Disrupt. 4-12-2018

She wanted to erupt but hesitated to disrupt,
waiting instead with temper asimmer!
Her ears burned, her cheeks flamed
as her eyes flared,
following the threads of discussion
which always seemed to trace back
to the root of all evil, money.

Churches needed it to run offices, schools
and take care of the poor.
Governments needed it firstly for salaries,
benefits and pension,
lastly for the voters back home.
Localities needed it for leaky schools in need of repair,
for roads no longer funded by the state
and for libraries grown beyond being repositories of books
to loan.

She breathed deeply, knowing this too would pass.
Those who have little must live in a world designed
to get its share of their tiny piece of the pie
while those who have lots work hard to be happy
while consumed with the fire to get more of the pie.
Eruptions come and go,
catastrophes and disasters come without warning
or warnings unheeded by folks unprepared.
So it was and would be again,
the world spinning on its axis,
still waiting to be appreciated
for the wonder it was.

DAILY PROMPT: Disrupt Disrupt


I fell asleep in the back of the speeding car. 4-5-2018

No rhyme or reason just plain bad luck
I chose the car instead of the truck.
It was warm, it was sunny,
and I felt so secure.
I parked by the river, so lazy and demure,
opened my book for a read,
ever innocently.
I switched to the backseat
to stretch my long legs,
lulled into sleep by true silence and warmth,
helped by the black fleece blanket
tucked here and there.

How was I to know the repo guy
only found one set of keys?
How was I to know
the former owner would come looking
not for me but his car?

So here I am on the ride of my life,
trying to hide from the raw smell of alcohol
and the guy at the wheel.
Flying down highway 41,
not pausing for lights,
now a turn onto back roads
shaded and dark.
Gravel spraying,
chatter bumps jolting
as I try to message
invisibly back here.
Should I pray for a rest stop?
Should I pray for the cops?
Right now I’m alive and that’s all I’ve got!
Shoot! Time’s up! Car stopped!
Was it good luck or bad
I forgot to get gas yet again?

I’ve been reclaimed by silence,
I’ve lost all sense of fear.
Just me and my phone
with a car that won’t run
on a red clay road bordered by cudzoo,
all things considered,
I’m feeling strangely ok!
What a day!

January thaw. 1-10-2018

bitter breath of winter freezing,
blowing snow that drifts,
hiding all in a blanket of ice.
Just when no one can stand the wind
howling around the roof gables
seeking entrance through locked doors
and windows
silence comes with a thaw.

Fog slips in layers of cloud,
skimming the surface of the road
as it flies over fields and fairways,
thick as pea soup if the soup was white
instead of green.
Tires on the pavement
squish water from their grooves,
forcing spray to either side.

It sounds like spring,
but that’s the effect of a January thaw.
Warm tempts us to shed a layer or two
as we run errands bareheaded,
delighting in our reprieve,
knowing it cannot last.
For the moment
we cannot bring ourselves to care.
It’s forty degrees in January
and a warm wind tousles our hair
while tomorrow is far away.
Lucky day, today!

An Itch 12-28-17

Absently soothing an invisible itch
she followed her momma
with questions of this and that;
wanting, no,
needing to understand why
life was a puzzle with so many pieces.

Directed to go outside and play
she lay on her back in sun warmed grass
contemplating the forever blue of sky
and wondering at clouds
tugged and pulled by the wind.
What made the wind blow way up high
leaving stillness down below?

Why did weeds look as pretty as flowers,
or tree bark feel both smooth and rough?
Why were babies and puppies small and soft
while grownups got so big and tough?

Somewhere between childhood and teenage,
she lost her voice,
having learned that curiosity killed the cat
but not her questions,
which continued in a running dialogue with God.
Why did bad things happen to good people?
Why did death frighten instead of welcome like a friend?
Why was wrong so easy and right so hard?

Once in a very great while
she actually got her answer,
not with bells, whistles and a marching band
but in a blissful rush of peace,
a knowing calm that held her safe,
reassuring her along the way.

Apparently, her creator was chuckling
on the day she was conceived,
giving her both the ability to wonder
at all the questions he would pose
and the heart to appreciate the wonders
lavished upon her world.
With the final gift of free will, it was up to her
to create and fulfill her destiny.
Time would tell
and eternity held all the time
one could ever need.

Thoughts on the day before the day before. 12-23-17

Early morn, before birds
cat and horses are stirring,
the world holds space for the day to come,
pausing before the rush is begun.

The farmhouse hums with energy
barely suppressed,
ready with the flick of a switch
to respond
but we sip our coffee slowly,
peacefully in the grey prelim of day
savoring the stillness,
as if we could set today’s pace accordingly
releasing our zen incrementally
as we bake the last cookies
and wrap the last gift.

It is a comforting thought,
a gift to ourselves
on this last day of advent.
Ready or not, the sun has risen
as must we
but responsibility will be carried
lightly today
with good cheer and a smile
come what may!

