in the Field of Anguish

in the Field of Anguish

In the Field of Anguish a young round bellied girl-woman walks without volition

stumbling, soft bare feet tremble on damp earth, volcanic shocks surround, in

inescapable embrace, rising deep within,  a single purposed  searing spark

flares,  in a conflagration of womb filled  flame. Her hard held frozen serenity

surrenders into panicked run as all boundaries known  shimmer permeable,

surreal,  and at the precipice of crescendoed inescapable consequence fall - as

she slides through the sodden scream soaked  field of Anguish into the silent

gentle sun slanted Meadow of Bliss - sweet velvet grass cradling new life, each

sense focused in this peace stilled moment silent but for that solitary sparkled

cascading cerulean cry of fresh life born from the now forgotten 

Field of Anguish.     

The road not really wanted to be taken and later thoughts

The road not really wanted to be taken and later thoughts

Father was an adventurer took us on a narrow Scott Paper forest-lumber trail in deepest Maine dark and barely wide-enough for our car

Mother in the front seat dimness falling all around her held tightly to the door handle feet clenched up on the dash and shouted she did not like this – Stop! it was too dark, too far!

"TURN THE CAR AROUND" SHE SHRILLED "I CANNOT STAND THIS DARK!"

FATHER SMILED AND SAID "RELAX THERE IS NOWHERE TO TURN OR PARK."

"BACK UP THEN!  GET ME OUT OF THIS (flippin) SCOTT PAPER FOREST PASS

And so dear reader, it is such gentle thoughts, that still inevitably whisper and drift 
whenever I wipe my a _ _ _!

On the road to awakening

On the road to awakening…

wake to the sense of self – count the numbers

of my years – shake the shock – manacle the melancholy

turn in the softness of feathered bed to the gentle winding

road - to the cool place within – scented with something unnamed

frangipangi, an incense tree – something spicy and soft, surround

greenery draped dripping in splendid scented abundance over simple

cedared shack sides shining in shafted filigreed light - comfort cooing

in the emerald wetted greenery – clean perfectly calibrated air – 

deep breaths -cool water poured on the burning parts, 

deep breaths, embracing strength of presence kneads the tight parts – 

deep breaths – flow - loose- ready - now

for the road I am supposed to accept as real – open eyes and smile ...

4 Poems about Friends of Friends

In the land of Friends of Friends

In the land of friends of friends

There so-called allies bump and

meet and smile limpid smiles

In the land of friends of friends

Safety sanctioned social

equanimity –  yet footfalls

separate and strangeness drifts

In the echoed land of friend of friends

Where surrendered secrets slip

in intimacy as second handled commodity  

********************************************

The Other Woman

She was sleek

and polished

glowing from bottom

To top

Designed and designered

Chatting up the dear one

Prompting peals

of manufactured laughter

From the dear one

Whose claim check

For such things disdained

Dissolved –

Damp dust in an open palm

***********************************************

his other friend

He said

she was

a friend

then again

he thought

that about

me too

She apparently

was a

friend to his

lips, his thrusting

tongue, his hands

in her hair

in his car

that once

drove me

around the block

when I asked

**************************************

Fourth Grade

Her name was Karen

Her hair was golden

and she had cornflower

blue eyes – my father

called them this

and he was an artist

and knew color

and she was my

friend – apple cheeked

and sweet too

like the time she

came in and told

my family we all

looked “homely”

meaning “homey” and

blushed bright red

when she realized

her mistake

that was in third grade

In fourth she met

Jimmy and he was

a “hunk” on our

private out of school

vocabulary list

he was the first

boy she ever liked

being so quiet

and shy – you

could tell he liked

her corn-flower blue

eyes as mine burned

green and at lunch

time on the second

day I sat down

right next to Jimmy

and being far more

experienced in the

world of boys

stared directly

into his eyes

and drew him away

she never said anything

and I never forgot

nor could reason why…

One Single Impression - Prompt 204 - Smile

intoned in trilled song
though heart may be (bleed) breaking
through all a still smile

