Skies of blue, whys of blue
Seas of blue, seized by blue
Living the blues, singing the blues,
Preaching the Blues, Tell It
Like It Is, Stormy
Monday.
This was written in response to Twiglet #43 from Misky this morning.
Rain-Bowed
The rain, just a shower, is not quite enough,
and the sun, glimpsed through the clouds,
is not bright enough,
but you know, somehow, that if you look
in just the right spot, the apparition
of a rainbow will appear, even if you question it,
even if you feel compelled to seek confirmation,
even if the pastel half-circle is almost
obscured in the dark of storm clouds to the east.
Cento of Lines from Espaillat and Whitman
Cento of Lines from Espaillat and Whitman
The trouble with the dead is how we need them.
I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
I want to tell myself she is not you,
whose..roses scented [all] my early days.
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it,
[I] shall no longer…look through the eyes of the dead.
Love was never safe; it lives in danger,
[a] country heart anesthetized and mute.
Every atom of my blood formed from this soil,
clear and sweet is all that is…my soul.
The lines in italics are from the following poems by Rhina Espaillat: Cut Bait: Changeling; Gardening and”Find Work.” The unitalicized lines are from Song of Myself (1892 ed.), Parts 1-4.
Poem Ending With a Line From Walt Whitman
Poem Ending With a Line From Walt Whitman
Summer Solstice and I’m remembering
the hill next to my grandfather’s house,
how we would roll down the slope
on warm summer days. Dizzying
spins with no concern for the
half-drunken trek back up to
repeat the process once again.
How I loved the scent of the sun-
warmed lawn and its tickle on
my bare legs as I rolled. Now
when words fail me, my senses
stir memories, faint aromas
of childhood, as I sit on my porch
observing a blade of summer grass*
Written in response to a prompt by Miz Quickly The line comes from Part 1 of Whitman’s Song of Myself.
Masking
A random headline: “To Mask or Not to Mask?”
as if there is any choice now
the mask as a symbol of conflict,
no longer the fun of costume parties,
Halloween trick or treat and the
festive parades of Mardi Gras, the
thrill of going unrecognized, if only
for a moment in time.
This year, no surprises, no candy, no beads.
nothing but a growing realization
of the day by day, day after day
wearying game of pretend.
Pretend you’re busy, pretend you’re
happy, pretend you understand a
world you no longer recognize, but find
you have to face.
Aspirational
Out of darkness, brightness
in these unsettled times.
Our desires met and then
channeled into something more.
Glory, not for ourselves or for
individual souls, but for the
good of all, the attempted
perfection we claim to seek.
Give us power to rise up and
not to waste this moment
where faith meets belief and
darkness has shined its own light.
This was written in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly
The original source poem is this one, which I guess I did not publish here previously.
A Poem Beginning With a Line by Sylvia Plath
Such a waste of brightness, I can’t understand
When the brightness is gone, we finally see
how much of it we wasted
with our small desires and
our wavering faith and
our striving for perfection as
we starved our very souls.
And for what, I wonder.
For the power and the glory
that were there all along
if we only cared to notice.
Now the darkness calls to us,
and how will we understand
that what is coming Is what
has already been?
The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Politics
The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Politics
Too much, too big, too new, too political —
What’s wrong with the old? The unswept room,
the possibility of being surprised by
remembrance?
Staring into the darkness while
healing after loss. Now I think
that only poetry can save us.
This was written in response to a prompt by Miz Quickly in which we were to take inspiration from a book title. Having chosen the Encyclopedia for my title, I had to work in three other titles that also caught my eye: The Unswept Room, The Possibility of Being, and Healing After Loss.
Listen
Do you think I’m eavesdropping or
peeping through your window uninvited?
I’m but a shade at this point, still,
can you feel my gaze and imagine
who I might be and why I’m here?
What I am here to tell you?
Look at me now and listen.
I was you once. The intelligence,
the drive, the clever repartee lost
on those too simple to hear.
Nothing ever changes. He sits there
silent, stolid, indifferent,
while you turn away, craving
your own music, a new life rhythm.
Your best dress wasted tonight. No one
notices and the night advances. Listen
to me. Just grab your shoes and leave
this evening, into the welcoming dark.
Escape from the dull pictures and the
ugly overstuffed chair, the self-satisfied
little man who will miss you, bless his
heart, he will miss you, but more
because you’ve upended things than
because you are you. Nothing will
change, not now, not ever. Except
you if you listen to my advice.
This is in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly.
Woman on top speaking to woman below. 
Jade
No bigger than the fingernail
on my pinkie, the little seed
with so much packed inside
and waiting for the day
when little fingers drop it
carefully into the small hole
dug by Papa in the damp earth.
Now the waiting begins.
First two small leaves, then
more and more appear until
the plant is full of white
blossoms and the hum of bees.
As the blossoms fade, small
pods emerge, growing day by day.
Soon small fingers will pick the long
green beans called “jade” like the gem.
So many and so delicious.
This was written in response to a prompt by Miz Quickly
My Summer Vacation
We are going on vacation,
a drive this time, not a flight
through the clouds like cotton balls
level with our aluminum wings.
We leave early in the morning, driving
west, away from the velvet glow of
the rising sun and into the promise
of a highland adventure.
The smaller mountains come into
view first, sturdy and thick with trees.
Hawks circle as we approach, riding
the wind between the peaks.
The pass, invisible at first, then an
indistinct cleft, a dark space
opening wider and welcoming
us as we tunnel between the slopes.
Farther down the highway, a small
rockslide, just large enough to cause
a roadblock, forcing us to detour,
our alternate route a new adventure.
Soon the mountains grow taller,
and their tops barren and stony,
cutting into the surrounding clouds
almost like the blade of a knife.
Eagerly, we approach the highest peak.
The car climbs and climbs,
slowing as it strains into
the steep ascent to the lookout.
And suddenly — our mountaintop moment —
the world spreads beneath us in
a perspective never seen before,
a velvet infinity of green and
precious gold.
This was written in response to a prompt from Miz Quickly
Visit Cuba
“Visit Cuba,” you can hear her say,
her voice soft, yet compelling
a wholesome smile on her fresh and open face,
an expression well-practiced for the tourist trade.
Maracas poised on high above billowing sleeves
the sky-blue neckerchief playing peek-a-boo
with the unfastened white shirt, her
trousered legs at jaunty angles impossible
to replicate in real life (especially
in those shoes)
The hat, the earrings, familiar enough, yet
somehow captivating. “ So near and yet
so foreign.” And all of it, every bit,
only 90 miles from Key West!
This was written for a visual prompt from Miz Quickly
Raven Redux 