November 27, 2018

ROCKS, STREAMS, AND STORYTELLERS

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Photo by Keith R. Good

End-of-life
for those with whom we are particularly close,
seems to bring out who we are at our core.

Some of us are rocks.
Unbreakable.
Pillars.
Feeling the need to hold up all around us.
Or,
perhaps,
we just can’t let our surface crack,
lest we fall to pieces.

Some of us are streams.
We go with the flow,
while staying our course.
Occasionally we pick up others in need,
and carry them along.
But sometimes a stream’s flow
is fashioned from tears
that even a dam can’t contain.

Then some of us are storytellers.
We talk.
We laugh.
We reminisce.
We play familiarity like a piano concerto –
every part by heart.
We connect to those who are listening,
and telling stories of their own.
But can it be that we need to get lost in a story,
because the reality at hand
is too painful to fully embrace?

Let the rocks be strong.
But if they crack,
help them pick up the pieces.

Let the streams flow.
And if the tears run,
let them –
even as God collects
and records each one.

Let the storytellers recount,
and their experiences, count.
And if the present moment breaks them,
hold their pain
as a book in your embrace,
and help them tenderly
turn another page.

10 Comments

September 23, 2018

LOCKED

“Pandora’s Box” prompt and photo, provided by Walter Wojtanik of Poetic Bloomings

Out of fear
(or worse — indifference)
she waited too long
to unlock the trunk she daily
(habitually)
avoided. Tripped over. Pretended wasn’t there.

Summoning the courage, she unlocked it.
Discovered a long-lost page.
Dulled. Faded. Not easily read.
Less easily understood.

For times had changed,
and, therefore,
the truths that had shaped them.

Right?

As she tried to examine
and understand,
she began to question

everything.

Perhaps wrong paths had been taken.
Destructive habits had formed.

Perhaps what was true, then,
was no less true, now.

Perhaps times change,
but truths remain.

Perhaps it was up to her
to unlock

release

embrace.

2 Comments

August 13, 2018

CURRENT

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Her toes, tanned,
saunter in sand
as sun wanes.

She remains,
steeped in still
-nes’tled blush of dusk.
Settled. Hushed.

Moon taunts her,
fetching her heart –
sketching shore shadows –
stretching fern and frond
beyond her vision.

And far beyond
her once-upon-a-sand
box.

8 Comments

August 3, 2018

TIME TO TEND (ANNOUNCEMENT of REOPENING OF POETIC BLOOMINGS!)

Spring Sunset At Lake Garda Desktop Background

Image credit: Pixabay

She and a friend she’d never seen
used to tend a garden – serene
and seemingly ceaseless.
Meandering beauty gleaned
from home, and continents afar –
grand cognizance of sand to star,

and all that lay between.

There came a time, what needed tending
sadly meant the swift suspending
of this space the tenders prized –
teemed with blooms that mesmerized.
Sorrow burrowed ‘neath the furrowed fields.
Gone, fresh blossoms. No new yields.

Seasons rose, and seasons fell.
A new day dawned and she, compelled
by want and bond, returned to see
once-planted seeds still bloom, carefree.

Her heart looked east, and there he was,
with tools and seeds and garden gloves.
He glanced, and flashed that knowing grin,
tendered a spade, and said, “Let’s dig in!”
And they both saw that it was fate,

as they unlatched the garden gate.

ANNOUNCEMENT:

Walter J. Wojtanik and I are teaming back up to reopen our Poetic Bloomings site. We’d love to have you join us there!

More details: https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2018/07/31/the-return-of-bloomings/

4 Comments

May 1, 2017

THE DIME

Izzy

I know impish Izzy who swallowed a dime
But I don’t know why she swallowed the dime.
Perhaps I’ll rhyme.

I know impish Izzy who swallowed banana
that tasted so sweet and that came from Cabana.
She swallowed banana to push down the dime.
But I don’t know why she swallowed the dime.
Perhaps I’ll rhyme.

I know impish Izzy is waiting to poop.
And each time she does, Momma’s needing to “snoop.”
She swallowed banana that came from Cabana.
She swallowed banana to push down the dime
But I don’t know why she swallowed the dime.
Perhaps I’ll rhyme.

I know a sweet Momma who thinks this all stinks.
Whose sweet little Izzy is full of high jinx
And while she’s high jinxing, she’s waiting to poop
And each time she does, Momma’s needing to snoop.
She swallowed banana that came from Cabana.
She swallowed banana to push down the dime
But I don’t know why she swallowed the dime.
Perhaps I’ll rhyme.

I know impish Izzy, who gives us a run
For proverbial money. She’s playful, that one.
Her sweet little Momma just thinks this all stinks,
While Izzy is impish and full of high jinx
And while she’s high jinxing, she’s waiting to poop
And each time she does, Momma’s needing to snoop.
She swallowed banana that came from Cabana.
She swallowed banana to push down the dime
But I don’t know why she swallowed the dime.
Perhaps I’ll rhyme.

Our Izzy is loaded with life and fun sass.
And as for the dime? Well, this too shall pass.

(And you ALL knew THAT was coming! )