In the Midst of a Current . . .

time ebbs and flows
like sand sifting through a sieve
like advancing waves crashing,
rushing furiously to shore.

Emotions ebb and flow
as we journey through later years,
stopping to dally at sweet spots,
speeding through dangerous curves.

Humanity ebbs and flows around us.
People progressing forward,
while others try desperately to stall
and others slip backward to the way it was.

Much as we’d like to take control,
place wooden rulers across our lives
draw straight lines from point A to point B,
we all remain in a fluid path
as our lives continue to ebb and flow.

Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 22. Today we’re asked to write a poem that includes repetition.
Photo take some years ago when in Bermuda.

The Septuagenarian

Society’s expectations?
She doesn’t give two hoots
about being who she’s not.

It’s taken her a while to get there,
seven decades to be exact.
Wrinkle creams and hair dye be damned.

She wears flat shoes on every occasion,
air-dries her hair in all its grey glory
and orders dessert, which is mandatory.

Happily sleeveless when it’s hot,
just stare if you dare at her crepe-like skin
and notice her knees with those very high hems.

Stereotypical sayings are bantered about,
she’s older and wiser and been round the block
but look at her now as she picks her own route.

Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 15.
Today we’re asked to “write a poem about something you have absolutely no interest in.”
We’re invited “to investigate some of the ‘why’ behind resolutely not giving two hoots about something.”
Although my poem is written in third person, this is how I feel at seventy-five.

Haiku to ponder

The second half of joy is shorter than the first.
Emily Dickinson

everyday a gift
wildflowers along the road –
snow falls silently

Written for the NAPOWRIMO prompt given the day before National Poetry Writing Month begins. We are to respond to one of Emily Dickinson’s lines of poetry. Several are provided or we may choose our own.

Also will appear at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is OLN: Open Link Night. Ingrid is hosting and we may post any one poem of our choosing. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.

NAPOWRIMO begins officially tomorrow. April is National Poetry Writing Month and the challenge is to write a poem every day of the month.

Photo is from our trip to Ireland a number of years ago.

The Mysteries of Time

Time slips away, disappears.
Those years of youth,
ours and theirs.

I had a firm grasp on reality.
Even so, the mundane simmered,
repetition melded, numbed time.

Infinitesimal changes crept in,
unnoticed until too late.
What was, was gone.

Those everyday moments . . .
in hindsight I know
were anything but mundane.

Sweet viscous memories
fragments, rarely continuous,
slip and slide in my mind.

I sit, smiling gently,
my head in the past
then force myself into the now.

Pen in hand,
I write as time moves on
faster than my script.

My gait slower, skin thinner
eye sight cloudier,
but joy nurtures me.

Each day is still a gift
for one constant reason.
You are still beside me.

Sing Me Some Jazz

Time’s long shadow
scats and sings.
That ole pendulum
forever swings.

Doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya bop.
Tickety tickety
tickety tock.

That grim reaper,
got no soul.
But shit my honey,
he’s got control.

Doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya bop.
Tickety tickety
tickety tock

Now listen good
while I’m tellin’ you.
Doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya boo.

Live it up baby
while we can.
Stompin’ and dancin’
that’s the plan.

Jazz it up baby,
come on now.
Do some lovin’
fore he takes his bow.

Snappin’ and poppin’
and rockin’ strong.

Singin’ doo-ya doo-ya
doo-ya bop.
Ain’t no way
we’re ready to stop.

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Sharing with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, on Open Link Thursday.  Image by freepik.com

Ms. Ima Character

She chose a lucky-charmed life,
chocolate chip tolls
in the gluten-free lane.

Driveway décor, night-time too,
rainbow arrow from street to door.
Somewhere-over-the  always nearby.

Merry she is, poppin’ about,
never in knots, no-sayer not.
Upside-up, never down-side down.

Lover of music, coda in place
3/4 time is far too slow.
Give her 6/8 and she rushes the gait.

Zingin’ along on her hubby’s zither
strummin’ those dum do-diddley-dos.
She rocks-a-hill billy rockin’ toon
never the deja-vu blues.

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Paul hosts dVerse today, the cyber pub for poets. He’s asking us to mix up our language a bit….forget the grammarian rules. So, read the title aloud. This poem is about Ms. Ima, as in I’m A. And her last name is Character 🙂  I really had fun with this one. How many of the allusions can you catch here? Toll-House chocolate chips, a cereal choice, a famous Julie Andrews movie and a famous Judy Garland song, a number of musical references RE music notation, and a country musical instrument. And yep, that’s me in the photo. A number of years ago goofing around with my grand kids. So I guess you could say, I’m a character too!

My Pen and I

My writing spills out from a deep cistern of life’s experience. Sometimes a bit dank and dark as the pen dips deeper. But never from the despair of a void.

I am a doer. A make-your-own-sunshine-on-a-grey-soupy-day kind of gal. Cheerleader-tap-dance vigor still runs through my veins. Lean machine, gone somewhat dumpy with the addition of an old age belly, I choose to look up and out, not down. My daughter once said to me, “Mom, every movie can’t be the Sound of Music!” But I do choose the channel, right? Write.

sunflowers smile at me
sheets flap and furl on clothes line
summer of my mind

 

 

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Toni, our haibun queen, asks us to write about why we write the way we do. Who are we and how does that come out in our writing? My readers will have to decide if they think I’ve nailed this assignment. 🙂

These are two of my all-time favorite photos from Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. We’re in the second week of our annual two weeks here. Even on grey and foggy days, there is a soft beauty to this place! Hmmmm sounds like my haibun! Haibun: a paragraph or two of tightly written prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. A haiku true to Japanese form, always includes a seasonal word. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Life’s Palette

Ring me a path round the sun,
rainbow filaments in cloud tulle veil
daffodil slippers, bluebelle gloves
and dew drop rouge.

Kaleidoscope living on a color wheel.
Storm-grey ombrés to brightest white
pale pink to fuscia bold,
my patina glows.




Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where it’s Quadrille Monday (poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title). De is hosting and prompts us with the word “storm.”  Photos of yesterday’s amazing sky in Andover, MA. Artist’s palette is outside a studio in St George, Bermuda.