Suspended (One Shot Wednesday) & (carry on tuesday)

Sarah Joncas (my fav)
My heart may be pounding fast
but I won’t scream for help;
falling head first
from unknown heights,
to unknown depths.
I am in a poem,
created by a writer who relives dark themes,
but he doesn’t create them.
I don’t think he wants me to suffer or die,
he’s seen too much of that.
Maybe he is just trying to create that last thought of a dying woman plunging to her death for no apparent reason?
This fine piece of art offers no detail of back story or conclusion.
Just a woman in a red dress calmly falling.
He won’t create beyond what he sees.
He interprets.
I feel safe in his mind,
suspended in thought.
Don’t fret over me,
I am in safe hands.
He’s allowing me to do all the talking,
I will live,
and you will see me again,
I promise.
If I stop talking
He will die,
Or move on.
Until then,
Here I am.
I have done so little,
But have so much to do.
He needs my help.
I’m sure I will be a study of peril again, soon,
but he won’t let me die.
He’s seen too much of that.
No tragedy here.
Just a thought he can’t let go.
I’m merely a tear
he refuses to cry.
A suspended tear with no splash.
A poetic time out.

No Fear (potluck)

Stalking darkness
Billowing freight
Angry carpet rolls ‘cross light
Blow and huff
Rant and rage
Flash and roar
Give your best performance
On my field-like stage
I’ll spin and swirl and dance in waves
Of thankful expectation
There is no fear of you in me
I love your demonstration.
Just make sure before you quit and fade away to mist
You share your rain upon my hair and leave me with a kiss
I love the way my golden soul
Contrasts your blackened heart.
And how your evil face of scars
Enables me to grow.

My Pacemaker (poetry pantry 51)

Evening horizon appears bruised.
Sunlight slithers off, silently.
Darkness creeps, cougar-like,
Crisp shadows chill skin.
And then,
Eyes erupt, silence shatters, tear’s heave.
Sheet of paper, official, type written,
Trembles in hand,
Rattling, snake-like, after a strike,
Fangs moist, blood stained.
Frightful words, venomous,
Surge though veins,
Numb arms, throat,
Breath paralyzed,
Death stalks heart.
Collapsed to dust,
Curl in ball,
Frail, tumbleweed-like,
Wind rushes by.
Pray to roll away, roll away
Swoosh along prairie flat
To wherever tumbleweeds go.
But I lay like a stone;
A headstone,
Marking the end of my life.
My Johnny
Won’t be marching
Home again.
And then,
A little heart renewed life.
I imagined it no bigger than Johnny’s,
When his mother,
Probably dancing with him now,
First told me he was coming.
Being a father was a good thing,
Back then.
The medal dangled from a ribbon,
Wide purple with thin white stripes,
Heart shaped, bordered with Heaven’s gold.
On the front,
George Washington’s profile in a sea of purple,
On the back,
“For Military Merit.”
It felt cool in my fist.
I clenched it,
Trying to find life,
A reason,
A power.
A hope.
The beginning of a prayer.
And then,
I squeezed the medal so hard
My palm bled.
I looked.
I gasped.
I gazed.
I knew.
I sensed a breeze, warm.
A voice, I didn’t notice on the prairie.
With each wisp of wind, I heard,
“I Know,”
Reminding me, “I know.”
Every time the wind blew, a whisper,
“I know.”
I saw, I listened, I survived.
Johnny’s body stopped a bullet streaking for an Afghan girl;
A county’s future.
I wear the Purple Heart with pride,
Pinned over my own;
My pacemaker.
And now,
I leave the prairies to the tumbleweeds.
I spend a lot of time in the mountains,
Me and wind,
Standing on a great granite rock,
Taking turns
“I know.”

Palpable Park (Single Impression 170)

Luiza Vizoli

Hands touched,
skin and skin,
mine and hers,
eternal spark.
Palpable Park breathed life,
kaleidoscopic spectrums exploded,
fresh light filtered prism; set free.
Heart’s eyes perceived
rainbow leaves,
stained glass grass,
burying doubt beneath expressed reflections
of blue skies
the colorful chorus of truth.
We faded in the manifest presence
of love.