On my mind at almost Christmas

I thought at this stage of life
I’d be better prepared,
my stance ready
but I never see the curve
Life is about to throw me.
I thought I’d have more answers
but have found more questions instead.
Things I wanted to remember have fled
my conscious mind,
so I move forward cautiously
without the boldness
I desire.

I find that Dickens
deserves more credit than he gets,
for each year I too, am visited
by the ghosts of Christmas past.
I, too, am weighted with chains
of loss and regret
while faced with a future unknown,
softly drifted with snows of uncertainty
and shadows of actions
not yet taken.
I rise each day
with the wonder
of Scrooge faced with the beauty
of a clean slate and opportunity.
Now I must do my best
and face what comes.

My word is my honor 11-15-17

My family, my church, my schools, my community
combined to shape me in my youth
but now each decision made
shouts who I am.
Though I aspire to become
better than yesterday’s self,
I know the weight of failure
and the bitter taste of regret.
I know how far from grace I stand,
yet gifted with hope
I continue.

How tempting to respond in kind,
to offer hurt for hurt
but those feelings I seek to leave behind,
compost for improvement
while I strive, alive in the reality I create.

How amazing!
To swim in the waters of human chaos,
where morality varies like glints of moonlight
on silver scales, ever shifting and changing.
A world where respecting others
does not require respect for me.
Still I swim against the current,
constantly pulling myself
towards who I want to be
because of the shifting sands
of who I am.

In the end, none of the rest matters,
not the jibes from smiling faces
nor the words whispered,
rising in bubbles of air to surface exploding
mixing in the babble
of wind blown conversation.
I create myself daily,
rising from dreams to follow my own,
the best that I can.
In the end, my word matters to me,
my honor matters to me,
that self I renew and define each morning.
Focussed on beauty,
I let blessed water currents
carry the past away
while the song of my honor
sings me along my way,
as best I can.

Doorway of no return. 11-16-17

Carved oaken curves kissed
the weathered wooden door,
framed with ivy leaves
of deepest green,
refusing to wither
instead waving hither and yon
at whoever traveled near.

No beams or structure supported,
no mossy roof protected it from rain,
just a a door in the middle of moonlit woods,
directly centered in a dusty path,
going neither forward nor back.

I could sense no purpose,
no threat of harm,
just a tug of curiosity,
a tickle of wondering
beneath sleeping autumn skies.

I should have wondered at being there,
an unlikely choice for one
who preferred the comfort
of four stout walls and a peaceful, crackling fire.
Safety, I craved, though a small voice within
whispered with a grin,
that adventure was exciting,
enticing me from my comfort zone.

I reached for the doorknob
which should have been chill
but instead was warm like mother’s cheek.
Turning it round in silence
like a well oiled household knob
no sound to warn except
the pounding of my heart.

A moment of hesitation,
reflection of choices past,
the worst a measure of fear and doubt
the best a reflection of soulful desire.
It was enough for a start,
a willingness to begin
thus I entered the doorway of no return,
determined to find another missing piece of myself,
regardless of sensing there was no way back.
accepting the invitation after all.

November is the month of Remembering

Sometimes, Dad seems very close.

Ready, aim, fire.
My father’s words ricochet
in my mind,
tugging at the corners of my soul
as full eyes spill silent tears.

I squeeze my lids shut,
breathing deeply of wet, fallen leaves
and sifting woodsmoke
as I drift back in time.
I feel his presence as tangible
as the scratchy wool of his red plaid Mackinac,
coarse yet comforting in its weight and warmth.
I am held in his arms,
secure in love, protected from a world
I didn’t understand.

Through closed eyes,
I watch smoke rise above his head,
gray wisps caught in lamplight.
He peers through the glasses on his nose
at the paper in his lap,
legs crossed at his knee,
one foot absenting rocking the maple curves
back and forth, mesmerizing in rhythm.

Eyes wide open,
images linger to blur my vision,
changing my choices.
Not the day for target practice,
rather for remembrances and revisiting,
I sit in the sun,
warm enough to bask in thought
and relive the good I thought I’d lost.

We gather together,

those who study words
for shades of meaning, nuances of intent.
Always searching, seeking
for ways to improve,
to refine our craft.

Bright words that sing in sound and color,
be spelling listeners to other worlds;
the voodoo of velvet and chocolate
in lyrical charms that ensnare heart and mind
with magic as earnest as batwing, roots and webs.

Spider art glistens with orbs of dew
ready to catch the unwary and hold them fast.
It’s a choice of which word
best conveys our thought, our feeling
so we practice and rewrite
again, then again.
We thirst for hidden knowledge,
the alchemy of syllables,
the correct composition of mind, ear and heart,
certain that effort will be rewarded
with the elusive golden connection
we all so desire.

Thus we gather to share our pursuit,
our frustrations and our joys,
the pain of our learning and yearning
catalyst to momentum.
In the midst of our journey, we listen and learn,
debating and speaking in turn,
celebrating the truth of who and what we are:
Wordsmiths of novels, stories and poems,
Spell masters of written and oral speech,
voices unique and valued in their differences.

Gather round one and all,
this is how we heed the call
that beckons us and brings us near,
Gather round, we’ve words to hear!