Category: Poetry

A New, Old Language

We shared smiles and stilted conversation in a darkened smoke-filled room. Blues 

licks melted around a makeshift stage like butter on hotcakes. The smell of burgers 

cooking on an old Coleman grill raised a growl from my stomach while my mind 

wandered in rhythm to the music. When my friend spoke again I strained to listen 

over a low down lyric, “somebody done his woman wrong and someone made him pay.”

I asked my companion to repeat himself; as he talked I noted something new:

He spoke without contractions. Instead of “I’m glad you’re here,” it was “I am” and

 
“you are.” There was no “we’ve,” but “we have.” And I thought, who is this man? 

What has shaped him to speak in this oddly stilted, yet unaffected way? Without 

intending to, I found myself adopting his speech pattern. Would he notice and be 

offended? Oh hell, would he think I was flirting? Adroitly I threw “isn’t” and

“aren’t,” “didn’t,” and “won’t” into the mix narrowly avoiding an awkward 

situation. I can’t make this stuff up, y’all.

  

When Mercy was Murdered

The day they murdered Mercy we all stood still around
Hands inside our pockets; eyes firmly on the ground
Unwilling to witness the death of our dear friend,
Yet complicit were we in assuring her end.

Fierce sun beat down, unabridged, unabated
Sweat’s stench laced with fear filled the street, permeated
No respite in shade on summer’s cloudless day
Mercy lost a step, slumped into a sway.

Sharpened spears in their grasps, old men prodded apace
Laughing and pawing as she fell upon her face
Roughened hands yanked bleeding Mercy sharply to her feet
Spun her in a circle, stomping to a beat.

The scene looked so familiar as we’d lost Hope two days past,
And Mercy’s fate was sealed when she stood up at the last
Calling foul upon accusers, judge, and jury, in the wrong
But the damage was done and Hope was dead before that day was done.

Now most pray that Mercy’s end will come without a hitch
That we can mourn in silence; no one will raise a fist
Surely if we remain inert the murderers will soon tire
Of dragging innocents to their deaths upon a raging pyre.

The grisly deed is drawing near, the wood begins to smolder
Perhaps we ought to save her, perhaps we should be bolder.
But we bargained for this merciless life when we let Charity die
Upon the bloody campaign trail stoked by wicked lies.

UnMolding

A dreary diagnosis grayed the day, like the blending of black and white lumps of clay

So thoroughly that their masses could not be unentwined, no before or after, only

This big clump of the right now that she should have foreseen, but most certainly 

 Had not braced for. In cartoons and old films clenched fists are raised, railing 

Angrily against an uncaring sky, but she didn’t have the energy to expend. 

So she sat on a three-legged stool and began the numbingly futile task of

Separating dark from light, working the tacky slip between inflexible fingers, a

Salty tang of flour undiluted by her efforts, unchanged by the effort.

  

My Attempt at a Lanterne 

A fellow blogger, Gretl Feeson at https://gretlfeesonpoetry.wordpress.com/ has introduced me to a variety of poetry forms. He’s always so good about providing the syllable count so those of us still learning the craft can give the form a try. 

Today that form was a lanterne, a five line poem (cinquain) with syllable counts of one, two, three, four, and one respectively. Gretl’s lanternes pack a lot of punch; whereas, no matter how much I played with mine it still came out rather wimpy. 

I’ll keep working on the challenge though. Might need to drink a bourbon instead of a wine.

 


Wild Abandon

drums
throbbing
down beating
relentlessly
dance

  

Storm Brewing

I nestled into my covers on this cloudy afternoon, closed my eyes and drifted

Away to the lull of rolling thunder over the lake, the susurration of rain and wind 

Against the skylight. Into my dreams strode twelve Valkyrie, each with a fallen 

Warrior in her arms, bound for Valhalla at Odin’s behest. I craned my neck, stood on

Tipped toes, but could not see the faces of the dead. Worry not, rumbled a distant 

voice. None of these corpses belong to your time. They will stride the great halls with

All-Father and dine at his table. Chastened, I shrank from my curiosity and shadowed 

Mythic maidens, head bowed, hands extended in supplication. “Grant me entry,”

I implored. “A glimpse would suffice.” An answering reverberation threw me to my

Knees. Paltry human! You beg at great peril to your own welfare. Leave this path and 

Entreat us no more. Standing, I turned my back to the great guarding doors of Valhöl

Only to meet a spirit of such fierce beauty that I sank again in awe and obeisance.

A voice of compassionate strength filled my soul, as Freya lifted my head.

Child, you have shown great courage. Worthy are you to enter the great hall. Prepare yourself mentally to open the gates.

With all my heart I leaned into the task, only to awaken to a bright flash of

Lightning and the immediate clap of gut wrenching thunder. Valhalla must wait

For another day. Oh, but for a glimpse, a taste. “Odin eier dere alle!” 

  
Lately I’ve been re-obsessed with Norse mythology. As a child I read every bit of Greek and Roman mythology I could get my hands on, and that reading led me into the Norse myths. I especially enjoy the creation myths and the stories surrounding the afterlife. 

Studly Doright and I have been binge watching The History Channel series, Vikings, and apparently the episodes are bleeding over into my dreams. I’m not complaining.

Peace, People!

Words of Power

Roaring down highways
Barbecuing landmarks
Chastising Girl Scouts
Emulating despots.

‘Round every corner
Evil doers lurk
Hiding their enmity
‘Neath smarmy smirks.

How do they sleep nights?
Minds filled with bile
Greed over principle
Seduction using guile.

In this topsy turvy world
Where hatred disguised as good
Seeks dominion o’er the masses
Words of power are my shield.

  

Isn’t It Amazing?

Oh Pan, how could you do the unthinkable and grow up? You promised we’d happily inhabit 

Neverland forever, crowing the dawn into existence, sharing feasts with fantastic

Friends and fiends. You taught me to fly, but without you the gift is but another

Form of transportation–lonely, neck straining, wind-battering air travel.

The Lost Boys still sing your praises, I can only cry. My tears turn into streams, then into 

rivers. Come back Peter! We can pretend you never left. Pretending is what we do best.

  

I purchased this bracelet a couple of days ago at Magnolia Mercantile, a funky, fun little shop in Tallahassee, Florida. The saying on the bracelet forced me to write the poem. Honest. 

Notice the cute little Tinkerbell dangling from the chain. Is this perfect or what?

Peace, people!

Making Memories

Someone should have told me all those years ago

When fevered toddlers ruled the day and all they said was no!

That too soon would they be grown and gone 

And the tasks we hastened through all done

Memories were being made yet I grumbled, griped, and whined

About their childish faults and the endless daily grind.

I had no idea that second chances were not guaranteed

That time would pass by in a flash and my regrets would only feed

On recollections of opportunities lost, never to be regained

My heart aches for the past and the memories we should have made.

  

Peace, people. 


In One Basket

Always the finder of the fewest eggs,
A dubious prize at best.

Like being crowned Miss Congeniality
In a field of wild weeds.

I never declined the questionable honor,
But smiled winningly enough

To hoodwink the shepherding adults into
believing I was honored,

When all I ever really wanted was to have the fullest basket

Just one Easter.

  

Melody

billowing within
notes of longing flow in sync
with love’s earnest needs.

  
elevate the words
they hold tightly as anchors
for melody’s lure

  
take me here softly
lay me down to the music
slowly, in good time.