Drifting in the wind,
a leaf.
Aged. Hardened.
Alone.
Not here.
Not there.
Each gust of wind blowing.
Taking it away, to bring it back.
Only to start again.
Until someone comes.
Carries it away.
To a different place.
Where it is left.
Broken. Shredded. Crushed.
Just enough left to notice.
What it once might have been,
When it was still green.
Lush.
Not taken for granted.
Or left forgotten.
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Written after a trip to a nursing home…
When the music moves the chef and the menu
I can not help but rock to the venue,
I grate and wind and fold and dip, all while cooking and that’s just my hips
Serving Foie gras to a Beyoncé bass beat?
I’ve played Metallica while serving Crème brûlée sweet.
I sway to a strawberry’s single sweet soliloquy
As I would to any doo-wop’s three-part harmony
My sifter sounds like maracas, the water running is backup hum,
And I’ll drop them all in heartbeat to do a Phil Collin’s air drum
Notes ringing crystal clear as an opera singer
Are like the perfect bite whose flavors linger
The perfect flavors require as much of a chef’s orchestration
As any conductor pulling together a musical temptation
And I dance as I chop and I chop as I sing and I sing as I fry, it’s a symbiotic thing
I can not help but rock to the venue,
When the music moves the chef and the menu
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Written for
Poetry Picnic Week 32: Topics on Twitter.com
Source Tweet: When Music Moves The Chef And The Menu
To those not familiar with Phil Collins I included a link to the reference within the poem. While the specific drum solo starts after the 5:00 mark, you really should listen to the entire song to get the full feel on why any of us familiar with the song will drop almost everything when that part comes to do the air drum.
She locks them down deep in her heart
The pains that are much to hard to bear
Not knowing pains are living things
They too have a need of air
She paces back and forth
As her soul rips at the seams
The pains try to find a voice
But she suppress the urge to scream
The pains search in vain
Desperate for way to be heard
But not computer, pen or paper
Is touched to give her pains words
But pains are a force of nature
Pains finds a way to succeed
As she picks up a straight razor
And in little cuts starts to bleed
And but for a short moment
The pains do ease inside
Covers the cuts in long sleeves
A whole new way to hide
For days, weeks, months, on end
She and her pains do this odd dance
She suppressing the cuts of evidence
As pains sneak out when they gets the chance
And all the lies rapidly collected
To give her scars a blame
Only cuts deeper than the physical cuts
That can’t quell her personal shame
She refused to reach out
To those offering her their hand
But she just wasn’t ready
Wasn’t prepared to understand
That to accept help was not a weakness
On the strong who reach out survive
But in her head only pains say she’s living
That only the pains keep her alive
Over a year on a late summer night
The clock ticks about a quarter to four
And finds that’s she’s still cutting
Alone on the bathroom floor
And for the first time she sees her arms
The crisscrossing along her inner thighs
The fresh blood trickling from her wrist
And for the first time she truly cries
The avoided mirror reflects all her hurts
Only as painful as the eyes can see
At last her pains have found a voice
And now owned will not let her be
It suddenly felt like so many hands were on her
More than what could possibly be real
It was heart reaching out to all who touched her
Desperate for a chance to finally heal
For the heart’s not made to hold pain for so long
And her pains no longer had the patience to wait
Freed at last it gushed through every avenue
She’d finally reached out, but it was too late
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Entered in:
Them! She turns and points out to the ones
Sons of a son who once harmed her young dear
Years paid with glee at her blatant lying
Sighing, I check her on the list with ease
Please help! My child dies! A mom screams and begs
Dregs! Responds the suit ignoring her needs
Pleads we just can’t fund this, now close the doors!
Scores the suit on my list for lies, the fool
Cool water sprinkles her newly done face
Placed perfectly by the surgeon’s hand
Grand, she still wants a little done right there
Unaware her name has just been marked down
Frowns cross his brow as he simply just stares
Dares himself to leave her, just walk away
“Staaaay” purrs a voice not his wife and he smiles
While I write his name to my dossier
Beware! Fists comes down on unaware face
Trace the tears that fall along with his goal
Rolls the jewelry he’s craved so deep inside
Snide for a moment, I check off his name
Same old, same old she says with a sneer
Leers at the ones who can’t afford her styles
Smiles as she plied with even more trite things
Brings her to my list with renowned due haste
Waste best described most indolent ways
Staying far from hard work Oh she’ll try
Dry her nails is the most effort given
Livin’ as though, I can’t check one more name
Blame? I have none the choice made is their path
Wrath, Greed, Pride, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth,
Cloths my claim for the dark souls of theirs
Care not on the cause for their deadly sin
In smiling silence, add names to my list
Gist? Your name could be added next, ahem!
