Haiku With a 5 - 7 - 5 meter

In Dreams

In dreams, I am scarred,
but I carry them with pride.
Now I am ashamed.

In dreams, I am loved,
so briefly, never by you;
for me you have scorn.

In dreams, I see you,
walking away without heed,
choosing not to love.

In dreams, I live pale
and dead, without any hope,
so much like my life.

In dreams, as in life,
I live with a shattered mind.
This I learn to bear.

In dreams, I wish to
never awaken to pain;
this I can't escape.

In life, always, it
is just around the corner,
lurking in the halls.

I am never free
from these dreams that come
to haunt and destroy.

I live the nightmare
of dreams that will never be.
There is nothing else.

Until I fly high,
higher than my pain, and laugh,
the wind at my back.

Blind Love

Blind Love

Blindly, we groped
for what we
thought we wanted;
instead we found
what we needed - someone
else to share the life
we didn’t know how
to live. How amazing
that we spent decades
without vision, without
love, or, more truthfully,
an unreciprocated love
because I came to
love you with a
fierceness and loyalty.
Nothing has changed
but that blindness that
I clung to, always
hoping you could find
something within me
to love, to cherish, to
protect. But, I lost
something that was
far too important to
you - the two breasts
like that of twin gazelles
that the shepherd boy
found entrancing in
his love for the comely
girl of Shulammite.
I, too, ask why should
I become like a girl in
mourning among the
droves? I should rather
like to go out like a
bag of myrrh to my
loved one who could
sleep between my breasts.

A Slice of Life, Unedited

Well, it’s true, our garage and house really did catch on fire, the fire marshal said so and the three fire companies that responded all agreed, without dispute.

I’ve always been particularly afraid of losing my home to a fire, not because I’m so materialistic as because our house burnt to the ground when I was in the first grade - nothing saved except my high-chair, which was great because my grandfather bought it for my first birthday, and it could be folded into a desk once the babe was able to sit on a chair at the kitchen table for the activity of food consumption.

I’m moving from my real topic.

The melted faces of my dolls, amidst the rest of the debris, are burned into my brain. So, when my husband, from whom I’m amicably separated, showed up at my apartment to give me the hateful news, I was shocked and felt great trepidation. I didn’t want to see the house. The house had much to do with our separation. This slice of life I’ll keep to myself; you will be thankful.

I didn’t go to our house until the insurance adjustor, building contractor and other people essential to the restoration of our lives were to meet us there. It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. Things started looking up.

The building contractor explained the amount of structural damage and what would be done for its repair. The insurance claims adjustor advised us of what we could expect in recompense for our lost possessions and for the restoration of others.

It was a wonderful surprise that brought a sense of elation when we were told that our insurance company would also provide us with housing comparable to what we lost and for the duration of the restructuring of our own. How accommodating! For the moment, we are ensconced in a Best Western Hotel, but we aren’t wondering how we’re going to pay for it.

Now, the car is a slightly different story. We are short a little over $7000.00 in being able to pay it off with the insurance money. That somewhat ruins dinner, if I had any to ruin (that tale comes later in my insipid story.) Still, overall, I’m a happy camper. Friends have loaned us their PT Cruiser for the duration. They have cars out the wazooooo. And, they are very kind and generous.

What I don’t like out the wazoooo is the negativity stemming from my husband’s half empty glass of water. It makes me want to give him several half full glasses of Scotch to put him out for some time. The addition of a couple of his anxiety medications might also bring some much needed relief.

How easily we forget! In the beginning of this hell, Bruce had seen a family on the news that had lost all of their possessions in a fire. They escaped with only their pajamas and, apparently, they didn’t have insurance to cover their losses. Bruce then said he felt grateful. Well, that has died along with the rest of the Grateful Dead, except even they are more alive with more grateful friends and roadies.

In all fairness, Bruce has undergone much more stress than I have. He was in the house when it caught fire. He had some minor smoke inhalation requiring a treatment and a day of recuperation. He has to make the majority of the return phone calls because most things are in his name.

He also scorns me because I decided not to travel the 260 miles to our friend’s house where he was to pick up the PT Cruiser. I don’t socialize with Bruce. We have different styles. I like to leave a gathering early and head for my own tidy little home. Bruce prefers to carry an overnight bag and sleeping roll in hopes they’ll invite him for a slumber party. He likes to continue the conversation in front of the wide open door with our feet planted toward the exit until I get a stiff neck from looking over my shoulder. I like to say, ‘So long,” and mean it. He returned from his trip a very unhappy chap.