In Ashen - Wordle #40

In Ashen

In the graying City of Ashen they tell of times when young

Sister Knack rose - one early dew struck dawn, rose

early between the crush of sisters one on each side

and from neath her pillow palmed the purloined Whispering

Charm with purest instinct for passions urges fire wished her

sallow sisters light and heat and flame of purpose, implored

with eyes squinched shut -please- until flung scald wide at bony shards 

of sudden cindered sisters struck her naked arms in their drift swirling

the cold room as rose petal scatter about her head lighting her

small mystic shoulders -  in that bed alone that morning in the

graying City of Ashen where they tell the story as warning

of colors conflagration

Chariots around the corner

Chariots around the corner


Swing low
Swing high
Sweet Chariots
White horses
Taking you home
Taught me the song
as a tiny curled haired
little girl essed into
your side on the couch
where we listened
to music so loud
the the apartment
walls shifted
your paintings
and my heart trembled

Swing Low
Swing High
I sung - woman
now, kneeling
on your bed fingers
intertwined with yours
No chariots
cornered the
bedsheets on
that hot august day
You on high
white pillows
gentle sighs
of sweet oxygen
our metronome
You, my still strong
raven haired father.
I never felt the bones
that sent the
others skittering
from the room
only muscle
and brawn and
beauty still yesterday
as all fell softly silent
hours melting you in morphine
mist as you lifted your arms
and to the remembered
violin concerto of
my tiniest girlhood
you began to conduct yourself
with eyes closed, a satiated smile glowing
you raised up, turned up your head in ecstasy
and on a long apricot scented sigh - stepped
Elsewhere
I felt your chest and three final crisp crescendoed thumps

Concerto concluded.

Goodbye,
Daddy
Goodbye.

Red penned

Red penned

in the slanted light of the teachers’ room she sat
paper flat before her bleeding -she patted an
invisible escaped strand from her tied back hair
centered her glasses, straightened her white
shirted starched shoulders and waited for the
girl who had written Dere Teecher I think I can trust you
with my problem. I coold not have the baby from the bad
ting that happened wid my mama’s husbend. I cannot sleep
Pleese if you be kind like you seem you is . .. I can meet
you in the teechers’ room to talk. Thank you if you do
take your preshious time I am gratefull.

Sinceerly,

She sat in the slanting sun and watched as the door opened
And as the door opened in the slanting sun she lifted the flat
paper running in red correction and said calmly. There were
many errors in your paper to me and the assignment was to
write about a mistake in judgment. I had no choice but to
give you, as you see, an F. I think you must get assistance
with your corrections - they are many and serious.
In the slanting sun the girl took the paper from the woman
with the clear grey eyes, took the bleeding paper and said
with high head and stiff back “Thank you – I try better, for
next time,” shut the door silently behind her and walked home
again, as always –
Again.
Reply

Welcome to the new week!

Three Sunday Morning "Vain" Poems*

The following three poems were written inspired from by the following words provided by 

The Sunday Whirl courtesy of Henry Thoreau's Walden via Barbara Yates Young  

vain, dotted, dormant, reel, kneeling, surface, still  

spectacle, depth, resolution, contemplate, broad, crisp

1- IN THE VAIN

In The Vain,  dotted with dormant putrification of consequential action sprung to pustulating spectacle - they, the legions  of crisp charred flesh,  reel, exposed in true burned bare form - kneeling on the surface of the broad road - the stench of careless flung hatred, scorn, vapid lethal indifference, the depth of their former indifference powerless as a bubble on the air -  now they stare at the ruin of idled hands and contemplate in ribbons of finally felt pain their resolution to do better, oh so far better, in the future of a never promised tomorrow.    

2- OH YES YOU'RE SO VAIN*

oh yes, you're so vain

just like the song - surface still
spectacle - kneeling

on the dotted rug

to contemplate your broad face

check resolution

in the mirrored floor

gauging depth of expected

reel. Crisp you rise

3- DRAINED OF VAIN

On the still lake there at the edge she stands

Watching the v dotted flight of Canada geese

As all senses coalesce tumbling on the verge

of reel force her gently unfolding down drained of vain

To kneeling on the surface of the spectacle of

The depth of life sweeping through the crisp new

Morning air its depth too chasmic to contemplate

Despite her broad intention as she walked bare footed

Chilled in her dotted night dress to contemplate

On the still lake

"Imagine" has won the Liebster Award!!

As promised here are the further details about the Liebster and announcements of the winners I have chosen!!!

