Saturday, November 30, 2013

POTP: Waiting

Writing Prompt: What are you waiting for? Are you tired of waiting?


The tedium of waiting
Fizzles into nothing
No consequence, no concern
When I am waiting in Mexico
Among easy-going bone-tired women

Who wait in a broken line
Stand on one foot then the other
Shift parcels, clutch pesos
Balance stacks of steaming tortillas
Mind children while watching for the bus

Waiting there fulfills its purpose
I observe and reflect, smile and connect
Utter small words in espaƱol
I notice a patience within, a peace
Unlike waiting at home

Saturday, November 23, 2013

POTP: Home

Tell us what you are thankful for or how you are thankful. Or both. You can do this in list form, story form - however you choose. Let us celebrate the season and the spirit of giving thanks through the beauty of poetry.

Home needs not four walls
Windows, stairs, or rooms
Home is the grounding place
Here I am
Balanced, centered
Grounded, grateful

Saturday, November 16, 2013

POTP: Every Thing

This prompt called on us to choose one word that symbolizes the poem we chose or the poem we created from Monday's challenge and do an Acrostic poem. My poem was "You Can't Have it All" with the theme that I do have every thing I have and need.

Every Thing

Every thing I need, desire
Volumes spoken with
Eyes and hearts and lips
Real love, close
Yet room to breathe

Thoughts not bought for pennies
Hands, delicate.  Delicious
In their caress
Nature’s exquisite
Gift, the freedom to love

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

POTP Mini-Challenge Week: 1 - Exploring a Poem

Poets on the Page

The beginning of this poetry challenge is for you to choose a poem and tell us why or rather what it is about it that you love. After you have accomplished the above write a poem in the same style as the poem you explore. 

 Barbara Ras's poem "You Can't Have it All" spoke to me the first time I heard it. I was attending the North Coast Redwoods Writers' Conference. For me, this poem is a reminder to be grateful for the sweet things and dear folks in my life. Sure, things may not have turned out exactly as I'd dreamed, but the life I've created is rich and full and rewarding.I enjoy the peacefulness that this poem brings to me, I like the repetition, too.

You Can't Have It All (Excerpted)
Barbara Ras  

But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green.

You can have the touch of a single eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one a.m. to say the hamster is back.

You can have the purr of the cat and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled…

You can have the life of the mind,
glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,
never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.
You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something.

You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly.

You can't bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together.

You can have the dream,
the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.

You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can't count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender…

And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.

There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother's,
it will always whisper, you can't have it all,
but there is this.

You Can't Have it All
 Annis Cassells

But you can have the wide canvas hammock strung between two trees like a ship out to sea on your grandparents’ hillside.

You can have the giggles of babies, daughters and nieces,
sharing a tub overflowing with toys and bubbles.

You can have Topsail sunrises and Morro Rock sunsets.

You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and get the very thing you thought you ordered.

You can’t have June and Ward Cleaver, but you can have your dad walking through the house wearing only shaving cream and boxers and your mom, head in hands, wondering what to have for dinner.

You can have fifty years’ worth of the first day of school.

You can have the Mediterranean breeze
playfully brushing your breasts on a topless beach in Nice.

You can have the hum of a motorcycle and the expanse of the open road beckoning you to follow your passion for new places.  And you can have the open arms of loved ones to firmly enfold you as you arrive and depart.

You can’t turn back the clock, but you can reconnect with a childhood friend and feel 45 years in between dissolve into timelessness.

You can have the dream,
the dream of a wooden dance floor in Barcelona, and you in costume,
dancing the Flamenco.

You can have arm-in-arm beach walks, crossword puzzles, the mist off Niagara Falls, games of hide-and-seek, and fireflies in quart jars.

And when adulthood fails you and you think that no one cares,
you can still call forth the memory of the moment when your father’s unexpected expression of tenderness and love warmed your teen-aged heart and how your mother was always home to listen when you came in from school.

There is the voice you can still summon from your depths;
it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,
but there is this.