The serenity prayer has become so clichéd but it is still so true. We need the strength to change the things we can, the ability to accept the things we can’t and the wisdom to know the difference. Or, something like that. How quickly we can go from being appreciative of our circumstances and maintaining our empathy for others in far worse situations, to feeling overwhelmed and negative, worrying about things that are down the road.

I would like to slap Bruce, and I’m sure he would like to give me a good thwack too. Thank God, he’s sleeping now. I haven’t eaten in two days and he refused to go just down the road for a pizza, informing me with the sternest of face, that he very nearly killed himself on the way from our friend’s home as he drifted off the road in a state of exhaustion. I don’t belittle this in the least. I’ll be happy to have peanut M & Ms for dinner. I do object to his refusal to see the brighter side. I am disappointed to see how easily, how quickly, all of us can lose our perspective by forgetting how fortunate we are.


This is not my best, nor is it the most entertaining of my writings. Tomorrow, I will look at it and blush with shame at its worthlessness. A friend of mine once told me that the purpose of a journal isn’t to showroom one’s best scribbling but to showcase our impressions at the time, without an edit.

May we always remember that the people we love are more important than possessions. Let’s remind one another that, when going through hard times, if it doesn’t require much imagination to realize there are thousands and thousands of people who would quite happily exchange their situation for ours, we are downright obligated by the dignity of those with less to be glad for what we have and to share what we can.

I'm also remembering with much satisfaction and sense of security that I have my own little apartment to retreat to if Bruce continues to wallow in the mire of a mud puddle in life.

Read Write Poem

Poet's and Writer's magazine shared a delightful website for writers to converge, share their work and learn from one another. I joined a group whose administrator provides the beginning of a sentence with which to write a poem. This week's selected phrase was, "Through the gate. . . "

I hope all of you who learn of this site and write poetry, or just want to read poetry, will join. It's free!

A Garden of Hope

A Garden of Hope

Through the gate and
past the Lotus petaled
pond grow the Tamarind
trees, wild with pink
blossoms. It is morning
and the Lotus petal
has opened herself to
share the sun, promising
a long life, health and good
fortune to all who pass.
The succulent fruit of
the Tamarind trees will
ripen and offer itself
as a juicy nectar to the
gods of goodwill. Evening
approaches and the Lotus
that covers the pond closes
her flower and sleeps till
the 'morrow when she again
joins the Tamarind trees in
the stone walled garden,
an architecture of hope.

Words From a Mother

This poem was inspired by a dear friend who wrote to me of her love for her grown daughters, one of whom is soon to be married. My friend's final words in her email touched my heart. She wrote "My heart wraps around them eternally." This one is for you Valerie.

A Mother's Eternal Love

Before I met you,
I knew you; I could
feel you in the Cradle of Life.
I fed you, even nourished
your spirit. You experienced
all that I did. My heart
and body followed
every move you made.
We were one, as we are now.
Clasping my belly,
I supported you, as I do
now and forever. A
new dawn came, bringing
you to me. We met and, in awe,
I gazed into your eyes,
for the first time and not
the last. Your fingers, toes
and ears were all accounted
for; I kissed each one. My
unfaltering love for you
became my entire world,
just as it is now. This love
for you became my greatest
treasure, just as it is now.
I watched, fascinated, as you
grew from babe to infant,
from an infant to a toddler
who took her first steps.
Time quickened; you've
grown from babe to young
woman, ready to take other
steps. Our footprints have
brought us here, where we
are now. I am so proud of
you, my daughter. My
Heart wraps around you
Eternally, never to wane,
always beating – Eternally.

I was privileged to have this poem published in a chapbook of poems written by cancer survivors.

Defying Death Gives a Gift
To Celebrate Life

In their puberty, I never
thought of their life sustaining
powers, their syrup for a child.
They were pears beginning to
ripen, buds bursting outward to
bloom, femininity gone wild. I
chose for them garments white,
bedecked with ribbons and lace,
clean, sterile and new. With pride,
in innocence, they were taken
for granted, it being presumed that
all had two. I looked down upon
my cleavage thrilled because
beneath my sweaters of Angora
hair they made pleasant little mounds.
Then the mirror was my friend
inasmuch as both were there.
Until a day when one witnessed
the carnage of its sister. Where poise
and symmetry had been before,
the glorious proclamation of
womanhood, I found instead a
slashing scar, the memory of
war. Yet, another battle has been
fought and the lonely, bereaved,
she is no more. Hellish cancer made
behest. her fate, too, became a
slashing scar, but balance she restored
and marked a badge of courage on my
chest. I survived the betrayal of
that which life can give, through
sustenance of milk, that which
my lover did caress. I celebrate
these wounds. To them I raise
a toast, because to Celebrate Life
is what I wanted most.