Did anyone notice the pattern? This poetic form is called a Rime Enchainée. The pattern of the Rime Enchainée is very simple – the last word of each line rhymes with the first word of the following line, and the last word of the last line rhymes with the first word of the first line, bringing the form back full circle.
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There were the songs she sang for lovers
There were the songs she sang for the souls departed
There were the songs she sang for dreamers
This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted
Joshua Kadison / Vanishing America – El Diablo Amor
She’ll parcel out her song as is her right
But they come to see her every night
To listen to her words in the smoky light
Audience of eight or a hundred and one
Captivated by whatever music is spun
For all the pain, all the joy she uncovers
With an opus of her choice
To the last trill of her voice
A soft lingering note that gently hovers
There were the songs she sang for lovers
With wail of discord or a comforting tune
Her voice shrieking notes high or the low of bassoon
Her words soft in true tribute or mocking lampoon
Be it last year, last week or just the other day
From the memories of love from those passed away
Full of the hope from sage’s last wisdom imparted
Whether the brief friendship or the closest of kin
A personal memorial from her to them
Who now walk paths only the heavens have charted
There were the songs she sang for the souls departed
Just believe love will come all bright, shiny and new
Or your craziest wish will certainly come true
From her song, nothing is impossible to do
Twinkle with the moonbeams and become a new fish
Or savor the flavor of a favorite dish
From a childhood feast full of rambunctious screamers
We’ll have naught of ye olde stodgy civilities
Take a chance with infinite possibilities
Life is a parade complete with shiny streamers
There were the songs she sang for dreamers
The audience’s mood takes a moment to gauge
Before setting a tempo designed to assuage
And all from the comfort of the dim, smoky stage
Whether an upbeat tempo or sad notes that swooned
Pure heartbreak is heard no matter what song is crooned
She always seems to know when love has been thwarted
Each table has candles lit in a glass that’s clear
Maybe the soft light glistened off my single tear
One look at my face and she knew that love had parted
This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted
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Glosa poetic form
The Glosa is a Spanish form that also works well in English. Glosas open with a quatrain from another poet, called the cabeza, followed by four ten-line stanzas terminating with the lines of the initial cabeza in consecutive order. The sixth and ninth lines of each stanza rhyme with the borrowed tenth line and is the only required rhyme of the poem. There is no set meter or syllable count for a Glosa, however, a good flow is always recommended.
Entered in:
Thursday Poets Rally Week 61 (January 25-Feb 3, 2012)
Poetry Picnic Week 23: New York Times Headline Topics
Inspired by NYT article: Sounds That Come From in the Head and on the Street
Already restless, I had turned to my favored place to seek peace. I had knelt beneath the moonlit branches of the tree, letting nightingale song wash over me, when I am summoned and know not why. I am told his mood is strange. I have but moments to prepare myself, yet not test the goodwill of he who summons. Moonlight shines through the blossoming trees as I ride on the mare provided. Not finding my favorite combs, I hastily extend a hand to snatch blossoms, hoping their beauty compensates. The same moonlight shows the hurried manner of my dress.
The bright moon of night
Shines on all that can help you
And all that can harm
I breathe deep the scent of local flora as I ride along. Perfect gardens seen off in the distance are soothing. The road I travel is not. I knew not the king had returned from his sojourn; let alone have chance to know the cause this distress. The lumps I feel are more than mere nervousness. The not gentle roads jangle already frayed thoughts. My king who places a premium on the upholding of traditions, entrusts me with its upkeep. A delicate balance accomplished too well. Hours spent side-by-side this past year, yet he knows naught. My heart as improper as the lack of grace of a more appropriate attire. The night is as dark as my mood. My beloved moonlight bears me not a cheer.
The trickle of fear
Thorns that can grow sharp within
As well as without
I take in the increasing view of the palace up ahead. Its peaks rise in golden tones as though the setting sun cached its luminescence there for the night and comes now to collect upon rising. My king acknowledges my kneeling by kneeling himself. He kneels! To me! His rough, beefy hand a contrast to my pale delicate fingers. I am shocked by his most gentle of touch – our first physical contact. Ever. An embroidered gown placed in my arms, he bows. He bows! The gown is of a refinement only she who will become queen can wear. Characters of my name intricately stitched within its fine threads. My missing combs, now jewel encrusted, nervously placed on top. And like this new day, it dawns on me. He knows. He reciprocates. All protocol cast aside at our second physical contact ever – our first kiss.
