--has faded blue paint chipped, scratched, caked with clods of dried dirt. --wobbles on one wheel heavy with burgundy-brown bricks; plastic packs of perky pansies. --holds memories of bright blue days spilling laughing children on the ground.
Prompt: Joseph Harker’s Recursion prompt from yesterday. In a nutshell, take a familiar object and think about its form, function, origin and symbolism.
The lone and level sands stretch far away
and I remember feet that slide and sink;
the distant quiet crash of breaking waves;
my body salty, warm and wet; Yes, I
will close my eyes to bring the sound inside;
to muffle thoughts that climb and drop and slip.
Prompt: Miz Quickly’s prompt for today starts with a line from a well known poem. The challenge is to write a response to that line, using iambic pentameter. The line I chose, “the lone and level sands stretch far away,” is from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem Ozymandias.
California poppy colored chest
blazing orange melting red
recklessly raps on the window.
His bashful reflection fails
to fly to his side.
He rests on the porch rail;
saucy black eyes bright —
scornful, undeterred. Then
with brash bravado
he returns to peck some more.
Yes, I’m back. I’m going to try to participate in the poetry frenzy of April.
An ordinary day
becomes lavish
when you open your eyes
to morning.
The December fields
are covered
with a khaki army blanket;
white faced cows
black specks on the fabric,
like whiskers
or lint.
Days dangle and blur
but thrice wedded love
stands strong
and steadies your slowing steps.
Abnormal cells steal your youth,
your dairy dreams,
but not your miracle mornings
piled high
past two weeks
pushing to tomorrow.
I wrote this for Leontien, a blogger friend, who is battling cancer.
Scent of baby lotion,
fingers curled
on a silky blanket
soft and still.
Warm head cradled,
hips sway.
Laundry in a heap,
warm and dry;
socks fallen on the floor,
forgotten.
Eyes closed,
lungs fill
with end of day;
ocean spray,
flecks of gold
skim the sky,
cobalt cloud edges
smudge crimson,
then fade
into night.
Wearing sturdy shoes
and a faded burgundy jacket,
I walk in the autumn air
with my family trees.
My husband, the oak,
stands sturdy
ignoring phantom wisps of fog
weaving through the walls
of hard wood and dark leaves.
His roots reach into rocky soil
bending boulders to anchor deep.
His bark bears scars
from lightening strikes,
nagging woodpeckers,
and squirrels living in the hollows
of his trunk.
Kyle, the cottonwood,
grew fast, tall and narrow.
Limbs touch the sky,
leaves twinkle in the sun.
The roots grow deep and wide,
new shoots sprout
where his focus falls.
My daughter, the pine,
is evergreen, fragrant.
Long green needles cascade
down her back.
Pine cones feed squirrels
leaping in her branches.
Soft wood burns
warm and bright.
I am the sycamore,
growing by the brook,
cooling my roots in the damp earth.
My trunk peels,
exposing patches of grey.
Birds gather dry twigs and nest,
hidden in the spreading canopy
of dusty leaves.
Prompts: Sunday Wordle and Margo’s Wordgathering “metaphors”
When he’s gone
there will be no hawks
soaring,
no crows
laughing,
no blue jays
teasing,
no phoebes
singing.
Instead, mourning doves
will rustle in the fog,
quiety calling
his name.
Prompt: PAD When he’s gone…
Ride a horse
Ride the wind
Wind that whistles and roars
Wind that whispers
Whispers of freedom
Whispers of abandon
Abandon stress and strain
Abandon chores
Chores like laundry
Chores choking time
Time with a curry comb
Time to saddle up and go
Go up on the rocky ridge
Go watch hawks soar
Soar on warm updrafts
Soar on wide wings
Wings that span the sky
Wings broad and strong
Strong as life
Strong as love
Love wild and wise
Love shining in a shaft of sunlight
Sunlight washing away worry
Sunlight glowing in my eyes
Eyes emerald meeting your
eyes blue sparkling sapphire
Sapphire mountain lakes
Sapphire autumn sky
Sky wider than the Pacific
Sky above sycamore trees
Trees whose leaves fade and curl
Trees that drop brown leaves
Leaves above green and gold
Leaves below dusty and deep
Deep ravines to cross
Deep shadows
Shadows lengthen and dance
Shadows deepen dusk
Dusk draws us home
Dusk’s last light brings chill
Chill creeping under my jacket
Chill blowing white wispy fog
Fog from horse sweat
Fog from our breath
Breath pulled in deep
Breath released
Released Relaxed Gone
Released from worries
Worries
Gone
Prompt from Poetic Bloomings for the form, Blitz.
“How’s the weather up there?”
The wrangler grinned up at her
through tobacco stained teeth,
and hitched his dusty jeans.
The fearful five year old pranced
on his long legs,
as she smiled in return.
The appaloosa was unnerved,
surrounded by a herd
of unfamiliar chestnuts, greys and bays;
they were low to the ground,
stocky, sane and tame.
Leaving the barn, he screamed his fear.
He tried to leave;
he managed to rear.
Ten minutes up the trail
it became clear
his mind was melting.
He tried again to bail,
but nose-to-tail,
he was trapped
between Cowboy and Lil’ Mo.
He dropped his nose,
arched his back,
and jumped like a pogo stick.
He bucked his spotted rump
towards the sky.
His rider landed hard,
back sore, throat dry,
pants pebbled and dusty.
He trotted in fearful circles,
eyes wide and wild.
She winced her way to standing
and calmly called.
He buried his face in her belly
and sighed.
Sitting on burgundy cotton cushions
under an umbrella of sycamore leaves
we rest.
The sun drifts behind trees,
sinks toward the ridge,
and clear light fades
in a cloudless sky.
We inherit the evening.
Shadows of childhood dreams visit;
they dance and shift,
shaking and rolling,
their gentle thunder joined
with quiet intent.
I remember the solemn vowed words
of a seven year old
whispered in the dark,
deeper than wish,
clearer than vision.
This is the dream.
Alive.
Riding with you on a wild gallop;
stopping to watch
a bobcat run;
his tail twitching behind the tree trunk;
while our horses stand
sweating in the morning sun.
This morning;
This evening;
This sun;
This kind of carpe diem.
Prompt: Sunday Wordle
Hoofprints In My Garden 