Category: Poetry

I Miss Winter Already

I miss winter already.

I miss the dark and brooding skies,

As I look up through bare branches hanging overhead.

I miss the mist and the cold wind against my face,

And pulling my coat and my scarf a bit closer around me,

And my hat tightly down over my ears.

I miss the hard, hard rain,

Soaking through my pant legs and my boots.

Although it’s barely spring,

I miss the long nights of storms blowing through from the east,
Rattling both shutters and awakening my fears.

I miss finding comfort in piles of quilts and wool.

Even the soft light of spring seems too harsh, too bright.

I’m not ready. I’m not prepared for what is exposed in this light that comes even through clouds.

Though there are a million other beautiful things about spring,

I miss winter already.

Hope blooms eternal in the hearts of the young…

Bleeding hearts

And my heart breaks that they, the young, will have to have their hearts smashed and crushed. And because of hope, they will go down there again and again.

Learn not to hope, learn not to believe. Turn down the flickering, weak lights of love.  Turn them down. Love has no strength. Like a flower that opens in the Sun, it turns to dust in the cold, cruel darkness of night.

Reality then comes in like harsh light. Too strong for love. Love runs. It disappears, it seems, as soon as it appears and then vanishes.

You’ll find that I’m right. I will be there to take you in my arms while you cry bitter tears. But only time will teach you what I already know.

So I cry for you, as you hope for what can never be.

Ode to the Fat Squirrel  (Amy Beth)

As I watched you…

I could almost feel the warm midwest winter sunshine on your hair.

Your hair is the colors of burnished bronze, copper, and gold. Some strands are thick and lustrous as if made of spun silver.

Unruly, some with a mind of their own are spiraling away from the rest, up into the air with a strong sense of whimsy in defiance of gravity.

Flecks of dust are flying around your head in a ray of sun, animated by the air, stirred by the swish of wool and cotton.

Beautiful visuals punctuated by laughter.

I loved it all on this cold, wet, dark day in Portland on the west coast.

Wordsmith: Enora Hall

I watch a lot of knitting podcasts because I’m a knitter. I love some, and some I don’t love. The Fat Squittel falls into the former…  in my list of top five, she’s hard to beat.

She’s intelligent, well-read, informed, and always filled with abundant humor. There’s beauty that isn’t unfounded in other podcasts, but there’s something rare in the presentation… in the filming, in her talent as a textile artist.

Once, I thought I was writing to her to tell her of my appreciation, but sent it unknowingly to some random poster writing about Mary Todd Lincoln. Thankfully,  someone commented on my comment, and the lost poem was found. Here you have it.

Poet… Why?

Why do you write in words and phrases that hide in dark obscurity.

Is writing plainly so unappealing?

Unless my mind short circuits are you less profound?

Is it because your search for strange bedfellows in metaphors makes you feel more like your imagined idea of poetry?

I would rather that your words conjure visions and not a puzzle to interpret falsly or incidentally incorrectly?

Don’t you want me to peck and find and gobble your meaning like birds hunting seeds among the tall grass, the pebbles and dust?

I don’t mind the work, but at least make it worth my while.

Poor Messed Up Fox

My fox was brand new

All shiny of hue,

‘Til I found it had puntured

The bottom of my shoe.

Unbeknownst to me,

I had walked a mile or two,

And scraped the poor thing,

‘Til it’s black and it’s blue.

When I Retired

This is it. The jumping off point.

The edge. The letting go. The possibilities. My first solo flight.

A toast to everything that held my hand; held me together; provided security.

But this is the time of whatever, whenever.

I’ll trust my wings, my heart, my desires.

Salud!

(PS: Written nine years ago today, I sat in a candlelit bar, having walked out of work for the last time. With a drink in hand, it was a dark and rainy day. I was alone in my reverie. Tears of joy, of fear, of the unknown? Looking back, I have no regrets.

Short-lived Era to Make Me New

Broken Dreams and Promises

1966… a baby in my back pocket.

I rode out on a wave never to return, at least not as before.

Looking for more than what was enough for those happy for the end of war.

Old enough to work, to make my own way, old enough to make my own mistakes.

A road less traveled, by I. Golden hair and flowered shirts, light shows, smoke filled rooms and poetry.

Walking barefoot in the parks, lying under the trees hoping there was more.

Dismayed by offerings of a world gone mad, finding it’s always been bad. How sad.

Yet joy was found in promises of change that never came. And pot to wake me up to possibilities and LSD to blow my mind.

To help me find a new way of imagining a new way of living.

While Lying in the Hammock

It’s just past noon on the summer solstice.

For days it’s been cool and raining.

Everything is just a bit damp.

While the temperature is climbing,

The hammock is calling.

I answer the call and lay down,

and I gaze upwards.

The sky is so blue it’s an impossible shade of purple.

The leaves are every shade of green,

From black where little light can reach,

Under the dense branches,

To chartreuse where the leaves shine against the sky,

Almost translucent where sunlight amicably tries to penetrate.

I think I’ll just lie here for a while.

After all, the warmth and beauty are mesmerizing.