Sunday, January 29, 2012

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.     

Friday, January 27, 2012

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!


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

Thursday, January 26, 2012

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 ...

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

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…

Sunday, January 22, 2012

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

Thursday, January 19, 2012

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
I felt your chest and three final crisp crescendoed thumps

Concerto concluded.


Wednesday, January 18, 2012

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.


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 –

Monday, January 16, 2012

Welcome to the new week!

Sunday, January 15, 2012

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


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.    


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


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

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

"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 Meanderings 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!!!!

Madeline Begun Kane: - Just laugh yourself silly!

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

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

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


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

 ·  ·  ·  · 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 | 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 an international literacy organization.)

Monday, January 9, 2012


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!!!

Sunday, January 8, 2012

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. 

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

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
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


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

Monday, January 2, 2012

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  

Sunday, January 1, 2012

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

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.


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