Potluck Passion

Fantasy Retreat

Finally, my response to Jo's Minute poem prompt:

Colorado Mountain cabin -

follow me in

make me complete

with love so sweet.

Set my soul and loins on fire -

my desire

only for you

and what you do.

Hands so skilled, lips so sensuous -

leave me breathless.

My only plea,

Serenity.

Untitled

I started this poem a while ago, but it feels unfinished.  Any thoughts from others would be appreciated!

Yesterday, I was me again–

Gazing up in to the sky

blue eyes wide with wonder,

not afraid of the future, or the past.

Content in the moment.

I was me again.  Enjoying

playful banter with a friend,

tingling touches with a lover,

comfortable silences–no explanation

needed.  No demands.

I was me again, back in the woods

of my childhood, with no concern

of which path or turn, just knowing.

Knowing I could stop and watch

the fish swim, or rest my head against

my favorite tree…

Did I tell you I believe trees are human?

Today, though, I’m not so sure

what I believe.  Every turn is the wrong one,

and I’m lost, and afraid.  Afraid of the growing pile

of unread books stacked neatly like firewood,

my brain the frozen fingers too numb to grasp

enough kindling to fuel the fire that is my soul.

Whispered Words

This is my response to both Bob's post this morning and Jo's workshop assignment to write a Huitain - thanks for the inspiration, guys!

His spirit speaks in whispered words,

You’re not alone, you’re not alone.

My soul flies free like flocks of birds,

his breath, the wind, becomes my own.

And, as I soar, my skills I hone,

until I reach that distant shore,

where love is more than flesh and bone,

where whispered words live evermore.

There's No Place Like Home

  Even though it's not fair to pick "favorites" - here's my response to Jo's challenge to write about our favorite relative. 

  Mom with me and my baby sister - circa 1958 (yes, I'm the spacey kid)

         I stood in line at McDonalds™, barely able to keep my child-like excitement intact.  I was finally on my way to visit my mother and three sisters for the first time in almost a year, and the McDonalds™ stop was more of a bathroom/stretch-the-legs break from the four hour drive.  I had no intentions of standing in line for food – I just wanted to get back on the road and into mom’s arms.  She’d been seriously ill and we’d almost lost her, but she managed to pull through and now I was quite anxious to see her.  I hurried out of the restroom and was on my way out the door when I spotted the display case of Happy Meal™ toys.  Childhood memories came rushing back as I walked over and got in line. 

Once a year, mom would hook arms with my sisters and me, the Lullaby League, and skip us down the hall and off to bed singing We’re Off to See the Wizard.  We’d get all the way to our bedrooms, then beg mom to do it one more time.  What made it even more special was mom’s first name, Glenda, was the same as the Good Witch, spelled differently, sure, but that didn’t matter to me.  I didn’t know anyone else who could boast being tucked in by a mom who shared a name with the most beautiful heroine in Oz.  Year after year, as soon as Glinda asked Dorothy if she was “a good witch or a bad witch” and the munchkins giggled, I would snuggle closer to mom and we would share a knowing smile.  Our yearly ritual continued even after we started going to the neighbor’s house so we could watch Dorothy open the door to Oz in living Technicolor.  I remember the tingle of anticipation as Dorothy, dressed in shades of gray and with Toto clasped firmly to breast and wicker basket dangling from arm, cautiously reached out and swung the door open.  Squeals of delight and sounds of hands clapping filled the neighbor’s living room when Dorothy took her first steps onto the golden bricks, spun around in her blue-and-white gingham dress, and gazed in awe at the eerily vibrant (and somewhat exaggerated) red, yellow, purple, and green of the landscape.  And, like Dorothy, I watched in awe as the luminescent ball grew larger and larger and became the most magically beautiful woman in the world.  When the show was over and I was tucked safely in bed, I’d fall asleep thinking “There’s no place like home.”

I stepped up to the counter.  “I’d like one of those Happy Meal™ toys please.”

“A Happy Meal™?” the young girl behind the counter asked.

“No, just the toy.”

