Let Me Be a Wild Thing

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.  A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.  D. H. Lawrence 

if life and death are a circular route
without a beginning or an ending
and if we may choose what we’ll
be the next time we pass through

let me be a wild thing
that nature fully will support
I’ll have a home of my own
making, no mortgage that

will strangle and worry,
food I will forage for
and find as life provides
my head not cluttered

with thoughts of lack
and measuring myself
against my neighbor
I won’t need a walk-in

closet for excess clothing
and shoes that bind and
hurt my feet; I’ll just
be me and that will

be enough
I’ll soar with wings
because I can or
paw the earth and

smell its wealth of
gifts to make things
grow and to give
my hooves will

gallop with unparalleled glee
feeling the wind as I pick
up speed and know I am
free to come and go,

to just be me

Abhra hosts Poetics today at dVerse Poets and asks us what would we like to come back as if we had the choice:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/02/02/poetics-coming-back/

The Bridge

I have existed since 14th century France when I was built for safe passage over this stream which flows from the adjoining river where fish, escargot and other delicacies are found.

In those days long past as you crossed toward the east over my cobbled, curved path, you would find the outdoor market where bread, cheeses and sweets were sold as well as the aforementioned foods from the waters nearby and dried meats. You could also shop for fabrics, millinery items, and other necessities of day to day life. Following main street, past the market, were the settlement’s church, cemetery and the vicarage.

If heading west as you traversed, you would come upon the village square with outposts of dwellings, the pub and the colony’s town hall used for meetings and celebrations.

This town has come a long way since the time when I was first constructed. It has survived the days of serfs, famine, epidemics and natural disasters and has managed to maintain its charm that involved the preservation of many historical landmarks, including me.

ancient, medieval
arched bridge serves as passageway
between then and now

Photo credit:  Gabriella Skriver, all rights reserved

Join us at dVerse Poets where Gabriella hosts Haibun Monday.  The pub will open at 3PM EST Monday.  She shares several of her own photographs to inspire our poetry. http://dversepoets.com/2016/02/01/haibun-monday-6/#comment-106261

The Art of Imagism

Pond frozen solid,
wildlife hibernates.
Bright, blue day
of golden rays
glisten off the ice.
Wildly colored scarves
flash and pirouette
across the surface.

White, pintucked
embroidered duvet
cover with dainty
ruffled edges, lies
rumpled on my bed.
After a year of
admiration and desire
it arrived in the mail.

The potter’s wheel
is still. Clay, dried
and chipping, clings.
March was a long month.

Join us today at dVerse Poets at 3PM EST where Victoria instructs us on Imagism: http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/28/image-ine-dverse-meeting-the-bar/

Seaward; Ecopoetry

I hear your voices
calling from your home
in the aquatic depths,
where seas undulate
in constant motion
steered by the moon.
My soul dives and
spins within your
hearts. I merge
in your silence
and rejoice in
the gift
that is the ocean.
O Wise Whale
your tears mix
with countless
others as you
survey the
destruction of
your briny birthplace.

O Great Reef
dwelling place
and protector
for so many,
your quiet
decline has not
gone unnoticed.

Stars gaze with
compassion and
patience hoping
that something
will shift and turn
the tides.

Gales whip along
the waves, pick up
the disquiet and
carry it to shore.

The Trees shudder
and the news
ricochets off the
mountains and
circles the globe.

Please join us at dVerse Poets as Grace makes a presentation on eco-poetry:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/26/poetics-ecopoetry/

I’m Not as Harmless as I Look; a Glosa

Are you the new person drawn toward me?
To begin with, take warning—I am surely far different from what you suppose;
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?
Walt Whitman;  “Are You the New Person Drawn Toward Me?”

I see you casting your eyes at me, they darting
quickly away as I catch them alighting.
Do you find me fair and feel an attraction?
You pretend to read your paper while sitting
on that park bench during this pleasant spring day.
No words are being read by you under that Bay tree
though, as you do your best to disguise your glances.
I take note too; you’re handsomely composed
and I blush, feeling amused, while sipping herbal tea.
Are you the new person drawn toward me?

Do not let my appearance give you a false impression.
My manner, though sometimes demure, can surprise.
Do not be fooled by my initial hesitation towards you,
that appears to be endearing, nervous shyness.
I am those things; it is true, but there are deeper
layers for you to observe. Do not ignore my repose.
There are traits below revealing a keen awareness.
I will watch you closely detecting any slip in your
comportment that would have your true nature exposed.
To begin with, take warning—I am surely far different from what you suppose.

