Taming The Dragons And Other WIld Things Under The Moon

hb spencer saveWhen we were young
We bathed in Milne

Bears and  a boy washed away a day.

And when we were young
We sat folded up in cramped desks,
Modern twist on utilitarian form
Pretzel legged
Puzzled by
Poetry in chalky white on a plain black board

And studied Ogden,
silly was in vogue.
The sixties begged for humor, cried even
Laugh In
Rowen and Martin and very short poems
A bear and a boy and silly
grown men

Can take the edge off of a war
And your mind off of
Politicians who die too young.

Pooh slayed his dragons.
There is strength in numbers
Now as then, a friend can help
You fight the foe
together

However wild
However scary

When you cross the river
And you are two

You too may declare
“Shoo! Silly old dragons”

Because you are two, arm in arm
Bear and boy, Christopher and Pooh
Dragons go up in a puff of smoke
And disappear
Into thin air

“It isn’t much fun for One, but Two.”
When slaying demons and dragons
Strength in numbers was never more true

And wild things that go bump
in the night
are easier to fight, as two.
So after you tell the moon,
“good night”
Tuck in your dragon, nice and tight.

Check under the bed, pray and search the room.
Now you are free

To dream by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon.

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joining tweetspeak poetry for their poetry prompt this week, Dragons etc. Click here to discovery more poetry from my friends at Tweetspeak.

Airing Out The Soul

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Airing Out The Soul

The first warm breeze
It thaws the crusty lingering on
The hangers on of a deep winter of
A soul
Ice  cold  frozen tundra patches, folded over, held over,
Hidden in their fear and trembling
All the working parts and pieces
Leaves them high and dry, ice cold
In desperate need of a team of doctors
Remove the dead, breathe new life
Send them out regenerated, heavy with hope
Surgically implanted
Cleaning crews called in to raise the broom
Do some heaving lifting
Break down the  corner cobb webs
Lower the boom
Hang those blooming hanging pots
Make it look like Spring, feign a vain attempt
Extract every dust bunny, grab them by the tail
Send them packing
The temple needs the tables turned over
And over again

Re-arrange the furniture
And redecorate the soul

Start by cracking a window

Air out the smell of death

Grab a rag which smells of Pledge

And promise

Throw open the portals to the merciful new

And breathe a breath of birth

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Joining the team at Tweetspeak Poetry today with a Billy Collins prompt. We are spreading some wordcandy sweetness around this Eastertime. Visit wordcandy.me and dip into their box of goodies. You will fill your sweet meeter to the rim with all the offerings. The newest are the freshest for spring.

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Poetry Calls

(photo courtesy of wikipaintings.org)

She twists, she turns, she tumbles and falls.

Like green Gumby rubber-man/ child wide-eyed in wornout toy box,

Nimble, pliable woman,

Is she.

When the wind blows, the cradle may fall,

But mother catches baby, husband, parents,

And all the rest.

In the middle of raising parents or is it raising kids,

She yearns to sit at the feet of the master acrobat,

Learn the art of dexterity,

Living nimble, bending, twisting, turning

Corners of her life, with skill and ease,

Stretching limbs to meet the needs

This world of hers throws at

Her, life, a whirlwind, whirling dervish, world.

She, Mary Martha ambidextrous hybrid, serving and loving

Longing to learn the art of balance.

To live and love and serve in the right measure of, mix of

Both. The proportions just perfect.

Art, not science.

Caring for self, she bends back into the page and writes

A love song to the world, her passion bleeding on the page.

And hears a cry, piercing knife-like in  the night

To walk outside, plates and balls all tossed up in the air.

She longs to fold back on the white noise page and write,

Right where she lives.

Folding laudry, folding bedsheets, folding words.

They mix and mingle, they tug like moon at tides.

The words call,

Come play with us today.

The tempting taunting call of passion on the page,

To write.

The tension tears.

Joy comes gently in the sweet release

Of words.

She bends her ear to hear, what’s right.

And leans her head, blood rushing to the brain.

To write the words, her playful playmates posturing for a position

In her life. Right beside mother, sister, wife and other.

To write the balance out, the story,

That is her life.

Words winning, winding their way down the rows.

Poetry calls come play.

Joining Emily & Jennifer.

And at Thought Provoking Thursdays.

And I’m joining the folks at Tweakspeak Poetry for this month’s word prompt, Surreal. This is my offering on the prompt. (More to come, this is “fun”, sort of). #TSSurreal on Twitter.