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The Future

 

I didn’t write the sonnet assignment, the last one for Blogging University 201 Poetry. I dreamed about it. I had the perfect subject. The words resonated from somewhere into my ear. Believe me, what I spoke into my ear was splendid!

So where is it today? Please give me a few seconds, minutes, hours to contemplate and trowel through my memory center to see if I can at least uncover the perfect subject.

Here I am on Monday and no dream has recurred with the sonnet ready to write. But my muse did rise to the occasion. This is about our feeble attempts to see into the future.

collage

Mystical powers do not divine

Magic tricks give no clue

Read my palm from your imagination

Read the cards as if they predict

Séance to consult with the dead

Who never come and cannot tell

Peer into your crystal ball

Ply the Ouija board.

These are all useless

It is for man to be born

To work, to love God

And to die.

 

 

 

 

 

Found Poetry

Blogging University 201 Poetry assignment day 9, Landscapes. I found my poem hidden in the script of a travel website. It’s short and sweet. I lived in Clearwater, Florida for six years. It is all my poem promises.

 

found poetry

In A Cedar Chest

<pre>

In a small cedar chest

Is a memory I can wear

Trims of beads and sequins

Some with buttons

There are many colors,

Black, white, coral, navy, orange, red

Varying lengths, opera to short 

Stitched in beautiful thread 

The tattered photo album 

Creates a carousel of her image

From youth to bride to mother

 She wears beautiful creations

All her own design

 And I don’t fail to notice

 Store bought gloves on her hands.

 She selects each pair to compliment

 The color and the purpose of her frock

The photos turn from black and white

To color as we turn the pages

Look Martha, there are the orange gloves

You wore those in the Miss America Contest

Remember, you sang Do You Want Some of My Tangerine

Made popular by Claudia Williams

Mother bought yards of material of orange polka-dot

To make a dress for you and her

Here’s a pair of white gloves

Trimmed in delicate red and blue buttons

Around the edges of the gloves

Another pair, black as ebony

Trimmed with beads

Forming an elegant design for formal wear

The opera gloves of white

Never worn to the opera

I wore them for formal balls

The fashion of the

Day has changed

No longer do ladies wear gloves

Unless it is winter

To protect against the cold

Rain and snow.</pre>

 

 

 

Thinking Through My Fingers

Tiny dimpled hands clutching mommy’s finger. Each baby finger counted and kissed with love. Within months those same fingers are clasping toys, waving bye and are used as a way to navigate. Skip a few years, she’s in the park making mud pies, digging till her fingers and nails are covered.  Now she clutches crayons in her fist as she searches for paper. A devoted puppy follows after her, lavished with her pats and hugs.

Mom turns, and when she turns back her baby is a baby no longer. She’s learning to play the clarinet, ebony with silver keys. Her fingers at first fumble to find the right key to press. Turn again and her fingers fly over the slender instrument, and a lovely tune echoes through her home.

In home economics, scissors guided by her moving fingers cut material following a pattern. She moves the material through the sewing machine. Later she threads a needle and does the finishing work with nimble fingers, creating a pretty blouse.

That summer she digs again in the dirt and plants seeds with her parents. She wields the hoe, taking care to keep the rows straight and clean. The vegetables grow and ripen, plucked with her fingers at just the right time. It is a family practice to can and freeze together as a clan.

He courted her, and after a time proposes. She comes home from college sporting an engagement ring on her finger. Her hands are busy now setting up a home of her own. Her children are born. She counts and kisses those baby fingers as her mother had so many years before.

She loves and cares for her parents as they age. Her hands are never still, taking care of their needs, until the inevitable happens.

The circle of life continues. She has grandchildren whose dimpled hands are so precious to her. They learn from her how to use their fingers for good.

hands

 

 

Now she is old. When she sees her hands folded in her lap, they are so much as her mother’s hands were. Her hands now are on a key board where fingers still fly across keys. No music comes, but she pours out her life, her experiences, her faith, her love in a blog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.

Isaac Asimov

 

 

The Ballad of Nick

 

nick on bench

Before he was Nick

He was left to die

Tied down, abandoned

I don’t know why

 

I was yearning for some thing

Left to struggle and cry

Bound to loneliness

I don’t know why

 

Only God can perform a miracle

He nudged a good guy

To stop his truck to rescue Nick

And I know why

 

A woman, me and a dog, Nick

Though miles apart did defy

The odds of coming together

Now you know why

meredith and nick

 

An Elegy

I decided to write a longer elegy today for Blogging University Poetry 201.

An Elegy

Arise and go from this place

Wipe your tears from your face

I no longer need your sorrow

Not today nor the morrow

Gather my friends and loved ones

Celebrate, my victory is won

Enjoy music and festivities

As you recall my proclivities

When the time comes to leave

Memories of the joy do cleave

Each time you think of me

You will agree my wishes were wise

 

Some of My Favorite Poets

Writing 201: Poetry — Ben say it’s time for a poetry potluck.

break

BWSBL  participates in a haiku challenge featured each week by Ronovan.

I enjoy BWSBL’S  poem because it tells of strength to win and keep freedom.

Force will not reveal,
Winning hand held tight chested,
Nothing trumps freedom.

break

Colleen does too.

Colleen’s first line and the word fresh brought to mind not just a new year but a clean, white sheet of paper waiting for creative thoughts.

A fresh year draws nigh –

with the rising of the moon,

the old year expires.

break

Aranislandgirl is a favorite of mine. She participates in the haiku challenge too.

Aranilandgirl writes of found objects, heart-shaped stones. The heart of stone in her poem is literal as well as figurative.

With a numbing chill

A heart of stone frets away

To its diamond core

break

This last poem is from a favorite poetry blog hosted by more than one participant.

Scottishmomu wrote Sailed.

Scottishmomu incorporates metaphor in this poem. I take it to mean that the ship sailing is something that has happened and cannot be changed.

that ship

has sailed now

left without

a passenger or freight

have to smile

 resign self

queue with others

must needs grin and bear

and wait.