Do you imagine me kind with wide-eyed innocence?
Do you see someone understanding and sweet?
Can you see behind my eyes?
What do you read between the lines of my face?
Do you see only light and none of the dark?
Can you detect what I feel?
What do you want from me?
What are you willing to give?
If you can’t see, I won’t be real.
Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal?

I’m not as harmless as I look.
Impatience will grow if I find you lacking.
Don’t try to mislead, I can see right through.
I’m no longer beguiled by empty words.
Substance and meaning are important to me.
Make me laugh! Have great humor!
Deepness of character, spiritual and warm,
these are what woo and captivate.
But even I, looking at you, may see another.
Do you think it so easy to have me become your lover?

Join me Thursday beginning at 3PM as I host Open Link Night at dVerse Poets:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/21/open-link-night-164/#comment-105837

Basho’s Neighbor

This darkening autumn: my neighbor,
how does he continue?
Epigram by Matsuo Basho, translation by Michael R. Burch

The world is spinning
and I upon it, gripping
it tight so as not to fall off.

But what would be so
bad if I were to let go,
perchance to be released?

Would I really be missed?
You soon would all dismiss
any thought you had of me.

Your lives would go on,
with one less over yon,
a speck of creation gone.

Truly, don’t you see,
that our lives are not decreed
for any length of time.

We can depart or return,
as our hearts do yearn,
and neither is better or worse.

If I’ve lived before, I have no memory
of a husband, children, family.
So what is this game that keeps replaying?

Why am I here?
There have been too many years,
and too many tears that spilt from my heart.

Life is a mystery and so is death,
our lives are like pauses to catch our breath.
And death may be the light that carries us on.

Join us at dVerse where Mary invites us to write a response to another’s poem that we’ve read:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/19/poetics-writing-a-poem-in-response/


The repetitious,
controlling drone
is too much to bear
as her mind swirls
in a dance of confusion.
The words he utters
are used to undermine
and divide. Selfishness
has replaced affection.
His queen, now a belittled
mannequin, a victim
of his malicious sport.

Come join us at dVerse Poets as Bjorn introduces a new prompt today entitled Quadrille. We will write an entire poem using exactly 44 words. Further instructions are here: http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/18/quadrille-1/

Rules are Headstrong; an Ovillejo

It’s tied up tight, encircled in a ball
I said tight, not sprawl
Meters are variable from line to line
Unwinding isn’t fine
Starting, stopping, short, long
Rules are headstrong
You’ll soon find they all belong
Keep them straight, don’t let them meander
You’re in charge, now make it grander
I said tight, not sprawl; unwinding isn’t fine: Rules are headstrong!

Join us at dVerse with De as she instructs us on the Ovillejo form: http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/14/unraveling-the-ovillejo-a-new-poetic-form-rolls-up-to-the-bar/

Carpe Diem Haiku Kai; Combining animals with seasons

Old bamboo thicket
Red-Crowned Crane selects a mate
Blustering wind sighs

Linking this to Chevrefeuille’s prompt to write a haiku combining a season with an animal:  http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.com/2016/01/carpe-diem-tokubetsudesu-65-combining.html


Why if Trump became our next
President he would have the U.S.
running smoothly with pride again.
He’s promised to deport all the
illegal immigrants and build a
“big, beautiful wall” with a “big,
beautiful door” and have Mexico
pay for it. A deportation force
would quickly round them all up,
including their children and head
them all back from where they came.
He would clean up the gangs that
have been running rampant in this
country and empower our country’s
police forces to take whatever
measures were necessary to
get the job done. He’ll implement
a program to stop Muslims from
entering the U.S. and is proposing
that more citizens take up arms
so that we can shoot any terrorists
on the spot and won’t have to
wait around for the authorities
to save us. I think his outspoken
manner is just what this country
has needed. He’s so rich he doesn’t
give a fuck what anyone thinks
about his ideas. Forget “political
correctness” or diplomacy.
Who needs it?!
He’s not a politician,
he’s a businessman and he’ll get
this country running like a well-oiled
business. He’s advocating cooperative
relationships with Putin and Kim Jong-Un.
We would be in excellent hands.

