Over the horizon
waits a storm here,
a drought there,
and time moves.
Grasses bend before it,
sharp peaks round over.
Pearls and diamonds
are birthed
while I wait
in quiet
surrounded by motes,
light poured over my head
like a baptism
of star debris.
http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/ prompt: action
Sunday Scribbling 297: Fairytale
the depths of which
cannot be plumbed
the heights
cannot be scaled
a wilderness
so desolate
imagination pales
yet we the three
adventurers
move on though
pushed by gales
that blow from north
and south and east
and even from the west
but we the three
adventurers
push on to pass
the test
through perilous trail
through cliff and cave
blizzard blinded
onward quest
for we are three
adventurers
brave and strong
and true
though trials and fears
are real my friends and I
will follow through
And later
when the treasure found
we’ll pass the bottle
round and round
and by the fire
burning bright
tell tales throughout
the starlit night
as sparks rise
high and higher still
we’ll laugh and drink
and eat our fill
for we are three
adventurers
home safely warm abide
until the next
we journey forth
the stars our only guide
so merry now
and merry then
and merry come what may
the call to quest
rings loudly out
adventurers obey
image credit: Mobius Cave by Clint Cearley
weep for us
you stone and steel
for we have lost our way
rough weather
cast patina still
your age cannot conceal
that what you were
and what we are
our fates both would be sealed
For we are frozen
hardened cast
scars that will not heal
your outside matched
our inner hearts
we’ve lost the will to feel
Sunday Scribbling prompt: Sensation
listen you naysayers
muckrakers, joy takers, bill payers
all of you listen
the sun it will glisten on
ponds lily fronds magic wands
hopeful dreams clever schemes
are the way of the young hold your tongue
leave them be you can’t see
anymore past the past your life cast
now you just want to take them to task
They are sun dancers, free lancers,
fly by the seat of their pantsers
it’s their time not your time and this time
is high time for light and right
and loving with all their might
leave for later the haters, the baiters
the now is too laters
no waiters just jumpers with both feet
back thumpers just love them and leave them
they are bursting with sweet freedom
the hope of our future to suture
our brokenness tiredness hopeful
banked firedness
we the prayers, old players
the worlds yesterdayers
they slip through our fingers
not linger the singers will write
all new words and new tunes
and they’re gone all too soon
riffing off Gwendolyn Brooks “Speech to the Young”
Sunday Scribbling Prompt: Sweet
Morning is a softened time.
Trouble for the day
has not yet been to visit,
and in the grayness of the edge
birds are singing fiercely.
For the first time, I wonder why.
Science says that lengthening days
bring longer exposure to light,
triggering a hormone,
but I remember a song
“How Can I Keep From Singing”
and just smile.
We are all lifted up
with exposure to the light,
and in the rising
sing all the sweeter.
Sunday Scribbling prompt: Flock
the rodent tendencies will out
though you try to choke them cloak them
into submission they don’t need
your permission to socially engineer
your rear guard is breaking rank
the tanks are rolling bowling over
all the principles despicable in an
under cover way blunder over bruises
make up stories about glories unseen
unknown unshown in lofty dreaming
hear the screaming downstairs
no scares nowheresville is where you live man
you ain’t getting out soon blue moon
won’t be shining round here we don’t like no
messin’ second guessing
there are those who flock
to all your glittery jittery jiggle the lock
the key was lost so long ago
and so the ticket you can’t pick it
you don’t know what side of door
you stood on hood on susurration bout
the conflagration you can’t put the fire out
now all your alibis are leaking squeaking
by the skin of teeth
no scrubbing bubbles for this trouble
see the mirror reflection clear
except the cracks no taking back
you’re too far gone sing swan song
mama’s baby gone wrong don’t go
sneaking round breaking down
you’re not strong losing ground
the smile is slipping curtain ripping
canoe tipping point the finger once
twice thrice you’re history drown in
mystery we see through you
hate to be you
Sunday Scribbling prompt : May
Gone for a moment
days when my soul
was mired in gray sucking mud
struggling like some fragile thing
to break free.
I gratefully turn my face
to sun, to wind
to sky that lets me
spread damp wings,
glistening, drawing strength
from air and dreams.
Greedily breathing in.
The world fills my soul,
soul swells until it fills the world.
I am fed and in turn feed
as I commune with trees,
dancing their spring sign language
speaking of new growth
and hope.
My bones tied to moon
to earth cycle,
yearning…to what?
The answer escapes me
like the butterfly that
stays just long enough
for me to fall in love a little
and then flies off
crushing me with impermanence.
Days will lengthen
but nights bring songs of cricket
and mourning dove.
Honeysuckle and gardenia perfume
lay heavy on damp skin.
Summer wine tastes sweet.
My soul rests.
