I am so sad that Poetry Thursday has come to an end. It really inspired me to write, to keep writing. Lately with the busy work schedule and home life crazies I haven’t had the opportunity to write. Poetry Thursday was always there to help….sigh I will miss it!
out of the shadows lunatics
dance madly laughing across the landscape
down the bridge
they run
holding hands
only to jump into cold suicidal waters
hudson river march
screeching tires drown out
the laughter
where did their strength come from?
underneath it all
across the skyway
the firefighter boat arrives
dousing on lookers
with frigid water-they call home
as sirens wail
rescue boats veer off course
the landscape changes
NYC lifts out of the background
rising from the fog
silent majestic oz
distance appearances
mistake ghostly wails
for peace
couched in stagnation looking out the window across
to a large maple tree whispering leaves move gently
messages are released by a fluttering leaf
a large solitary beetle whizzes past searching
stuck thru a pane of glass light green leaves brighten with dramatic changes
another bug dive bombs off a leaf down to the ground out of my line of vision the birds are gone we haven’t fed them in weeks they will survive it is summer raspberries have ripened
immobilized by indecision my mind cannot wrap itself around action many things will never be done.
blood percolates nerves attack blood vessels with restless energy motionless at the glass sun set as orange purple and pink becomes blackness at night shadowy leaves can barely be seen moving
I stumble off to bed
today
I finished nothing
suddenly
after all it does not
seem to matter too much
for me
yesterday
I wrote a poem
while walking-just the beginning
pushing the stroller
as the baby slept
I recited it
loudly, slowly and with
excitement
I though I would recall it
today
instead it is gone
three words remain
fourth has gone missing
and now
I must start all
over again
wishing to find a poem
in my backyard,
underneath the chewed up impatiens, or
leftover dead moles, carcasses randomly
strewn about the yard by some
thoughtful cat
or near the humming bird feediner aflight with
quick views of irridescent green feathers
or a flick of a bright orange neck
Maybe I will find it underneath the burnt out butterfly bushes, or the spiderman bubble blower caked with mud.
or perhaps it will be gone forever
into the void of what could
have beens
so much for memory
so much for reciting outloud
only the deer heard my poem
and for that I interrupted
a mouthful of lunch
hot smell of almost summer
meadows heat up
near creeks
senses sent
swiftly downstream
into floodgates: memories
wild roses, ferns and honeysuckle
running through tall grasses
looking for leapfrogs, toads, snakes and salamanders
recalling: mud patches, bee stings
and stream beds
the great heron lifts up from
the river
flying further away
dreaming on a breeze filled
with the aroma of
childhood
summers spent
smelling
the quiet dark beauty, earth
ha! I got thud from the random prompt generator and thud I just couldn’t resist posting this, I know it is cheezy, but what fun!
thud
what a dud
my heart sinks in the suds
you bathed me
until I was clean
and you were gone
thud
what crud
I am deep in the mud
dirty as a fool
could ever be
will you return?
thud
what a stud
chewin’ on your cud
wrapped in the barn shawl
covered in hay
will you notice me?
thud
sitting dreaming wondering
about
you
youth the truth
I think I have lost
my
head in a thousand buckets of sand
buried beneath the
desert
landscapes of longing
whisp across the sky
a hint of what we really do not see
I hear the cry “mommy” and I wonder
do I go
do I stop writing
or is it this truth that
keeps me separated
from the reality
of what lies upstairs
waiting for me
curly locks and all
I keep thinking about mother’s day in a negative way this year. Not so sure why. I am not feeling negative towards moms nor am I feeling negative as a mom. I think it has to do with war. I think of mothers and their children and war. I think of Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the Taliban. I think Queen Noor has something smart up her sleeve and I wish it could spread across the world like wildfire. This is the year 2007. Aren’t we supposed to be more advanced by now? Shouldn’t we have evolved to a place where there isn’t war? It seems so strange that we are still fighting. Does our life always have to spin on a revolving current of hatred and distrust? I guess in disgust I wrote the poem below. I am not sure if it states what I think clear enough, but it is all I have for this mother’s day 2007.
war times
war crimes
queen noors
peace plan
for peace
why not all year round?
do mothers really
want to raise
suicide bombers?
do mothers really
want their
children to go to war?
do mothers really
want to have
children of mass destruction?
I wear my poetry on my sleeve
like a new blank document
from
word
I read my poetry
with a false sense
of knowing
towards disliking
and of course throwing
it into the
trash-can
I read other poems
with a sense
of awe and wonderment
how do they do
it?
when I seem to be crafting
words together
with a pick axe
while they do it with a
rose
a wand
or a dictionary
does it ever
all come together?
The prompt from Poetry Thursday was really difficult for me. I almost opted not to do it, but decided if I had the time I would give it a try. Especially because two of the poems I read I have always liked and never new were villanelles. They were Sylvia Plath: “Mad Girl’s Love Song” and Dylan Thomas: “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”. I never realized they were villanelles, never knowing what one was. As for the Iambic pentameter part, I am not sure I did that correctly. I tried, but again, it was difficult.
Since Jessica spoke about obsessions, I wrote about my latest obsession. What life is like to work full-time with two young children. This coupled with my patients who all have a few kids in their country of origin, while trying to survive here and maybe with another child or two. So here you have it:
Looking out the Kitchen Window
A working mother lifts her newborn
saddled by her daily chores
why must her life be so torn?
she works to earn the right to be forlorn
alone at home she cries till dawn
a working mother lifts her newborn
smiling children laugh in the morn
guarded and grey she prepares for their day
why must her life be so torn?
gazing out her window withdrawn
the children eat and ready for bed
a working mother lifts her newborn
ever watchful of her neighbors scorn
the children sleep into the night
a working mother lifts her newborn
why must her life be so torn?