Join K.A. Brace over at dverse Poets where our guest host explains the Persona poem to us:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/12/poetics-persona-poem/


Copyright Kanzensakura All Rights Reserved; Used with permissiion

Copyright Kanzensakura All Rights Reserved; Used with permissiion

Shinnen (the New Year) arrived with death this year.  Our beloved Uncle had passed away from a debilitating illness.  All of us suffered as we watched him slowly deteriorate.  For years he had been the rock and center of our tight-knit family as we immigrated to America from our homeland of Japan.  He welcomed and supported each member as they made the passage.

His wake took place at our family’s Buddhist temple. We were heartened to see so many attend and as the rinpoche lit the incense and recited sutras, the visitors filed by the casket.  Afterwards, his body was cremated and his ashes collected in an urn that would be placed at the family gravesite where a shallow space was reserved for this purpose.  As loved ones gathered for the simple ceremony a few days later, we noticed the quince tree that shaded the site had bloomed.  The day before an unexpected snowfall had filled its branches with ice and coated its early, fragile blossoms.  As I lingered under the tree, I pictured Uncle happy and dancing at the Isle of the Blessed.

pale pink quince blossoms
heralds in spring and life lost

Join us as at dVerse Poets as Toni presents us with our first Haibun Monday of 2016:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/11/haibun-monday-5/

Carpe Diem #894 First Light

winter’s deepest night
first light glints off crystalline
hanging amulets

I’m linking this to Chevrefeuille’s Carpe Diem # 894 where we’re asked to write on the kigo of winter’s “first light”:  http://chevrefeuillescarpediem.blogspot.com/2016/01/carpe-diem-894-first-light.html

Out Beyond; a Glosa

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field.  I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.
Rumi, 13th Century Poet

Many clutch too tightly to their beliefs
of what is right and what is wrong.
It pushes them away from the community
with others and inflicts discord and chafing.
The intolerance that is born can escalate
and that discomfort can grow unhealed.
Do you not see that beliefs can expand
to embrace and allow a space for all?
Compassion gifts our soul to yield.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field.

Surrender, open, soften your ways.
There is never harm in acceptance.
Reach out and encircle your brethren.
Let the fierce grip on your beliefs fall away,
and feel your heart relax as you realize
the folly of negating how you really care.
Cultivate joy and give up willfulness
that only seeks to set up barriers.
Seek within that place that joins and where
right and wrong unite. I’ll meet you there.

The field is rife with flora and fauna,
all cohabitating in combined balance.
This microcosmic life mirrors all of
creation from the unseen particles to
the largest, all working in tandem,
cooperating in blissful silence. Cast out
disharmony and reside in the perfect peace
that the soul affirms with your every breath.
Rest in grace–all is well, have no doubt.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.

It is then that you will know that there is no separation.
Nothing is ever said or done without repercussions
being felt by all. There is nothing apart from ourselves.
Ideas that we formulate and that we hold so dear are
nothing but wisps of illusions crafted out of unawareness.
Instead, let’s fashion our world out of light beginning hence.
Our truth lies in our spirit, empty of the ways of grasping
after meaningless thoughts and words that bind and trap.
Life is freedom! Let go, let go, of that which holds tense!
Ideas, language, even the phrase “each other” doesn’t make any sense.

Join us with our host Abhra at dVerse Poets for Open Link Night:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/07/open-link-night-163/

My thanks to Bjorn who inspired me with his beautiful Glosa to give it a try.



Jasmine Breezes

Spirited cries of summer night’s fun
can no longer be heard upon Jasmine breezes.
Once children’s play yards during growing up
years now are hallowed halls with ghosts at play.
Ready or not, here I come! Is now a barely
whispered call, heard between the clatter
of a now-modern world.
Barefoot we would run so hard up and down
the roads and across backyards out to the
back woods. We dug through white, sugar sand
until we reached the earthy smell of
dampened soil. We danced in rain showers
that cleansed the air and left behind a
delicate trace of pine and gardenia.
We picked fresh oranges for snacks
given freely by neighbor’s trees.
We would peel away the inner parts
of a Hibiscus and drink the sweet
nectar as if we were bees.
Riding our bikes for miles on end,
we could feel the summer-shimmer
of heat rising up to our pink cheeks.
Mrs. Taylor’s meals wafting
through the air, dirt and grass-stained
clothes mixed with sweat, all these things
are long ago memories of days no more.
Silence is all that’s left now of youthful,
outdoor games—no longer allowed.
The freedom, the scents that surrounded
have become planned sports in shiny arenas.
With fences and big lights to keep it all
bright—and safe from the neighborhood’s
affliction and those that may prey
upon the innocent and pure.

