Change


Change

She longed to change
Things
The ones with a beat
Red, pulsing, pumping the blood
To crack open the norm
Celebrate poetry with prose
Run in the opposite direction
Refuse to settle
Zig while they zag
Rise up and whisper above the screams
Press mute on the debate
Call for peace while there was war
Light a fire on the first day of Spring
Speak as silence suffocates the voiceless
In the spinning
Untangle the web
Raise the white flag
Cry for mercy
Shed tears for grace
Unfurl the banner of enough is enough
Tattoo love on her wrist to remind her of
Wood and nails
Set sail
For calm and deep in
Oceans of counterclockwise in a sea of clockwise
And dream of a world
In which Change would come

And Change remained
Died and rose again
And Change redeemed
Sweet dreams, lovers of Change
Easter is near
All will soon shout
Alleluia’s
Again

Sepia Tones

wpid-20140124_113159.jpgSepia Tones

Living slow, writing fast

It was more of a feast than a fast
Living slow, slowly living, lead to writing
Fast
The comma and correct grammar mean everything,
Change the meaning in a New York minute
But this is poetry
I digress
Then go came along

A distant cousin to wait
And then the cold
Which was more like an artic covering

Margins grew wider
Yet like the moon
Poetry waxed and waned

And then in the slow fade
Of the day
Words fueled more words
Infusion of encouragement
Stoked the flame
More hat tips
And head nods
A symphonic explosion
Of pure unadulterated
Grace

And surprises
Peek-a-booed into her soul
And in the shadows she
Began to see

A poem
Neither slow nor fast
But traveling just right

And in the sepia tones
She found inspiration
Dancing in the shadows of the roman shade
Of  light
That whispered stop and stare
There is poetry in the window
There
Framed
There are lines that
Need a home

And the muse he whispered:
You will find a
Poem shivering, cold
And waiting there
Penned like hieroglyphics
Piercing through
By light of day
Blanketed by quiet
Wintry air

A poem raises
Up her golden brown
And faded head
In tones of sepia
Freshly inked
Nuanced meanings
There

Living slow, writing fast.

wpid-20140124_113317.jpg

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Responding to the poetry prompt, sort of, from the creative folks at Tweetspeak Poetry “How To Read Poetry” #howtoreadapoem in celebration of the release of Tania Runyan’s latest book “How To Read A Poem”

Without The Music

Without The Music

Without music
Quiet has no notes to wake her up
From muffled morning’s sleepy headed slumber.
So, instead
She hangs her winsome head,
languishing in her lonely bed.
Hoping that a harp will play, or
maybe a cello will save the day.
Praying a piano quite possibly might
saunter  in,
Or trumpets wake the dead
Say arise, awake
With blasts of wind
instruments, drums and snare,
Replacing thick and quiet air
Violins or soothing flute
The horns will shout forth
an exclamation point.

Breaking the blistering silence of her mind
Hoping a happy stanza
peppered with piccolo will fill the air
But instead the quiet
Lingers, hanging void
The music hidden, lost,
Is nowhere.

Life without a song

Sounds like life
Without a pulse
dull
and fallen
Silence fills the air.
Only black and white
All color gone, no song.
The music must play on.
The strings shall sing, the harmony restore
The runs, the rifts, the ivories,
The keys will sing from lips of fingertips
The music.
Melody and symphony, sharps and flats
Notes from low to high, cascading making merry in the dark
Mirroring or changing the mood within the room
Transforming quiet, into music,
Liquid poetry.

Give me a blessed song that wakes my spirit up.

Turns the sad and lonely mood around
Plays hymns of praise
My anthem raise
No longer will I live my days,
Alone in silence lingering long
Without the sounds of  dancing
On clouds of spirit-thought.
Without
The music
Playing in the chambers,
The rooms of my heart.

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Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com for her Playdates at The Wellspring.

Maple Syrup On Sunday

Maple Syrup On Sunday

Quiet lulls like soul food, soulful
Margins widen
Again
After the long lonesome loud
Period.
Sometimes you have to call it like it is
Or was
My soul was drowning in noise
Of churning, change
Learning, living, out loud
Speeding Road Runner and Wylie-like
Braking at the last minute
At  the edges of the cliffs
And not the white ones of Dover
Pastoral and pure
More like
The ragged jagged ones
Barrel rolling over the
Falls
Nearly, but bailing out right before rolling over the
Niagara white foamy frothing falls with fierce
Break-neck speed
Like the Tasmanian Devil swirling twirling
I don’t buy that Devil in the Details
Stuff, not one bit
But in the racing like
Nascar through life
Yep
He may crouching tiger
Lay there ready to pounce

But mercifully
Peace seeps in, creeps in
Like maple syrup drips out of a tapped tree
Blanketing a stack of white and fluffy
Flap jacks with sugary sweet
Jesus peace like a river
Re-attends

And life is wondriful
A hybrid blend of glorious wonderful
Again

When Oliver wrote those words about joy and crumbs
I get it, really get it
And if joy were a condiment
It should be maple syrup on Sunday
Poured out slow and steady
So thick and sticky
You couldn’t wash it off if you tried
It wants to linger in the air
On fingers
Counters
Somehow leaving traces of itself everywhere
Creating stagnant pools
In cracks and crevices
Of joy
Sweet like maple syrup on a slow motion morning
Quiet lulls like soul food, soulful
Margins widen
Again

And poetry
Is born again.
pink beach sadie