March 30, 2013 Sunday Whirl #102 Saturday Bird Songs

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Saturday Bird Songs
Silently Lost behind the
Western most peak
On the horizon
Early Morning moon
All is still
Except for
A cacophony of bird song

A woman has written
Words like petals
Colorful and sweet
The monitor glows
Her staff the Keyboard

Years ago her home
Was a pit house
Foundation of stone
Her touchstone
A warrior/hunter
Man she loved

Now many generations later
She calls to her former self
Her own Grandmother
Of long ago
Locks her eyes upon
The horizon
Watches for a dust devil
To rise the powdered dust
From the desert floor

After awhile
Her eyes return
To the monitor
Her fingers to the keys
Sprinkle more petals
On the page
To be sung in
Saturday morning key

March 24, 2013 Sunday Whirl #101 The Mystic

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Sandra Kovacs was my friend and I will miss her.

The Mystic
We talked last night
And remembered
As the wind howled
The temperature dropped
A cold yesterday
There was no need to hurry

A woman spinning
Her warn
Casting shadows in
The bright sunlight
As the wind howled

You are of the trees
With your country mind
Disguised as a simple man
There will be an opportunity
To become a hero
Your destiny
Will be your choice
The temperature dropped

We all have wounds
Some of our own making
Some so deep
When we reach bottom
It is only the clear water
Of collected tears
Words forgotten
The idea remains
A cold yesterday

Across time she is remembered
Emotions stirred
Like sands in the hourglass
Slipping to fill the heart
A container like a glass jar
On a shelf
All is revealed
There was no need to hurry

101

March 23, 2013 dVerse

My Grandmother
I only remember my Grandmother

As an old irritating woman

I have no memory of her

As the beautiful young girl

She was

My Grandfather

Died when my Mother was young

I looked at the pictures

Slightly blurred

Sepia toned

The face of a man

Looked back at me

I man I did not know

I remember seeing a photo

Of my Mother

When she was about three

My Grandfather was standing

Over her

On the sidewalk in front of

Their house

He was a large man

With a great stomach

I wonder how my Grandparents met

What they thought when they did

Was it love at first sight

Were they happy

Did my Grandmother really

Want children

Or would she have liked

To have lived another way

My Mother kept

The beautiful little

Pierced plate

In the cupboard

When she got it out

She would tell how

My Grandmother

Prepared Communion

On the little place

With grapes painted on it

Each Sunday

For thirty seven years

Since my Grandfather

Died so long ago

My Grandmother

Lived alone

Was she lonely

Did she cry herself to sleep at night

I wonder how she did it

So many things I would

Have liked to have asked her

Note:  I think I was a bit of a brat, growing up, always in a hurry… no time, just to sit and think, always busy.  I’m sorry now, I didn’t know how to ask my Grandmother all the things I wanted to know….

 

Claudia asked us to write a poem and ask questions of someone famous, or someone else…

March 21, 2013 dVerse

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The White Shadows
The room was white
Floor to ceiling
The light through
The window was white
Even the shadows were white

And it is silent
Not a word spoken
Uttered or written
There were no words to be had
In the white room

It happens sometime…
The words have disappeared
Not a thought
Nor a song
In the white light
From the window
In the white room

A bit of a handicap
When you desire to write
Or think
Or speak of
The white shadows
Upon the white walls

But wait…
Give them time
The letters will return
Dressed in blue
Gold buttons
And golden epaulets
It seems they have
Been taking a little time out
From the white room

Willingly they will lie
Upon the page
Make sense
Express your waiting thoughts
In the white room
With the white light
Where even the shadows
Are white

Note:  I was thinking of the times when I want to write. and there simply seems there are no words.  Maybe this could be explained as a “place.”

March 17, 2013 Sunday Whirl #100

The Callin’
It happened out back
Behind the summer kitchen
A cold wind from the North
Screamed like a Banshie
I heard my name
Some say
It was a “callin'”

To hear the call
Understand the meaning
The goal is to master the task

Faint words blow across the mesa
An invitation to create
To grow
To stretch
To share

The journey will be lonely
If you catch that train
Destination unknown
You will visit places
Walk streets
Beyond dreams

The seasons change
Mark time
The river crests
The passing years
Cast on the wind
You may keep nothing
For nothing is promised
You will march to your death
Head held high
And you will die

In the end
When asked
You will say
It was all worth it

Note: Congratulations and happy one hundred wordles!

100

March 9, 2013 Sunday Whirl #99

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Fragments III #131  30″x30″  gouache on watercolor paper

 

 

The Widow Sits by the Window
Paint, painted, painting
A world of color
A carefree spree
Insider, outsider
Who is to say
Who uses the paint

The widow sits by the window
Remembers intimate moment
Written on the heart
Held in the body
Personal landscape
A Vermeer painting

Her life a fearsome
Still life
Since he went away
The studio her reserve
The part that is her own
To use the paint
As she chooses

Prompt: paint, use, sprees, outsider, away, fearsome,
part, reserves, body, intimate, writt

March 4, 2013 No Escape/ dVerse #86

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No Escape

The grey hangs heavy

As it shrouds the mountain

No sound or breath

A landscape suspended in amber

The storm is coming in

There is no escape

No open road

All is a locked door

No place to run

No place to hide

Finger nails scratch

Plead for way out

From

Fear

Sorrow

Debt

Love

Promises

Survival

Death

There is no escape