Kelly is hosting us at dVerse Poets with a prompt that asks us to write on the lingering of scents in our lives:  http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/05/scents-that-linger/

New Year’s Day

Another year has come and gone
Days passed by never to return
Light has waned, shades are drawn

I choose another path to learn
Reflection only leads us on
Days passed by never to return
Forward facing, I step toward the dawn
Time was spent; it’s in its grave
Reflection only leads us on

Resolutions are a daily brave
Not solely meant for New Year’s Day
Time was spent; it’s in its grave
Life isn’t meant to be so sternly weighed
Relax, don’t hold so fast to tradition
Not solely meant for New Year’s Day
Time keeps on its endless precision
Another year has come and gone
Relax, don’t hold so fast to tradition
Light has waned, shades are drawn

Tried a new form (for me) called a Terzanelle and am linking this to Poets United Poetry Pantry # 284 today:  http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2016/01/poetry-pantry-284.html

2015 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 3,000 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 50 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

“The Snowman”; Happy Holidays!

  I want to wish each and every one of you a happy holiday and may you enjoy peace and prosperity in the New Year to come.  I posted this last year and thought I would share it again…it’s a favorite story of mine and I love the haunting song in this movie which you can hear on the video below.

     In 1978,  English author, Raymond Briggs, published the story “The Snowman”.  It is a wordless book using only illustrations to tell the story.  The pictures are in full color and are in a hazy softness that hints of the falling snow that brings about the story that unfolds.  A movie was made of the book in 1982 and has a different ending than the book but is also wordless except for one song that is sung, “Walking in the Air”.  The movie is 26 minutes long.

     The movie (and the book) came to my attention in 1982 when I was approached by our family hairdresser who asked if our two daughters, then 9 and 7, would like to assist her husband in the review of a new children’s movie.  Her husband, Jay Boyer, was the movie critic for the Orlando Sentinel at the time.  He would interview each of them for their opinions after the screening and they would be quoted in the subsequent write up .  The girls were very excited about getting to see the movie before it opened to the public and were accompanied by two other children and Jay on the day that they went to do their “job”.  They also missed a day of school–even more fun.

This is the movie version:

     A small boy builds a snowman after a heavy snowfall.  He continues to look out at it as he joins his family inside at the end of the day.

     However, the boy can’t sleep and he goes downstairs and opens the front door to check on his friend.  The clock strikes twelve and the snowman magically comes to life.  The snowman joins him inside as the boy shows him around the house and the wonders of TV, a light switch, running water, etc.  He doesn’t care for the fireplace…the refrigerator, he loves!

     They return outside and the snowman decides to show the boy his world and gently they glide up into the sky.  They fly over London and off towards the North Pole to meet up with Father Christmas.  Father Christmas greets the boy and gives him a gift of a scarf.  The boy and his friend return to the boy’s home.

     In the morning, as he awakens, the boy runs to the yard and finds that his friend has melted by the morning sun.  As he puts his hand in his robe’s pocket, he finds the scarf.

     The movie was nominated for an Academy Award for Animated Short Film.  It was scored by Howard Blake who wrote the music and lyrics and conducted his own orchestra, Sinfonia of London.  “Walking in the Air” was sung by St. Paul’s Cathedral choir boy, Peter Auty.

     You can watch it in it’s entirety on Vimeo.

Ending the 60s on a High

The fifties were a time of “Leave It
To Beaver” and “Father Knows Best”, the
tv shows of that era got my rapt attention.
What wonderful lives those children led.
Clean, spacious homes, no one drunk on
the floor. No screaming fights in the night,
that awakened you with fear, everything calm,
loving and understanding. I loved those
shows and I loved my books and was an
ardent reader, books sa(er)ved me well
as I escaped from my reality to theirs.

It also was the time of the Cuban Missile
Crisis and when I was in elementary
school we had drills where we were
instructed to get under our desks and
cover our heads for protection in case
of bombings. We also practiced
evacuating the school and got into cars
driven by parents who would take us off
the campus to a safe area elsewhere.
I often wonder if those drills didn’t add
anxiety to my already fear-ridden little self.

