american pie-in-the-sky

public notice on
this fun-sunny
april afternoon:
sing your song,
bang the drum,
knock me out with
chemical life-in-a-bottle
but please don’t touch
me while i am sleeping
on a freshly-painted park
bench because i don’t
wish to be a-woke-end
to petrichor reality
in the middle of my
fruit-loop daydream.

-signed: uncle sammy

__________________________

Get on the bandwagon, make some music with dVerse poets (and include titles of Linda Perry songs).

content (ment)

word for the year to be

satisfied with our situation

whether cup overflows or

seems only half full or even

down to dregs in the bottom.

not irritable or restless, soul

holds happiness ever lightly

for it may fly… and now is

how life is meant to be;

the best is yet to come!

popurri sensorial

in downtown boaco, nicaragua,

from pillared balcony we view

a celebration of woman’s day

while folkloric dancers twirl skirts

and babies cry in central plaza.

below cathedral’s clanging bell,

where thorny sangre de Cristo blooms,

a carnival worker pushes carousel and

smells of exhaust, tamales, popcorn mix;

un perro stretches lazily across bench

as thin horse clops by with firewood

and motorcycles roar past hotel

along steep somoza-stoned streets

under pastel sunset behind hills,

the city lights blink to night music.

photo by lynn

beyond definition

woman is well-rounded;
engineered with soft curves
to offer warm comfort, to
surround with accepting love

her wise eyes see hearts,
perceive another’s authenticity;
her sincere smile extends welcome
to beloved ones and strangers

she embodies social stability,
possesses strength of experience;
can keep home fires burning
and sustain the life of family

like her monthly cycle,
she gives generously
yet renews her energy;
circular pattern moves forward

why are we so afraid of
intrinsic-born femininity?
embrace the beautiful differences
of reality’s complimentary design!

a woman is not a man
and need not pretend to be
we are womb of humanity
and live beyond definition

if plants could pray

img_4282

Lord, do you hear the corn?

parched leaves curl inward

desperate to conserve moisture

green tips point up, reaching

toward heaven’s hot expanse

in dry plea for relief

do i see small rain cloud form?

hear faint rumble of distant thunder?

oh, yes and amen

crops thank you in advance

faith grows greener

seduction in fur

eyes of molten gold
just might melt me
and my solid resolve
meow, Sir Siri, but
aren’t you a lapful?!
oh yes, you’re the
purrr-fect gentleman
standing by the door
with those cloying eyes
that beg to come IN!
if I were to acquiesce,
would you leap upon
the softest pillow and
claw me with incessant
requests for stroking?
insistent rubs for my
undivided attentions?
though born in a barn,
you’re a real charmer,
house cat wanna-be,
beggar extraordinaire!

IMG_5980

safe sanctuary

 

close restaurants
and coffee shops,
take away my chai
latte and stuffed crab,
hang the last TP rolls
from nearest tree, and
cancel church services

even if infected with
coronavirus at home
(my childhood home
was on corona street)
& quarantined, i will
yet have a sanctuary
for my heart to rest

within the soul’s home
found in Yahweh/God
whose name is breath;
i breathe His presence
as close as a heartbeat,
prayers whispered and
translated by the Spirit

forever and ever amen.

 

images

 

 

 

birth of a poem

Linking to dVerse poets pub for Amaya’s challenge to “labor”…


 

as the product of

conception, a poem

begins with flicker

of flirty idea

which sparks a

burning desire that,

with heart unprotected,

climaxes in passion for

words, that are strung

together like double

helix into phrases

which multiply and

di-verse-i-fy,

connected by

rhythm and rhyme;

hid in warm darkness

until fully developed

and ready to be

edited, contracted,

squeezed through

narrow passage

’til finally, its

author, depleted

and relieved,

delivers another

helpless poem

into wide world

and, whether

birthed online

or hard copy,

whimpering

or wailing,

it comes

hoping to be

caught gently

by readers.

into the shadows

 

searching for any witnesses,
he questioned as if suspect:
“where were you?” he probed
“in my room,” a shocked reply
(nowhere near bloodied body)

at least, victim didn’t feel much,
unexpected and instantaneous.
trucker on road never slowed,
could not see in night’s blackness
didn’t notice impact, drove on.

circles under eyes mark grief
remembered as good mother;
affectionate, gave warm gifts.
she’d lived life until the ninth
when bad luck found black cat.

how often we commit dark deeds;
does ignorance prove innocence?

 


Linking to dVerse poets. This “mystery” poem fits previous prompt (shades of black) and current prompt (changing perspective). Written in third person about our barn cat found on the road but also thinking of a former acquaintance who was struck by a truck and killed. It’s always sad when animals die but how much more a human being?!

 

celebrate a life

he lost second wife
and i, two mothers;
bonded by love’s genes,
shared grief, shed tears.

dad called me to say,
“our twin towers have
fallen;” nine tremulous
months after 9-1-01.

first night in hospice,
last on earth, she reached
up to hug my brother’s
strong neck…her only son.

i’ve dreamed of mom
standing in the kitchen
smiling; she said to me,
“you’re going to be okay.”

dear mom, we bless,
honor and remember
you again today on your
(missed) 83rd birthday.

we revisit our sorrow
even as you celebrate
joyful life in his presence,
who claimed you as his own!

 

pregnant

“Tonight, I want you to write a poem of anticipation. Maybe you’re hoping for something wonderful, maybe you’re afraid of retribution, maybe you’re just desperate to get off the bus.” – Sarah hosting at dVerse Poets pub


 

oh, sweet anticipation
we grandparents-to-be
(again, yes…times ten!)
phone rings, son calling
does he have news? no
he’s coming over and
do i have meal for him?
while he sits at our table
his wife calls him, news?
contractions begun? not
yet, not even warm-ups
grandma must breathe
slowly, deeply, let all
tension exhale, relax
check calendar days
due date comes…goes

 

 

 

gratitude recorded

 

counting grace gifts

moves me to mindful

noticing the beautifulIMG_3011

(even or especially)

in middle of the mess

 

grace gifts are blessings

magnificent and minute

given generously from

divine nail-pierced hands

with love, design, intent

 

i count and recount

voice in quiet prayer

write in poetic words

number in journal

capture with camera

 

lavish gifts everywhere

experienced in garden

discovered on farm

encountered in travels

observed as dear faces

 


Linda hosts poetics at dVerse Poets Pub on what brings us peace of mind…

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