Tag Archives: Poetry

The Life

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There’s a moon over Bourbon Street tonight
I see faces as they pass beneath the pale lamplight
I’ve no choice but to follow that call
The bright lights, the people, and the moon and all 
Gordon Sumner (Sting) / Moon Over Bourbon Street

Everyone seems to be in easy mode
The corner’s quiet on this autumn’s eve
Despite the first cuts of winter’s cold
It’s happy smiles folks give and receive
Setting a mood that makes me bold
And my protector has me in his sight
On the off chance all is not as should be
And he may have to come rescue me
But I know everything’s going to be all right
There’s a moon over Bourbon Street tonight

Casting a cool light on this patch of street
I start to flirt with some and have my say
But walking in the sun is a different deceit
The base rules change in the light of day
I’m not acknowledged by all whom I meet
I know they know who I am, as they nod so polite
Those men pretending they don’t know my name
And the wives who avert their head just the same
Knowing their husbands are just faces in my night
I see faces as they pass beneath the pale lamplight

Yes, I’m paid for the need of my company
And more often than not, paid quite well
I aim to please after all you see
But I remember when things weren’t so swell
At the beginning of this life for me
Like babies, before I could run, I had to crawl
Now I choose just how my night is spent
But the truth of lies lay evident
When my pockets hold no cash at all
I’ve no choice but to follow that call

For all the company I have I am still alone
And I watch time shorten the length of my employ
I was young when I started and now I’m grown
I slowly prepare for when I’m past giving joy
But tonight, tonight my love’s my own
On nights like this I’m standing ten feet tall
Pretending I’m just like any other in the park
Out on the town for another evening’s lark
Just another guy walking in the leaves of fall
The bright lights, the people, and the moon and all

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Yes, me and my beloved Glosa form again.
dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight Week: 88

My Home

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My home is slowly getting old…

Eclectic in a way that will never grace a magazine cover
It is a home that is lived in, a structure that has seen some years
Pock marks, and tiny fissures vein parts of the wall
I used to see it as fault, now I see the imperfections as character

My home is warm / inviting…

Not one for bright colors or pastels except as the occasional accent,
I have ever changing adornments of noirs, scarlet, indigoes, eggplants etc.
It is deep rich colors and jewel tones that I like best
To offset the warmth of my mocha walls

My home is full of sound…

The hiss when its steaming
The pop when the floor is stepped on the wrong way
The hum of music and conversation that surround me
Mostly externally, but sometimes it’s just in my head

My home is spiritual / sensual…

The Yin-Yang, Om, Cross, Peace, Magen David, Crescent, and Ankh thrive here
Cuisines Mediterranean, American, Caribbean, Asian, Vegan are served here
Children, friends, lovers and a husband, still do or once have lived here
And once invited to cross my threshold, you know that you are loved here

My home is not where I hang my hat, feed my face, lay my head…

It is in my body that I have lived in these soon to be fifty years, slowly getting old
It is in my heart deep within that I am slowly trying to let out again, warm / inviting
It is in my soul where I find my comforts for me and  my joy for others, full of sound
It is in my breath that compels to be alive and live for myself, spiritual / sensual

My home is…  me

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The Yin-Yang, Om, Cross, Peace sign, Magen David, Crescent and Ankh are in a  tattoo that runs along my spine from base of  my neck down, in that order.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Meeting The Bar : Oh, the place we live!

Lion / Lamb

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claude-monet-the-magpie-1869

I place my palm against the frosted pane
Sighing as winds blow snow drifts all around
Winter has cast its shadow long and wide

A summer gal, this cold has been my bane
Oh this winter has indeed been a hound
Whose howls I’ve never learned to take in stride

I look for signs of life along the lane
Hardly a sign of beast or fowl is found
From winter’s bite, is something we all hide

It seems so long since blossoms dressed my mane
And grass not snow was blanketing the ground
I long to see one budding thing outside

So tired of this chill, last patience tried
I smile at last for signs of spring are spied

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub |Form for All: Trireme Sonnet

Between Goodbye and Hello

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Vettriano 'Back Where You Belong'

Vettriano ‘Back Where You Belong’


Wrapped sheets 

do not his embrace make,

Nor bunched up pillows

His body replace.

Time

Has become

A cruel god

I bitterly worship

As my soul exists

On the dark stretch of void

Named I-80.

