And now a word from our sponsor . . .

Like sour worms upon the tongue,

caustic acid with sweetness slung,

witty words both tart and coy

juxtapose great pain to joy.

 

Read and write POETRY!

 

 

 

 

NaPoWriMo
Day 10

 

Today’s optional prompt is to write an advertisement-poem.
You can see why I am not in advertising!  🙂

A Homecoming Omen

 

 

 

 

 

Fluffy-pluffy, playful clouds below

(some over-zealous zen-raker

having ploughed their furrowed brows)

reflect the indifferent sun’s rays,

tumbling an iridenscent rainbow

across the white-canvas hull of our flying ship.

 

 

 

 

NaPoWriMo
Day 6

(under)stand(firm)

I don’t understand.

But then,
I don’t understand much.

I have to fall back on trust,
cling to hope,
embrace faith.

And as I venture slowly out
with trepidation and wariness,
first one foot
then the other,

I find the rock beneath my toes
to be solid

(uninterrupted,
firm,
pure,
trustworthy
and powerful)

and so I stand.

evening plans

Three hours ago the evening held such potential.
I kept a mental list of all the things I could accomplish.
Breezing though dinner prep I rehearsed it all again.

After the meal, the washing up, the bathing,
I sit before a blank computer screen
trying desperately to find even the smallest bit of enthusiasm
for even ONE of my important tasks.

After an hour I start scribbling down the mental list,
lest a hostage escapes.
Feeling better now that I have the list in concrete form,
then, after reading each and every piece of email,
I quickly explore the latest on several social networks,
just in case someone is trying to get my attention.

Finally, with droopy eyes and achy limbs
I look once more at the list.
Somehow I manage to convince myself
that everything written down can last till tomorrow
and a month of tomorrow.

Right now, I am going to bed.

tatters

Yesterday —
just yesterday —
as we trod through Corinth
and committed 15:55 to memory,
as we gathered after service
to celebrate a seventieth,

a huge, heavy truck
crossed the divide
and slammed head-first
into a small family car
killing all six occupants,
leaving tangled metal and grieving hearts
in its wake.

Coincidence
we sang “O Death, where is thy sting?”
and prayed
“Death has been swallowed up in victory”?

Sometimes this side of eternity
seems to last too long.
Sometimes I am worried
that I will arrive in heaven
with my heart all in tatters.

Yesterday —
just yesterday.

testify

Arb notes
sprawled over bits of paper —
shopping
“to do”
reminders
sums —
don’t add up to a life.

It’s the messages left on hearts
which anonymously testify
to your being.

Mixed-up Idioms

Follow the wrong tree around the bush
Call the bullet and blow the shots.
Beat the mustard and take in the towel.
Face your nose and cut from the hip.
Shoot the bull by the horns and throw a dead horse.
Bark the music and bite your own horn.

busy

Pretend it’s nothing.
It won’t stay.
Hold the hurt
far away.
Kept at bay, kept at bay,
such a busy, busy day.
Don’t you stop.
Don’t slow down.
Keep your feet
from off the ground.
Running, running
running ’round.
Busy, busy,
Can’t be found.
Start to stop.
Weary road.
Got to rest
this heavy load.
Here it comes –
gotta go.
Stay a pace
ahead or so.
Empty, spent,
Down you fall.
Struggle up
Begin to crawl.
Final gasp –
finished heap.
Now upon you
slowly creeps
silence
deafening silence
and sleep.

story

In every story there is at least one line,
one sentence that stops time, which captures breath.

A good story has several.

A great story plunges a knife into the heart.  And then it recreates.

I want a great story.
I want more than just arbitrary moments of wonder.
I need more than a breath-taking second.

I want wild abandon —
dancing through daisies,
singing with crickets,
weeping over brokenness and parts,
rejoicing at tiny tender fingers and toes,
listening to the earth sigh,
collecting and pressing multicoloured days between pages of years,

— so that when I’m gone
I will have left behind
a story worth reading,
a tale worthy of the storyteller.

 

Orb Weaver

Petite predator
with long, lean legs
and bulbous paunch
carefully picks her way across the table,
much more nimble
on her gossamer mesh.

She carries her persian-carpet abdomen
with pride.

With his ruler
the unruly adolescent flips her onto her back
revealing bright yellow stripes
and a single, brilliant red heart.

Tyrannised and indignant
she waves her eight limbs
wildly in the air
in an attempt to right herself.

Called away at that moment,
the youth turns his head and attention
away from the arachnid.

With a victorious effort,
the humble creature
(thinking she triumphantly chased the giant away)
flips herself
and hurries away toward home.