Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Observation


Observation

Are you captured
by the deep green
or the lack of it.

Is this a
two-tone design
or a fortunate accident?

Do you see the
individual parts or
just lights and darks?

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Thursday, June 22, 2017

Periodical Cicadas


Periodical Cicadas

Have you heard the buzz?
Seventeen years in the making.
The cicadas were underground
sipping the sap until they
got the cue to come out
and sing for us.

The prompt for this poem was bugs.

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Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Surviving a Storm


Surviving a Storm

Rain hit the house,
thrown by the force
of the wind.

Whooossshhh!
The only time I'd
heard that sound
was when a
limb came down.

Not this time.
Only scattered debris
came off the trees.

But, in the garden,
two stalks of
a coneflower stretched
out on the ground.
A pink blossom was
spattered with mud.

The plant did not
seem to be broken.
Perhaps, it did
what it had to do
to survive.

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Thursday, June 15, 2017

Midnight


Midnight

We talk about
the dawn of day,
the rising sun
escorted by
streaks of color.

The real change
occurs hours before,
marked by
the tick of a clock.

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Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Watch for Me


Watch for Me

I take a peek
at the world.
A side splits
and gives a preview
of my rich redness.
Watch for me to open.
Once I'm on display,
I'm gone within a day.

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Thursday, June 8, 2017

Immigration


Immigration

The backyards meet
and are divided by
a fence, a wire wall
with many openings.

The neighbors
planted tiger lilies
that crossed this border
and took up residence
on my property.

I welcomed them.
Their beauty was
reason enough, but
they also brought back
memories of
my aunt and uncle;
my first home, and
the orange blossoms
that lined the driveway.

I wonder if  
different owners
thought the plants
moved from my yard
into theirs. If so,
did they complain
that these lilies
didn't belong there?
I hope not.
Why should it matter
where the flowers came from
when all they did was
enhance the landscape?

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Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Harvest


Harvest

As I work in the garden,
poems are self-sowing.
They grow among the flowers.
Begin as colors, shapes and sizes.
Have a certain posture.
They blossom in different ways.
Burst out at me or unfold slowly.
Then, the time comes to cut them down.

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Thursday, June 1, 2017

Downed


Downed

The trees have fallen.
What brought them down?
Was it sickness, people, wind?
Even if we knew, we couldn't
stand them up again.
The best we can do
is let them rest.

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Tuesday, May 30, 2017

Stage Fright


Stage Fright

The hands hover above the keyboard.
They hesitate to start.
They know the notes by heart,
but are afraid to touch the keys.
The hands hover, waiting for
the mind to let them play.

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Thursday, May 25, 2017

Pieces


Pieces

I have fallen
from the plant,
an entity detached,
no longer part
of that whole.

Yet, I am still
myself--a little faded
but needle sharp.

I lie in dirt
made of bits
worn from the rocks.
We are pieces
put together to
make a new puzzle.

The prompt for this was pieces.

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Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Lost


Lost

The old writer walked around.
Her pencil fell to the ground
and landed without a sound.
She conjured words so profound,
a poem she thought would astound.
Her pencil could not be found.
Sadness settled in her heart.
The lost art was what would hound.

This is a Welsh form: cyrch a chwta.

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Thursday, May 18, 2017

Potential


Potential

I have not
fully come
to life, but
I have more
than a start.
Enough blooms
 to catch the
eye, but still
more to open.
Who knows?
They may be
the best of all.


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Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Summer's Song


 Summer's Song

The roar of the mowers
forever fills the air.
Morning, afternoon and
evening, the tune
plays more often
than the hottest 45
did during the
payola scandals.
Time for us all to
take a few classes
and learn to plant
native grasses.

The prompt for this poem is forever.

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CloudBursT Jewish Poetry Event--May 21





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Thursday, May 11, 2017

Favorite Photo


Favorite Photo

A mother chases her
toddler who runs
across the front lawn.
The scene is captured
in a photograph.

Years later, the former
toddler looks through
a box of old pictures.
She remembers the one
of the chase scene,
which is a favorite.

She notices several
other photos in which
someone seems to be
holding her in place.
She never has been
able to settle down.

The prompt for this poem was to choose a memory to write about.

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Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Life and Death


Life and Death

There is a beginning,
a heartbeat that starts.

What comes next
is a mystery.
Music and light,
silence and darkness
repeat in different measures.

The beginning leads to the end.
We don't know where or when,
but it is the one certainty.

This came from another two-for prompt.

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