Sleep

Has become

An eager lover

That I succumb

To willingly

As it is the only road

That bridges the gap

Between 

Goodbye and hello

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight – Week 85

‘Till Next Time

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Each morning I wake up begins with a stare
An urge to see who’ll be staring back at me
Life’s hectic, I’m moving, yet going nowhere
Adrift in life’s ocean, yet so lost at sea
My jammed nerves so frayed to the point of threadbare
Dark circles don’t lie to the mirror I see
I usually manage, to give all my best
The effect of make-up hiding lack of rest

Most days, I can get by, with little fanfare
I’m trying to live past the title of wife
But some morns, like this one, just too hard bear
The last place one think I’d go, to release strife
I’m gallantry trying to right the unfair
When breathing without you, just cuts like a knife
I fall to my knees; bowing my head in prayer
So strong in the love that came so late to life

Sweet serenity falls down on me in there
And I stand now slowly, still with upturned palms
Your presence surrounds, like church bells in the air
Its notes resonating; yes I’ve found my calm
My favorite music, only I can hear
Alone at your crypt I am relieved of fears
I leave and the sun finds me through clouds above
A kiss to the heavens “’till next my love”

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Today’s form is technically three forms into one poem. Welcome to the Sicliano, Romagnulo and Toscano types of the Strambotto.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight ~ Week 84

Grandma

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My grandma wore a blue apron with white snowflakes in winter
Stopping all hands of time with the power of one word

“DINNER!”

The scent of herbs and spices and meats
The aroma of cherries in pies and peaches in cobblers
Have sent many a tummy rumbling
The food-laden table is renaissance worthy artistry
I and the rest of us really young ones jump up and down
Trying to get one small view of it all
Before it, like the holidays, was all-too-soon a thing of the past

The pre-teen me whines at my pitiful carving efforts
“Don’t worry; it will all turn out alright.”
Her soft cooing voice promises
Delft-blue veined hands
Which smelled either of Palmolive or Jergen’s
Deftly handle the paring knife with precision
Turning fruits and vegetables into edible blossoms
That will decorate the meals
Precision were her fingers
She wipes on her yellow-blossomed apron for spring
And I recalled the crucial fact
That she once studied to be a doctor

“This was not at all
What I planned for my life
Not the life I dreamt to live, but
The hugs from my grandchildren and
The love they bring
There’s nothing as delightful, dear”
She rocks in her chair under the huge oak
Children wandering all about
Chasing fireflies in the back yard
The air  fragrant with the herbal of  fresh-cut lawn
She smiles benignly looking on
At the latest family additions
And I know there was not a thing
That she regretted or would change
Folding the blueberry print summer apron in her lap
An unconscious signal she’s done for the evening

As time goes by
I’d listen with a most attentive ear
Because no one is interested in such mundane things
As sitting by a tree– but sit I would
First on her lap, then at her knee,
Then by her side, all the while thinking
A moment so still, will just mess up my mind

“Hush now sleep for twilight falls”
Is sung soft, soft as the arms that now rock my young
The same soft arms that once rocked me
Having no way of knowing my baby
Would be the last one held
Within the April Downy fresh scented ruffles
That trimmed her favorite red and gold autumn apron

And I’m forced into the reality
That despite her heavenly ways
She’s naught, but real flesh and blood and bone and feeling
And I am alone with my cravings
For the youthful girl with Swan’s Down cake flour on her nose
And a dab of grandma’s Chantilly behind the ear
Standing at her grandma’s elbow
Listening most attentively

You have been so gentle, so kind,
You gave me memories to last ever after
I can tell you, I feel a smile form on my face
As  I am thankful for the time
I get to spend with family and friends
These precious moments though brief they may be
They are near and dear
And as the sands of life shall run
I am now much older and wiser
With my own grand ones standing at my elbow
Watching Brown Betty -well- brown,  in the oven
The smell of apples and butter and cinnamon and brown sugar
Watering their young mouths
As I tie on my white winter apron with blue and silver snowflakes

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Abhra has given us Food for Thought as the prompt at dVerse.  Normally I would create something new, and I may yet do so if time prevails, but I was immediately put to mind of this old write laden with food and heart and I had to post it.

dVerse ~Poets Pub | Poetics : Food For Thought

Theme Thursday | Scents

Notions of Beauty

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As an adolescent she’s told her looks are of a different class
Thus she finds herself staring hard in the looking glass
Not something she understands like ‘cute’ or ‘pretty’
Or even something as distinct like ‘siddity’
Just a tad too young to get the full meaning of erotic
But just old enough to know it’s not good to be exotic

Ferried every other Friday to the beautician’s chair
The only way to tame her long tightly woven hair
Suffers sleeping at night with a snug clothing pin
Shaping her nose so it’s straight and thin
Wooing her lips to sit just a tad inside
Knowing what they say about lips that are wide

Gone are the colorific beads that once adorned her hair
She’s older now and looks like that look cause stares
No batiks of blazing hues or other prints of ‘that’ fashion
More intents to belie the stereotypes of passion
Make sure her posture, like her diction is just so
Muddling through comparisons to a cookie we know

Walking ramrod straight without a rounded swerve
An attempt to camouflage of her natural curve
For decades she carefully toed that social standoff
Through the changing climes of wardrobe and coif
Never looking like ‘that’ was her personal pride
But conflicted as social and ethnic respect collide

But one perm too many turned it all about
Years of chemicals caused her hair to fall out
She tried extensions and other sorts of hair aids
She’s told leave it alone or more will fall out in spades
Her hair short and kinky, not since her childhood
She’s forced to face her definitions of what is good