School became more difficult for me to
manage as I entered puberty and new
hormones surging meant more changes to my
already stressed life. Life seemed to frighten
me more and more as I spiraled down into
what I can only describe as an emotional break.
I felt low and bleak.
By high school and when the panic would hit,
I snuck away from school and walked home.
What was happening to me? I had no idea,
only that I was in almost unbearable pain.
Funny that home would become my refuge, but
no, that was an illusion; it really wasn’t.

I remember watching the news and seeing the
war in Vietnam happening right on the screen.
I was grateful that my oldest brother had
escaped going and was stationed in Germany.
At the end of the sixties when I was 18, and out
of high school, I got a job in a law office and felt
independent and happy making my own money.
I had a boyfriend and had sex
and we smoked weed and I felt free.
The music of the day became my religion.
The Beatles evolved along with me and
as their messages expanded so did my mind.
The Moody Blues sang of astral travel and
raising your consciousness. Crosby, Stills, Nash
& Young swept me up with their meaningful lyrics;
I flew so high. I turned on, tuned in and dropped out.

Soon a newfound spirituality became my
focus and awakened me to a profound new
consciousness that propelled me
into a life that I had never imagined for myself.

The illusions of this world became crystal clear
and I no longer perceived it as I once had.
The shift was acute and my philosophical
insight could not be denied. My short relation-
ship with marijuana was over but I remained in a
perpetual high, induced this time by a drastic
change in my awareness. I found a yoga
teacher…or had he found me? I joined a
commune and meditated and my newly structured
life took me away, far away, from my past one.
I became a vegetarian and was disciplined
and devoted to strengthening my body and mind.
Light shown where there had been darkness.

The sixties closed with me on a high note and
for that I am ever grateful. Life continues
to change and evolve with letting go, holding on
and relaxing more into the belief that all will
unfold as it should.

Bjorn and Amy Jo Sprague invite us to write in free verse and share the decades in which we grew up or have lived:  http://dversepoets.com/2015/12/17/free-to-be-free-meet-the-bar/

Star Light, Star Bright; dVerse Poetics, a series of Haiku

withered tea flowers
beneath showering starlight
cast shadows on stones
countless points of light
pierces the heavenly realm
pine cricket pauses
deep atrous heaven
pearls glow against your vastness
dawning Christmas day
orbs of falling stars
criss-crossing the planet’s sky
blazing their glory
winter’s crescent moon
surrounded by brilliant stars
north wind spins the earth
mountainous peaks
stretch craggy arms toward stars
first snow starts to gust

river of heaven
swirling patterns of starlight
celestial stage

As we celebrate a time of light and festivities of the season, Toni asks us to write a poem on stars over at dVerse:  http://dversepoets.com/2015/12/15/tonis-title-pending/

She Was a Really LOUD Girl!

She was a really LOUD girl!
She liked to wrestle
and bump, climb trees,
and scrape her knees.

She shouted and cheered
life on from the top of
her lungs. She whooped
and hollered; HEAR MY FUN!

Playing football with
the boys, she could
even make a tackle,
rankle the other team.

She didn’t mind dirt
or mud to be smudged
and grunge to cover
her from head to toe.

She played the drums,
thumping LOUDLY!
They were an extension
of her personality.

Crashing those cymbals,
tapping those snares,
SOUND was the way
she showed her wares!

But she was endearing
too, because her love
shown through…her
heart especially true.

And sympathy showed
and empathy too for
those in pain or
somehow hurting.

Her aura large, it
enveloped a room
shining brightly, light-
emitting a halo.

Her affection was
genuine, her kindness
a gift but it never stopped
her from enjoying a SHRIEK!

Join me at dVerse Poets where I host Open Link Night at 3PM EST today:  http://dversepoets.com/

Flowing Downstream

Photo:  Mary Kling

Photo: Mary Kling

It’s hard to believe that I came from such an abusive and chaotic life just a few short miles on the other side of this river.

Life with drug abusing parents who both ended up in prison was no picnic.  And then to have been put in foster homes and separated from my little sister was like moving from one desperate situation to another.  Foster parents can be unfeeling and insensitive to what children come from.  Most are in it for the money that the state gives them, not from a place of compassion.