Barbara Ehrentreu has bestowed this honor on me. Liebster is German for "favorite" or "dearest" and “dearest” is most definitely an adjective I’d reach for first for Barbara and favorite – well I think everyone knows how I feel about her character Carolyn Samuels and her new novel If I Could Be Like Jennifer Taylor.  Barbara’s blog is as delightful as is she and I am constrained by the rules of this award not to recommend back to her but nothing can stop me from encouraging you to enjoy yourself and get right over to

Barbara’s Meanderingshttp://barbaraehrentreu.blogspot.com/ So thank you to the former fellow Long Islander, whose hugs I feel everytime I read a post of hers although we have never met in “actual space” she is as Anne of Green Gables would say a “kindred spirit” and as we might say today a soul sistah” of the highest degree. I have shamelessly lifted the description of this award from Barbara’s posting to me as follows:

The intention of this award is to draw attention to blogs worthy of note, currently without a lot of followers, and a condition of acceptance is to post it and share it with five other blogs. It can't go back to the person who bestowed it on you or the one who bestowed it on them so you have to choose without them.

I do agree with Barbara that picking a blog is very very difficult.  I have chosen those blogs that have given and continue to give me personal pleasure and that I find have become an integral part of my life.  Although the idea is to spotlight blogs without too many followers, I felt I had to make an exception and include Poetic Asides and Robert Brewer, since it was Poetic Asides where I submitted my first poetic posting. 

Here are my choices and it was very difficult to make them!

Rosemary Nissen-Wade: Tanka on Tuesday: - Meet some of the most talented and delightful world-wide haiku and tanka poets and photographers!!!!

 https://www.facebook.com/groups/tankaontuesday/

Madeline Begun Kane: - Just laugh yourself silly!

http://www.madkane.com/humor_blog/category/limerick-offs/

Robert Lee Brewer: - Homage to the blog and the editor who inspired me to submit my first online poem

http://www/writersdigest.com/editor-blogs//poetic-asides


Claudette J. Young : - You will be hard-pressed to find a more talented, experienced, or kind writer or wise woman!

http://claudsy.blogspot.com/

Jane Penland Hoover: Absolutely stunning photographs and delight-full poetry.

http://jpenstroke.wordpress.com

CONGRATULATIONS
LIEBSTERS!

ROBERT LEE BREWER COMMENT TRIBUTE TO PROMPTED & COMMUNITY

Poetic Asides, Prompted, an International Collection of Poems | WritersDigest.com

www.writersdigest.com

On the Poetic Asides blog, Robert Lee Brewer introduces a Poetic Asides member anthology and asks some questions about a possible Poetic Asides event.

 ·  ·  · Share · 30 minutes ago

• • 
    

    Pearl Ketover Prilik 
    

    Pearl Ketover Prilik Please check out Robert Lee Brewer's delightful post over at Poetic Asides about our anthology -
    Prompted, an International Collection of Poems | WritersDigest.com along with an RLB suggestion for an exciting potential event as well. This comment is truly a moving, heart-warming tribute to the Poetic Asides community at large, and to the 40 poets from this group who got together in a "cooperative collaborative effort" ... I am simply delighted to be editor/contributing poet to this collection. THANK YOU ROBERT! ♥
    
    (reminder: commercial profits from this collection are being donated to LitWorld.org an international literacy organization.)

MY BLOG WON THE LIEBSTER AWARD!!!

BARBARA EHRENTREU - dear cyber-friend and author of If I Could Be Like Jennifer Taylor, a wonderful YA novel has bestowed the Liebster Award to my blog. THANK YOU - I am so very touched! This award is passed along and Barbara has just been awarded the same ... I can certainly understand why Barbara would be awarded something that involves dearest or favorite... as you neatly step and snuggle within both those adjectives for me! I am delighted to receive this award and will be thinking long and hard which five blogs will be my choices. 


Stay tuned for my dearest/favorite blogs!


Actually, a quick note here - I truly think such awards are important and truly - delight- full!!!

WORDLE #38 - Nearly Forgotten

Nearly Forgotten

There, in the night, swaddled in fetid blankets of Constraint before the blackened Hearth of deceited Realism – she lay.  Clean and still-young-eyes-wide open

Stray bits fluttering through the thatched roof. 