Sunday Scribbling prompt: fires
little fires
lit by pens
a million words on
scraps of paper
a million lives
finding respite
falling
falling
off the mind of
kind of wistful
fistful of letters
scrambled up and
thrown like dice
the gamble worth
the ramble forth
the smoke rose higher
to the night and
stars will smolder
bolder ones will
come and say
it better
say it clearer
say it cleaner
work it leaner
than we ever could
but still we strike
the match and
tend the flames
it’s what we came for
stayed for
prayed for
just a little warmth
to keep the night
at bay
I hear the world
it knocked on
my heart today
music carried feet
breeze washed clean
hinting at spring to come
Slipping round the next cloud
wanting me to rock it out
speed it up give a shout
I hear em say I should
jump right in
down and dirty
focus on the win
moving and shaking
insides quaking with fear
of a fall rushing sound
rushing ground
but I am unashamedly
unplugged
writing my own music
singing my own songs
I will eat my own words
even when they are bitter
I will own my own screw ups
for I’ve been talking to birds
they say gravity is depravity
and all you have to do is leap
focus on the sky and try
the wind will take you
floating on currents
will be easy as breathing
easy as leaving
I will be on the edge of
your vision no derision
erases spirit; makes you crash
unabashed fly as high
as the atmosphere goes
to the ceiling of everything
sing for birds know
that you can go and wheel
in a sun dog spread wings
birds say down is
just another direction
you choose let your wings
be your compass be
your star you are
running and jumping
first ground then the sky
all the stillness of air
rushing by in the silence
you will find it
surrounds you it
abounds in the moments
between feathered ticking of
clocks doesn’t matter
just time if you fly
you can live for a thousand
miles on those minutes
you’re in it outside of it
around it as it courses through
arteries pumping with joy
years are nothing but
counting I’ve given up numbers
for music and color
a life that’s much fuller
for what is not in it
the baggage is dead weight
and miles upon miles piled
on years upon years
I’m leaving the tears
the fears and self hate
I’m talking to birds
wisdom lives in their words
Sunday Scribbling #250: invisible
I feel
like two people.
One goes through the
day, doing the daily things,
all the things that make me
look like everyone else…
and how they have so
very little meaning,
trying to find one
moment each day,a purpose
to make sleep restful
The other me watches…
watches all and wonders
if this skin can hold me.
Is there something
curled deep inside
invisible that needs
to come out?
Am I the stone that the
sculptor works to uncover
what is waiting to be seen?
Or is it just cold marble
fearing the hammer blows
that could shatter into
millions of tiny jagged pieces.
Who wields the hammer?
Do I choose or is the choice
made for me?
I hear music but am I
a singer?
I want to dance but do
I understand the meaning
of the steps?
Will my grandchildren come
on Sundays to plait my white hair
or will I languish in drool
cared for by minimum waged
strangers who wonder
who I was (if they stop long
enough to care)?
Will you remember something
I said that time and wonder
what did she mean?
Do I know secrets that I hold
close and hint at because
the soul is a deep place
or will you shake your head
and say “what a waste”?
Will I rest under green grass
feeling sun warmth?
Will a bird light on the stone
and sing to me?
I wrap my chilled arms around
myself and look out into the dark.
I know I am here. I see my
reflection in the glass.
Sunday Scribbling #245 prompt: limits and AllPoetry contest entry.
the ocean
the big freaking ocean
teeming boiling roiling with
aeons and beyonds of living
giving birth to the all of alls
and called to waves and tides
by moons and soon as I can beat
feet to the beach and stick my
toe in that salty soup I’m gonna
surf the turf the earth is
covered by the plankton growing
brightly colored blue and green
the stars live there and I will too
ripping off the veil, veneer that
separates us from the deep the sleep
of fishes wishes seahorse riding
food providing current gliding
diving deeper deeper still and
soon I will when I can break this wall
this glass that keeps me holds me
separates me from the real
the wall that lets me see not touch
but one of these days the ways
will be the crazy crazy hang up
hang out break out take me out
let me loose I want to swim just
dive right in and be a part not
in this jar that keeps me out
or in no matter how you spin it
I will win it swim in with the life
the streams the lakes
the seas the ocean
the big deep ocean
Image Credit: http://ahermin.deviantart.com/art/Ink-Sea-52166212
Sunday Scribbling prompt: guidance
tiny bird landed
on my porch today,
shivering feathers puffed
against the cold morning.
I explained the 33rd latitude
is too far north.
he cocked his head to one side
as though to say,
there is no snow
and bird feeders are near.
“easy food is not
always best in the long run.”
I replied.
He shook himself
and flew next door
to sit on a man-made perch
and fill himself
with seed
I waved, sad
to see him go.
Sunday Scribbling prompt: intense
Shadows grow long teeth
Claws scrape asphalt
Bloodless moon drips pallor
Cool sweat crawls down
hunched back
pooling in the small
Flightless wings
Naked hands cover
Sightless eyes as
nothing drowns out
Spirit mutters
Branches moan in
Stillness magnified creaking
Sneaking home
still mulling over challenge day stuff. this feels incomplete…maybe because my thoughts are still incomplete.
Maybe it can count for Sunday Scribbling prompt flashback as it came from flashes of conversations from earlier in the week
We are standing on your corners
with our arms held open wide.
We are running down your hallways.
We are burying your pride.
We are asking why we hunger
while you have more than you need.