Deep shades of gold sun
Extend like love’s warm fingers
Dawn a brand new day
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Entered in:
Poetry Picnic Week 33: Fortresses, Castles, Palaces and Royal houses
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I’m longing for the feel of spring;
The walls are closing on this room.
The fresh snowfall does not joy bring;
I want flowers in blush of bloom.
Oh, morning bluebird please come sing,
and chase away the winter gloom.
I’m longing for the feel of spring;
The walls are closing on this room.
As the phoenix’s prayer doth cling,
Of rising from the ashes womb;
I long to escape from this tomb.
Oh, just a glimpse one green thing!
I’m longing for the feel of spring.
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Entered in
A warm summer’s sunset out on the shore
Water filters sunlight as golden ore
Gently subdued, perfectly cued
To order the beautiful night in store
Evening spent with the one I adore
It sets a mood, but one to brood
I know these are the cusp of summer’s days
Each growing shorter as it gently sways
With each downed sun, into autumn
A sense of farewell drifts upon the haze
And Fall’s aspect settles into phase
It has begun, yes it’s begun
She reaches out and pulls me close to hear
Her former words now ringing crystal clear
Reminded twice, this was her vice
She pushes back and I must face my fears
For the first time ever seeing her tears
That turn to ice, pure drops of ice
A sense of welkin shows before my eyes
As sudden snow storm transforms her disguise
then my heart aches, oh how it breaks
As Winter Aspect clears the stormy skies
And is called to home even while she cries
Each love she takes, she must forsake
It is their ilk, this temporary quest
It is how each season in turn must rest
Refreshed to be, so completely
To continue to do what they do best
A joy and pain to which they all attest
It’s hard you see, for them as me
She handles her snow mare most expertly
And once she’s proven her veracity
Heads for the sky, darkening sky
And just before she’s out of view to see
Her breathy kiss slowly wafts back to me
Saying good-bye, her last good-bye
Throughout the night, I remain defensive
Before I find reason to her motive
Equally drawn to be loves pawn
I ponder how to go on now and live
But there was one last mercy left to give
As comes the dawn, memory gone
‘Tis the season full of joy
smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
Presents wrapped by the tree, searching for your name
trying to guess the contents – toys, clothes or a games
Singing carols by the fire,
or listening to carolers, outside the door
Not worrying about the last cup of eggnog
knowing there’s more
Snow covering the streets,
adding to the yuletide
I remember when I used to see it all from the window inside
My Christmas fire, is the heat felt through a grate
Though I haven’t even had much of that as of late
A new coat for me is someone’s thrown away old
that I find here or about
The only game I play, is guessing when to leave
before the cops throw me out
I’ve long since given up on the Christmas deal
I count my blessings that I make it to the next meal
The snow covering the streets, freezes me to the bone
for all the shoppers on the street, I sit here alone
Moving from one corner to the next, just to the pass the time
wishing for more than a nickel or dime
I get more dollars than coins these days, for some reason
Oh right, I remember…
‘Tis the season
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Entered in:
Poetry Picnic Week 18:
Snow, December, Winter Vacations & Wildness,
Hot chocolate on a winter’s day
The way her hips to music sway
The smile that reaches to her eyes
That to this day makes your heart sigh
The feel of safety in loved ones arms
The smirk as another falls for your charms
Catching ‘your song’ on the radio twice in a day
Watching your child perform in a school play
Getting that solid A on a hard book report,
The satisfaction of a job well done
Their smart remark, your quick retort
Then kicking back and having fun
The clearing of your head after a few good sneezes
The clearing of your head after a published thesis
The joy of hearing your newborn’s first cry
The frustrating age of “How come…” and “Why?”
Having a quiet moment if for a short while
Taking a hurting soul to happy smiles
Seeing the tom-boy turn to lady before your sight
And that 3’6” terror became a 6’3” man over night
The pure white of the first good snow
The first buds of flowers to answer spring’s call
The summer fling that might yet grow
The sight of geese heading south in the fall
An outburst of laughter when you’re by yourself
Putting the championship trophy on the shelf
The feel of babies hand within your own
Eating Mama’s fried chicken to the bone
Massive holiday dinners and you’re stuffed to the gills
You’re asked for your hand and “Yes” you will
Lying in the grass, shaping clouds above
The first time you knew that you were loved
Being able to lay your head down at night
Without a worry or a fright
With the peace that comes from living right
And knowing God has you in His sight
All this and so much more you’re bound to find
Within the treasures of the mind
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Raivenne-lations 