming that song.
What the world needs now
is love, sweet love.
But alas.
It is too late.
And shared with dVerse, the virtual put for poets, where it’s OLN Thursday.
Take a moment – the newcaster is on for just a moment…then comes the video at about 26 or 28 seconds in…..it is incredibly uplifting! I PROMISE you will love it! A wonderful piece to listen to as we end NAPOWRIMO 2020!
Lady in Red,
Ruler of the University.
Guardian to extraterrestrials,
humans, exactoids
and shape-shifters.
She sets the rules.
Lanes within which to live.
All played nicely
until humans did not.
They selectively listened.
She gave warnings.
Melted ice shelves
raised ocean levels
sent pestilence.
Cried foul many a time.
Still their souls eroded.
While others flourished
humans seemed to rot.
They battered earth,
debased each other.
Lady in Red,
All Seeing One.
What could she do
but plead, cajole?
Demand loudly, STOP.
They did not.
And with breaking heart
she raised her arm,
rescinded humanity.
Flung them from the field
into suffocating darkness.
Earth and all her humans,
banished from the cosmos.
Extraterrestrials, exactoids
and even shape-shifters
watched and learned.
And the Lady in Red wept
for their inhumanity,
for the world.
Day 11 of National Poetry Writing Month. Today Toads asks us to choose one of the Russian sci-fi posters provided in the prompt, and write a poem about it. I found this challenging . . . not in my comfort zone.
Sun streams
distorted by blind slats.
Window to the world
disjointed paths of light.
image from pixabay.com
What if I became you?
A three-letter being instead of a one.
Not won but lost.
In your shoes with one lost sole.
A lost soul.
What if you became them?
A four-letter being instead of a three.
Not a one. Never won.
You as them. Not allowed in.
On the other side.
Outside, like them.
The other’s side.
Not here. Never here.
What if you were them?
You, an other.
Merril opens the new year at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to consider time and space and what if. Her prompt: “What if you – or someone else – or some THING else – took that less or more-traveled path? Would it make a difference? Will it make a difference? Look backward, forward, inside, and out. Then wonder, what if?” Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and begin your 2019 by imbibing some words today!
Words matter,
sly winks silence not.
Words hurled into sea of humanity
ripple inhumanity.
Build waves tumultuously
till tsunami destroys.
Words matter,
crowds riled to group-think.
Vitriolic spittled slogans,
us-them denigration.
Barbed words
create the wire.
This era,
tomorrow’s ancient script.
Our ever-living shame.
De hosts Monday’s Quadrille at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today’s prompt word is “wink.” A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
lillian the home poet 