Her childhood teachings, the well meant suggestions
Every single bit of it came into question
Resentful for feeling defensive of other’s disdain
Now that her looks no longer follow the ‘main’
Realizing she herself was once guilty of the same negation
That had nothing to do with her character or her education

It was a few years more to combine mentalities
Before she was comfortable with her new realities
Now she revels in her cultural prints and chains of jute
And she’s just as gregarious in her pinstripe suit
No longer concerned with how well she blended
Notions of beauty redefined, her spirit mended

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dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics– The Art of Letting Go

And I Tell No One

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I carry inside
The family pains
The broken relationships
The broken friendships
The broken dreams
How I try do right
Even during the times
When I can do nothing
It is with me always

And I tell no one

I carry inside
The lump in my throat so sore
I scream on the inside
To choke down in fear
Of the love I’ve learned
To never take for granted
For it is far too fleeting
Even while wishing
It will come once more
Even if only to be lost again
It is with me always

And I tell no one

I carry inside
This beating heart
That overflows
With the strains
The understanding
That I’ve been dying
Since the day I was born
And the only thing
That can be done about it
Is to take it to its conclusion
It is with me always

And I tell no one

And I carry inside
A fervent desire
To hurry that conclusion
It is with me always

And I tell no one

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Today at dVerse we are asked to “confess” via poetry.

And before anyone panics, the above is taken from an old journal entry. Yes, I’ve had some bad days in the past that I pray are not a part of my future, however,  I promise all of you I am fine.

dVerse  ~ Poets Pub | Poetic Confessions

 

Orphan

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He was my first Deity, my Lord
All I knew encircled Him
He was the sun and I followed in path
Capitulated to His moods,
Prayed for His mercy
Lived in fear of His wrath

After all he was My Father

But he bowed to a deity
Of his own
That either kept him cold and aloof
or filled with the spirit
of liquid hellish fire
of various proof

We tried to be as quiet as a church
In the middle of the night
But we never found a peace to be still
When I can be whipped awake
At any moment
For some ages old forgotten ill

And where was she you ask
When his fist and my face
Were making connections
How could she save me when she herself
Was in dire need
Of her own protection

Where do I go
This was my shelter
It was all I’ve ever known
I’m taught never to be where I’m not wanted
But what do I do when I’m a child
And where I’m not wanted is home

Well the first time I ran
I was soon returned
For I was very under aged
But I aired laundry in the process
And now both of them
Were enraged

Straight A’s brought not a praise
Chores lack brought not a reproach
His indifference became such
That I would push his buttons
With a cheeky little laugh
The only way to feel his touch

Knowing it was all
A fucked way to feel
Just added to vicious revolution
a penance to pay
For which there was never
an absolution

So when I broke out
And ran away part four
I just started living wild
No one ever said a word
what could they say
I am my father’s child

I’m told I should still love him
Pray for him
And wish him well
I say I do in the mere fact
that I simply
never wished him to hell

Some called me cold
Some called me tough
can handle any shit
But I grew up where
whining didn’t change a thing
so what was the point to it

My mother died first
and she I do miss
She did the best that she could
The next I saw him was to bury him
keeping a promise
he knew I would

He’s been gone
nearly a year
without any impact
I was an orphan
deep in my soul
long before I was in fact

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Mining the Memory–dVerse ~ Poets Pub Meeting The Bar :

Letter To You

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To You,

There are several in my life, yet…

I desire only you.

What is it about you that suspends time and makes the universe stand still?

We speak on the inane of comic book characters, television sitcoms and movie trivia with as much passion as we discuss the arcane of politics, prejudice and justice and of freeing one’s mind. It is totally appropriate that the Biblical Book of Numbers holds as much sway in our conversations as the Astrological Book of Numbers.

I lay in bed and it is your voice I hear in my dreams, your touch I feel in my fantasies.

I often wonder, is it the charisma in your voice?

Or perhaps, it is the old soul that I see when I gaze into your eyes. That transports me another time when temples honored Ra and Nut, as the pyramids testified to the rules of Ramses and Hatshepsut.

Maybe it is the gentleness of your kiss introduced upon my cheek when we meet or part…

Could it be the truth behind your words? Perhaps it is the way in which you carry yourself with Dignity, with Pride, with Grace.

Or is it the fierce protector /valiant warrior that I see?

Maybe it is the honest way in which you treat people or the compassion within your heart, even as you chew someone out for nth time for the nth stupidity.

How am I so privileged to be let past the cool exterior to the warmth that you possess?

How am I so doomed to belatedly realize that the hidden warmth is your flame and I am your moth?

I am instinctively drawn to you…

You are: my Sower, my Reaper; my Hercules and my Achilles.

Shit! I’m in love with you…

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This “letter” was a near verbatim entry in a journal, from eons ago.

(Apparently, a) I don’t spell as nicely in my hand-written journals as I do when I type – who knew? and b) at 3:41am (the time noted on the entry), when no one’s looking I am one sappy as all get out  romantic – please don’t tell.)

It literally was the moment I realized I was in love, down to that last line. It made me laugh to read it again, so I had to include it in the post.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight Week 82