I Hear Her Now (Sunday Photography)

Photo by Scott Wyden
I remember now.
Her voice
Echoed weakly
Floated like a loose feather
On crisp currents
Of steep concrete canyon walls.
Her song
Skipping like a scratched record
Between a sliver of blue
Of steep concrete canyon walls.
Her words
Pained pleadings
Fluttered faintly
Flying like a blind falcon
Through swirling winds
Of steep concrete canyon walls.
The leap
Falling like lone confetti
Amid silent parades
Of steep concrete canyon walls.
The echo
A haunting
Lingered lastly
“Doesn’t anybody care?”
Staining red the street
Of steep concrete canyon walls.
I hear her now.
Just an echo.
Her death
Thundering kettle drums
Crashing cymbals
To silence.
The symphony
My soul.
In the cavernous
Concrete canyon walls
I ignored
An echo.
God forgive me.
I hear her now.

Below the Haze (Wordle 6)

Leaves of green mourn in black
Cry alone in fire’s rash
Striding fast are foxes red
Tails burning flee their bed
Fire hungry monster glut
Fallen firs choke in soot
Twilight glows ember ash
Wind whispers evil laugh
Against the sky’s smoky craze
Planets pray above the haze
Against the spread of blazing dead
Afraid of cancer’s cinder spread

That’s What I Read (games)

I read the newspaper at day’s break
A young boy
Big smile
Toothy … some spaces
Stuck a ten point buck
With bow and arrow
From fifty feet
Quite a feat
I thought
Fifty feet
Bow and arrow
A young lad’s nerves
Striking a blow
Through a fleet
Deer’s heart
He tracked him for an hour …
The story read

I thought …
Not reading …
Just thinking … pondering … imagining
The buck was strong
Bled for 60 minutes
Frantic through woods and thicket
Gasping breaths
Finally collapsing
A crash of stunned … exhausted carcass
On coldish grass … next to a cool stream
Between a pine … tall and lean
And a greenish bush
At dusk
Panting …
Tongue straining … to reach
The cool brook … stained in sunset red
Lapping a final taste
Snorting his last
An arrow in heart, broken
Dead …

I wasn’t reading … just wondering

I cut the picture of the boy and the buck out of the Daily Gazette
I wanted to place it in my Bible
But …
I didn’t know where
I just knew it was significant … in some way …
It must have been exciting
I was thinking … again
For the teen
Like David or Jonathan
I’m sure they hunted
Were skilled
And celebrated
A kill … and feasted
Until they parted …
But … I felt a kindred sadness
For the deer
Bountifully alive … fellowshipping with creation … one minute
Then … suddenly
Struck with fear(ish) pain … the next
Followed by … silence
All in 60 minutes …
I’m sure they …
The teen’s family … said grace
Ate the venison … back strap first … of course … the most tender
And froze or gave away the rest …
The buck
Didn’t die in complete vain
He fed them …
The hunters
I didn’t read that
Just pondered

In my half-buttoned safari jacket pocket
I placed my worn, smooth black leather Bible
We were the first at the veterinarian’s office
My Lassie and I
It was a cool autumn morning … shadows were shrinking though
She was ill … that one kind of ill … a final ill
An aged friend
Panting in my arms
She didn’t weigh as much …
Anymore …
We should have been on the river
But …
I handed my friend to my friend
The doc
He tried to smile … failed … but tried
I followed them to the back
And opened my Bible
Page 857
I had it marked with the picture of the boy and that deer
From the Gazette
I had read when the shadows were longer
I thought about the buck
He did not fear the arrow …
But that he would not make it back … to the brook
One last … time
That’s what I pondered …
And when Lassie lay on the cool
Of the table
In the back
She licked my hand
I whispered in her ear … loud enough for both of us to hear
“… You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day … “
That’s what I read …