Somehow I ended up making it through high school and continuing my education to become a successful businessman in the city.  I even managed to reunite with my sister and help her get an education too.  I have much to be thankful for and I don’t take any of it for granted.  This river keeps flowing downstream…and so do I.

a twig floats downstream
nothing impedes its journey
river buoys all

Mary Kling has shared three photographs of hers to inspire our fourth Monday Haibun challenge.  I chose a contemplative man on the bank of the Mississippi River in Dubuque, Iowa.  Please join us.  The link will be up for an entire week over at dVerse Poets beginning at 3PM EST December 7, 2015:  http://dversepoets.com/

A Quiet Om

tears sigh as they swell and spill
down my cheeks and a tuneless
melody tinged with gray becomes
a vapor around my head
the fog intensifies the dirge
and the heavy notes hang
in mid-air, too grief stricken
to float any higher
in an instant the plot changes
and with the relief of tears
my mood slowly creates
hues no longer subdued
color ricochets around the
room in a dance of joy,
happiness is pink and
sounds like tinkling bells
calm now, my concentration
on the movie I’m watching,
colors continue to come
forth; indigo hums my peace
and as the story closes
on a happier note so do
the different visual shades;
a quiet om circulates

Victoria invites us to write on the different manifestations of Synesthesia (which has over 60 forms) at dVerse Poets:  http://dversepoets.com/2015/12/03/yum-that-poem-tastes-like-a-fine-cabernet-dverse-mtb-synesthesia/

The Secret That is Myself

Throughout my life
there has dwelled
within me a shadow figure
that follows and
mirrors my every day
self.  Every word
uttered, every thought
that has flashed through
my mind has been known
by her.  But she is cool
and level-headed when
things seem too much
to handle.   She knows
my truth and lives it
impeccably…there is no
questioning and wondering.
She inhabits that space
within that is All-Knowing,
and calm, deliberate
decisive and secure.
She is the one that
breathes in deeply of all
that is good and loving.
There is no wavering
of emotions, all is steady
and allowing of what is.
She smiles and is joyful,
even as I struggle and
frown my discomfort.
She is settled and needs
nothing to bring her
happiness.  Love flows
effortlessly and equally
through good and bad
times.  (To her, there
exists no difference.)
She is always with me
and wants only what
serves me best.
On occasion, we merge
and I feel the completeness
that is my birthright.  A peace
descends that envelopes me
and she and I are One.

Today Grace invites us to explore the Secrets of the Universe for Poetics over at dVerse Poets:  http://dversepoets.com/2015/12/01/poetics-secrets-of-the-universe/

Foul Play, a Florette

solitary is the bard’s life
headstrong, stubborn words causing strife
distractions cannot be obeyed
intent at odds with rhymes, I bade they emerge rife
days spent leaning over worn desk
head bowed above maddening task
proposing numerous sketches
erasing scribbling etches, devising drafts
dissatisfied, still I persist
too many more are soon dismissed
rhymes are hard to come by this day
did Shakespeare have a verse foul play, or slam his fist
was his floor strewn with shamed rejects
until such time he found respect
within just the right syllables
opting for those admissible that shone perfect

Please join us at dVerse poets where I give instruction on the Florette form.  My post will go up today at 3PM EST:  http://dversepoets.com/

I Miss That Time

There is no one
that I miss.
No one who has
passed on or moved
through my life do
I wish would return.
No, I am at peace
with the time we
spent, however
short or long.

There is a wistful-
ness though of times
long ago of when I
was young and
content, happy and
secure with being a
new mother and
feeling a purpose
that was profound
and real.  I was
needed, and savored
each moment of
tending and caring.
There was no sacrifice
within my delight.

Love flowed freely
from me to you,
my heart open wide
to intuit your needs.
Holding you gently,
warmly to my breast,
keeping you close
and safe from harm.
Teaching and showing,
listening and giving,
rejoicing in your
perfection, fed my soul.
Looking into your eyes,
I marveled at your
preciousness and the light
that glowed around.
It was grace that brought
us together, our energies
aligned within a universal

So it’s those times that
I miss more than anything
else.  Those early days
of motherhood were
truly some of the best.

Mary at dVerse Poets invites us to reflect on what or who do we miss:  http://dversepoets.com/2015/11/17/poetics-who-what-do-you-miss/


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