Coping

Green With Blue

fairy-drops-blue-green-astrid-ewing
Droplets of morning dew
Reflect
Blade of grass
Shade of sky
A spherical cell
Imprisoning earth and heaven
As one
AsKeW
A sane iNSaNitY
Fantasy and reality
Dawn’s moist green
Rhapsody in blue

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Karin has us writing of the unease of green in Poetics today at dVerse. Mine concerns relality’s daily battle with fantasy.

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change, Coping, Loss, Love, Regret

HOW FAR

In the hills of Sierra de los Padres
A bus slid off – a muddy roadway
And rolled and rolled without a skid
And left a kid – alone – on Sunday

She drove from church with laughing niños
And dropped them off – uno por uno
While el hijo stayed home and waited with papá
In the llora of rain on the edge of Negro

Madre de mi amor

I now live north with frozen rain
Draw my bow – slow – from Domingo’s pain
When I was young – and roads – húmedo
Madre de mi amor

How far must I go

For dVerse Poets Pub Open Mic Night

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Coping

Proud of Me

Swirling swells on amber seas
Roll in rhythm
With autumn’s breeze.

I thought it a dream. I saw her standing in the middle of our wheat field. She was just as beautiful as I remembered; if it was her. The sun’s rays had my eyes in a strange way. Heavenly light held the image I wanted to see, wanted to hold, wanted to live again.

Kindred kings of kernelled gold
Seek to sever
From nature’s hold.

Maybe God just allowed her see me off to start my freshman year of high school? She didn’t wave or speak. She just stood; erect and proud-like. It felt better to make someone proud. I always wondered if she could see. Dad said she could. I believe him now. I think I know why some evenings he would come in from the fields with red eyes. I bet he saw mom too. She always loved the wheat; wrote a poem about it once. Dad read it at her funeral.

Single seeds in sunken earth
Their death declares
A new rebirth.

The school buss honked out on the road. I turned to see it wait for me. When I gazed back into the field she was gone, but my smile remained. She was proud of me. I cried.

 

For Short Story Slam Week 8

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Coping

The Empty Space

 

 

A clean spot above our, my, mantle needed painting.  The missing picture frame left a glaring square shouting something was once there.  Soon the entire wall was repainted; especially where the Christmas tree used to rub.  Two other walls were painted; scribbles from kids now in college could still be seen.  Even the front door; especially the front door, needed a fresh coat of light green paint.  Finally the whole room smelled new.  Yet there was still one empty place, but not a drop left for my heart.

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