Pete Seeger, Thank You

Surrendering hate--

A practice

Many might follow,

In favor of love.

Imagine

What that would be like.

No Moss, & Not Proud

When the season turns Blue,

bruised by silence buried in snow,

no end in sight,

light a distant

remnant of Noontimes forgot,

fought over, then ignored,

stored for another dark week on Earth,

it’s worth recalling how it feels,

heels entrenched,

benched like an understudy waits,

ingratiates the Moon to draw its curtains back,

black like night,

flight impossible, no one watching under

cover of the greyest shroud--

Clouds.

Margaret has the Real Toads visiting past prompts, thankfully reminding me of the wonderful chained rhyme, first introduced to us by Hedgewitch.

Mad Saltshaker

These days, my eyes are red when I rise

and leak intermittently throughout the day,

lifting pink to my left cheek, salty

smears announcing my mood: maudlin, probably.

I worry about the raised white pills floating

in the grayish sag framing orbs ordinarily

exclaimed and celebrated as crystal-blue

reminders of the soul of a person. (a poet

who carries the weight of wondering why

her eyes leak all day though she swears

she isn’t crying) (oh she’s sad all right,

anxious too, but those eyes, they just leak)

They just leak. That’s how it is now with eyes.

That’s how it is with mood and soul and poetry.

Peggy has the Real Toads writing about eyes.

Shale Heart

Yesterday’s promise,

layered like fissility,

encouraged pica--

I, being merely human,

compulsively ingested.

TANKA for Real Toads!

To An Old Friend, Now Estranged

Don’t ask me why

I always think of you

while washing dishes.

I don’t associate you

with cleaning,

or preparing food,

or enjoying a meal.

Each time, I think

I should call

or write you an email

or a postcard

but my hands

are in hot water

and I get distracted

while towel-drying,

forgetting again

until the next time.

At least

I wash a lot of dishes

so that means

I think of you often.

Sometimes I think

I should hit the road,

show up at your place

unannounced.

But there’s too many

dishes

waiting to be washed,

too many waking dreams,

solitary imaginings

probably better

left to the imagination.

For Corey’s prompt to the Real Toads: Persons of Interest

Asters, Lilies, Roses

The room in which I slept

when visiting my grandparents

had twin beds with lily-floral duvets,

rose wallpaper, stained-blue vanity.

I always liked the matching stool

with its spinning mechanism

and needle-pointed aster cover.

I’d sit with my back to the mirror

torquing back and forth just slightly

reviewing the sparse assortment

of paperbacks scattered on shelves

amongst framed family photos

and covered tissue boxes.

I think I was eleven years old

when I swiped a copy of In Cold Blood,

reading it on the sly, fairly

certain I wasn’t supposed to

but wondering why they’d leave

such a book in the kids’ guest room

if they didn’t expect us kids to read.

Reading in the bathroom, in the closet:

“The Last To See Them Alive.”

Asters, lilies, roses. Blood.

Linking up with Write On Edge! “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.” (L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between, 1953).

Muse Let Me Down Again

You rattled me from dreams

at the hour I’ve reserved

for your appearance--

  (Reality is debatable at 4 am,

   so maybe you are my dream?)

Planted verse so true-to-life,

certain I’d recall upon waking

to write it all down--

  (What is it with dreams,

   the ones in which you scream?)

But of course I forgot it all.

It’s fruitless trying to hold on

to you, like an elusive lover--

  (And when it’s over, I’ll be

   unable to explain what it means.)

"Thaw" by Elizabetta Trevisan

For inspiration, Grace shared the fantastical art of Italian painter Elisabetta Trevisan in the Imaginary Garden.

On Jaybird Street

essence of mocking
bird song flits ethereal
essentially kind

Guess He Really Missed Out

Pablo Picasso
never sketched my lopsided
face, nor my elbows.

Airguide

All I need's
a compass
& a bright star
to navigate
this new year.

photo by Marian Kent

Driving Through Central Pennsylvania In Late January

The road

cuts through frozen cornfields

like a causeway.

If your foot

wasn’t on the gas pedal,

you’d think you were moored in ice

& about to sink.

Fairest of Them All

Been a long time

since I pored over

my reflection

in any mirror,

but now I avoid

even a casual

or sideways glance.

I don’t recognize that woman.

Who is she?

Kerry asked the Real Toads to reflect upon our creative aspirations for 2014 and write about our resolutions. I am reflecting! But so far, this is all I got.