We are crying in the darkness,
while you comfortably sleep.
We are walking to the bus stop.
We are playing in the street.
We are mirrors you won’t look at.
You’re a game that we can’t beat.
We can’t meet your expectations.
We don’t even know the rules.
If you think that we don’t see you,
you are shallow, empty fools.
We are growing strong and angry.
We are prices you can’t pay.
You think things will never change,
but we know there’ll come a day.
We don’t love the things that you love.
We resent the things you buy.
You have traded things for our blood,
and your children see and cry.
We are more like them than you are,
and you threw us all away.
You have treated us like garbage,
and you shake your head and say
“We don’t understand your hatred.”
“We don’t get why you don’t care.”
“Don’t you value other people?”
“Is there nothing you will share?”
“Won’t you take care of your children?”
“Won’t you work to get your own?”
“Don’t you dream of doing better,
eating meat, instead of bone?”
We are only what you taught us,
when you turned and looked away,
busy with your grown up dreams -
sleeping dogs no longer lay.
Will you weep for what you once knew?
Will you cry and wonder why?
Will you wish you had done better?
Will you mourn for what has died?
Sunday Scribbling prompt #232 : Clean
I’m willing, I’m lazy
I’m just a little crazy
I’m trying to see
what it’s all about
I’m wiser and older
I’m just a little colder
I’m like a kid filled
with self doubt
Hold on
Clouds roll in
Rain washes me clean
Hold on
All that was barren’s
now green
I don’t have the answers
Not even sure it matters
I Wish I could just
figure it all out
I’m happy then I’m crying
I’m very good at whining
Can’t seem to stay on a
straight and steady route
Hold on
Clouds roll in
Rain washes me clean
Hold on
All that was barren’s
now green
Hold on
See what a
new day will bring
tomorrow comes
and washes me clean
Sunday Scribbling : treatment
How do you treat a subject you write about?
She likes happy ending,
never bending, hero mending,
story that goes on forever.
Little pain and then the fixing.
Wrap it up in love and
glory. That’s the way
she likes the story.
All God’s children say
amen and there’s a sequel,
death don’t win.
She likes life the way
it is. No Photoshop,
don’t jack with real.
Don’t try to deal, just
show the beauty
bigger pores and dark eye
circles. Leave the makeup, stark
and naked, heroes jaded,
faulty, faded. People lie.
The good can die.
Sometimes waiting changes everything
allpoetry.com, Sunday Scribbling prompt#231 wait
Like Elijah in the bible,
he ran as though
life depended on it,
suspended from it.
He was running from
life to an end
of his choosing,
his own way of losing.
No answers, no quick fix,
no way out or bag of tricks,
would make it alright;
make a way out, a way up,
a way back into life,
to his wife to his dreams
that flowed out like
fast streams, wasted down
to the ocean. He ran til
his breath burned and still
found no solace. But one tree
stood tall with good solid
branches, to hold one, to
tie one to fate, and unnoticed
his gone-ness would offer
it’s own apologetics. What
did he believe and was it
all really worth it? He
laid down to rest thinking
after and after, to tie
one good knot and climb
high in the bowers, and one
leap of faithlessness ending
the hours of worry and searching
for answers, for reasons.
To keep on the working, the
trying, the seasons,
and so he did slumber in
shade softly under
the tree which did wonder
why it should be punished?
Should then be remembered
as death’s final say so. It
turned to the sun and in
whispers and pleas found
the answer in grace for the
sun talks to trees, and it’s greenery,
finery, turned into poetry.
Hope and tomorrows
did shower the fellow on
waking, and shaking
the sleep from his eyes and
aware, that he never again
would see skies noticed
leaves filled with light, filled
with words of the world, with
his memories, forgotten and
stashed away folded
like small bits of paper
stuck back in dark cracks
and scuffed up worn roughed up
in old billfolds, reading in wonder,
and tender, and love torn
asunder, he leaned back
on the tree and put his hand on
the bark and said, thank you
and stood. With a last look
he turned and walked back
where he came from, his shoulders
unburdened and next to the base
of the tree now unheeded
unneeded, a small length
of rope slowly covered as wind
blew brown leaves down and
rain washed the tree down
with promise of sunshine
in future tomorrows
Sunday Scribblings Prompt #230: Faith
to you who can
for those who can’t
the call the all the pen
your words can tell
can ring like bells
the heavens sing
your words can ring
through all the earth
and wake the weary
trodden down the dreary
struggle hunger panged
preyed on by fanged
machinery goal
the life the goods
the needs of weaker
hearts that try and start
with hope but end
with dregs while
some will drink their
fill and spill the rest
upon the ground like
so much blood the
ink will flow and
go to kinder ears
who hear the cries
and lies and wisely
heed the words
and be the love
the change the hope
for more and less
that’s needed by
the hopeless needy
empty will you
fill the pages try
and keep on trying
in the face of all love
dying faith will keep
you take you hold you
I would lifted up and
gifted you with words
the only thing I had
to give
we write
to live to bring to life
to paint the world
to love to sing
to breath to fill
the empty places
a riff off a poet here
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