“For a girl or boy?”

“Girl.  I’d like Glinda, the Good Witch.”

I handed her the money, she handed me the doll.  “Look!” I said to no one in particular.  “Her eyes really open and close!  Isn’t she beautiful?”  I tucked the treasure in my purse and headed towards the arms of the most magically beautiful woman in the world.

His and Hers

My response to the painting

His clenched fist silently

speaks volumes,

while across the table

her raised tea cup reflects

veiled blue eyes

–delicate and poised–

hidden, like the gun in her hand.

Do Not Go Gently...

As promised, I took the prose challenge for the weekend...now I rememebr why I don't write fiction.  Thanks, Jo!

Thunderstorms frightened her, but tonight the blasting thunder added to her fury.  She stomped around the kitchen, stopping long enough to rapidly click her fake black fingernails against the countertop.  One evil eye from me and the clicking stopped, replaced by howls harmonizing with the wind.

“I hate it here!  Hate, hate, hate…”

“Go read a book,” I said.

“Go read a book, go read a book, that’s your answer for everything!”

“Works for me.”

“Well, I’m not you!”  Kiera threw herself in a kitchen chair.  Another evil eye from me and the tears started.  “He’s a good driver, Mom.  I promise we’ll be home after the movie and I’ll wear my seat belt and I’ll call you when we get there.”

 Here we go again, I thought, as the sky illuminated.  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississi....

Thunder rattled the windows.  Kiera pulled her knees up to her chest and covered her ears.  Black fingernails disappeared into her even blacker hair. 

I lit a couple of candles and checked the flashlight’s batteries.  Be prepared, the Girl Scout in me reminded.  I set the flashlight in front of Kiera.

“What part of you’re not going don’t you understand?”

“Uugghhh.”  Kiera picked up the flashlight and hurled it across the kitchen.  Her black Skechers™ with the glittery silver skulls followed.  “I hate you!”

I waited until I heard her bedroom door slam, then picked up the flashlight and shoes, setting the latter by the unlocked front door.  I carried the flashlight with me to bed, leaving the porch light on and the candles burning.

Five out of Six Ain’t Bad

                                               “For as long as space endures

                                                And for as long as living beings remain,

Until then may I too abide

To dispel the misery of the world.”

Verse 55 from Bodhisattvacharyavatara by Santideva, an 8th century Bodhisattva

I may be a sattva,

but I will never be

a Bodhisattva.

It requires perfection

in six categories.

Yes, I am generous,

(with my time, anyway)

have plenty of patience,

(unless I’m running late)

and a fair amount of wisdom,

(comes with age, you know).

I can concentrate for long periods,

(when the kids are asleep

and the phone’s not ringing)

I’ve been known to put forth

a great deal of effort,

(when I want to).

But, it’s the ethics part

that gets me.  Not that I’m

unethical, mind you, it’s just

what is right for me

may be wrong for someone else.

Besides, no one is perfect

unless…

you’re a Bodhisattva.

where my poems are born

Stephens College lies 1,400 miles and thirty-five years from my childhood home in Massachusetts. As I walk across campus here in the heart of Missouri, chapel bells strike the hour and Westminster chimes warp and converge time and space.  At this moment, I am home in a confluence of nostalgic feelings that wash over me like water.  The Connecticut River of my youth, the Missouri River of my present, and the Mississippi River that flows between lap at the shores of my consciousness.  I stand barefoot on the banks and dig my toes into the memories. The chapel bells and the grandfather clock of my childhood unite, resonating inside me, sparking a rhythmic intonation.  Home – home – home.

The sound of the chapel bells on campus or dried leaves scuttling across the sidewalk remind me of my childhood.  A certain gesture or gait of a stranger brings to mind a loved one I haven’t seen in a while, and miss.  Something touches a sense in me, the warmth of the sun on my face as I walk out of shade or shadows or my infant grandson’s body curled in slumber across my chest.  Moments and memories, these are where my poems are born. 

My writing reflects a confluence of past and present in a home that travels with me.