There in that dirted-dark-night- pressed by the breathing of them all inhaling her future,
drooling the spittle of her spill-stolen dreams, she lay. In final furtive flash she stood, silently slipped the bloodied feet of slumbered siblings.
Out on soft feet over smooth stones to/through the hanging gate.
There bubbling bounced from the tips of ambered fingers of almost-dawn, thousands of forestalled and trodden possibles floating toward the edge of the dropped horizon of Forgotten. 

Reclaimed now with wide-armed, glorious, greedy, gladdened grope,
as flush-filled fresh- she runs – through wetted meadows,
first clear-light-sun streaming in her hair flowing freed toward the shimmer of Rebuild. 

Unstoppable Forces - 2 Poems

The Unseen

He taught the toddler girl to sing

Swing Low Swing High

Sweet chariots and all that coming for to

carry him home

and yet when his time came there was no swinging

no sweet chariots

not even a single white horse pounding

Simply

a tornadoed coalescence of the collective Universe

there obscured from the toddler girl, now grown

obscured, but felt in an escaped tendril of a tenfolded tsunami

as he, ready, stood, shoulders squared, blocking her view

his bare feet solid on the precipice of All

now seen, now blowing his hair back flat against

his skull as pure power inhaled him

whole

*****************************************************************

Just a little giggle at dinner

it started as a giggle

at the table there that night

sitting in our dinner clothes

hair combed, ribboned,

pomaded, shoes shined

from head to toe just right

it started as a giggle

between a brother and a sister

and ended with erupted gales of laughter

and Mother’s “You will now leave this table mister”


******************************************************************

The Watermelon

Practiced breathing
panting and all that
meditating with thumb
and forefinger in the
soft sunned air
Ready to ride the
waves as turquoised seas

Until the watermelon shifted
and meditation flew out
the window – a long billed scream
as she pushed that misplaced
watermelon – splatting she was sure
against the white-washed wall

Happy birthday Daddy

I hug you hard and
All that, shovels, dirt
Long ago and melted in
an August heat dream
Here the realitied
You, present strong
Everywhere as you
Said it should be
Here in my still time- bound instant
watching - the thick bare branches wave
the cerulean sky dotted with
a single red cardinal for
a pop of contrasted color
You smile in familiar incarnationed
eyes, darker, deeper.
A flash of sun beamed platinum hair to
show me how it might
have been,  your mustache
tickle- soft against my neck as you hug
me back hard
And a flock of Canada geese
pass overhead

I breathe you
happy birthday  

Writing Our Way Home Small Stones - January 2012

The river of stones is a mindful writing challenge. Properly notice one thing each day, and write it down. 

Click here to find out more about this wonderful project

Writing Our Way Home writingourwayhome.ning.com/

Following find my contributions to this year's river of stones - 

-Namaste - 

In the dark - light bright on computer screen - brighter within - warming cold hands, the softness of red flannel against a throat just slightly sore, no party hats, or champagne, just this simple flannel embrace, eyes softly heavy - ready now - for sweet sleep.

January 1st, 2012

**********************************************************************************

January 2nd, 2012
In the mirror that was my grandmother's once the big marsh tree's thick bare branches wave in the wind against a clear blue cold sky - brown, blue , and piled on pleasant plumpness pile of bright white new shammed pillows that will crisply make my bed on this my father's birthday. The IPAD on my nightstand black against its clean white cord is freed and I write feeling him all around me in and of everything just as he always old me it would be.
**********************************************************************************

January 3rd, 2012

With one eye closed the bulbed light from the lamp warms - bright and clear enough to be the Caribbean sun- no longer longed for in this quiet wood furnitured study - cold wind whistling out nearby black windows the sounded ping of heat pulsing through the radiators. With closed eyed breath the wind is surf, rolling gently toward and away, and back to claim me again. I need not leave, even with eyes open to be where I want to be - all is perception.

*********************************************************************************

GIRLS IN PLUM SWEATERS

jks Lola

Girls in Plum Sweaters

what can girls in plum sweaters
be expected to know of loss
as they pass the shovel among friends -
unorated letters on pretty stationary drift
in the wind - as earth hard-hits the coffin
inside - sweatered pruning friend on white satin - 
outside they - fresh as dropped stitches 
from a single skein of yarn
knitting a forever hole 
girls in plum sweaters,
dirt under fingernails
cold wind in their 
fresh washed hair