Time is Just a Highway Passin' Us By

These are the first song lyrics I've ever written. I'm hoping that some of my followers will leave a comment or two! Yeah or Nay? Am I The Poet, Or Not? LOL

Time is Just a Highway Passin' Us By

Time used to come right up to our doorstep,
but now it's just a highway passin' us by.
Holdin' hands, parkin' in the graveyard,
we were bright with youth and lovin'
wasn't hard. Now I'm fifty-one and
still feelin' twenty, but there ain't
now one here whose feelin' the same.
I'm just watchin' the highway passin'
us by. Passin' us by and feelin' the pain
of drivin' a convertible at ninety in the rain.

Time used to come right up to our
doorstep, but now it's just a
highway passin' us by. Now it's
just a highway passin' us by.

There's a knot in my stomach
anchored to my gut that's killin' the
time that's passin' us by. Like a
noose around my neck is the memory
of you reachin' out to me in something
we called intimacy. But we were like
hungry mongrels knawin' on a bone,
drivin' down the highway headed to
home and all the time feelin' alone.
We were young but never feelin' free.

Time used to come right up
to our doorstep, now it's just a
highway passin' us by, Time
is just a highway passin' us by.

Time is just a highway passin' us by,
sideswiped by life, time is just
a highway passin' us by.

What Makes a Poet Write

When I read a poem, I always wonder what inspired it. Figuring this out in any kind of satisfying manner is often difficult, particularly with those poets who write, dare I use the word that comes to mind, with obscurity. I suppose if I were a painter, abstract art would never appeal to me. I'm not denigrating such; it just wouldn't be my chosen method. It is so with words. I choose mine carefully and reach deep into my heart to put into those words what I feel and the emotions that rule while I write.

The below poem, "Sixty Minutes Away" was written for my husband, Bruce. We have been separated for two years. I guess you could say I've taken a sabbatical from my marriage, for personal reasons I'll not share here - not at this time anyway.

A long time ago Oprah interviewed three people who had also taken sabbaticals from their marriage - two women and one man. The promulgator of this life event is probably Joan Anderson who wrote three books about her own marriage. One of them pertained to the sabbatical she took from her own marriage, entitled: A Year by the Sea.

Sixty Minutes Away

Sixty Minutes Away

On a good day, without
traffic or incident,
you're sixty minutes
away. Yet the moon
is within reach. You
called me, as you sat
by the lake, and invited
me to share this moon,
which you said was a
brilliant globe surrounded
by a rainbow – God's promise
to Noah. Outside my window,
sixty minutes away, the lamp of
night fixed its generous eye
on me too. Its splendid light
seemed to have never shown
brighter than on this night,
when you were sixty
minutes away. High above
my window, just beyond the
glass, the moonbeam united
us; your beloved voice,
sixty minutes away. I could hear
the hymn of night and see,
through your eyes,
sixty minutes away, the lake
like a sheet of glass,
smooth and still, yet not
without life. Through the
wire, I could hear the
chant of crickets scratching
their fiddles of legs.
You told me three bull-frogs
trumped for supremacy.
The greatest miracle
of all was; you were no
longer sixty minutes away.

No Man Left Behind

No Man Left Behind

You told me no stories;
not because you have none,
but because you keep
them close to your heart,
where only you can know
them. Yet, I learned of
them, as you relived many;
I discovered much about
you even though you
have been left behind,
in a hell where no young
should have ever lived.
You are a man left behind,
where you would leave no
others, but spare not yourself.
In Death Valley you are like
the plant, Xanadu, which
grows in both shade and sun,
a tropical botany growing in
darkened arbors and shadowed
entryways, where no man
was left behind. Yet, your
youth has been sequestered
there amid the mountains
and villes, when you should
have come home – no man
left behind. You live in your
private garden attended to
by death, with memories that
rain but never bless, instead
they burn and with sleep come the
dreams – the souvenirs of war.
The leaves of the jungle no
longer remember your footsteps.
The last sound in the fading
wind are the footfalls of Death,
circling for its prey, the man
who remains where no man
was to be left behind.

The Spirited Soloist

Many years ago, in the month of February, when spring came early to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, I was sitting in my rocking chair by a floor to ceiling window; I was reading late; it was past midnight. Our apartment was built on the top of another flat roofed building, so right outside this window was not only a view of the city but also a very good view of the rest of the roof.

On this particular night, winter reminded us that, although the weather had been unseasonably warm, it wasn't yet spring. The reminder was a violent storm of sleet and heavy winds. I couldn't have been more shocked when my reading was pleasantly interrupted by the sound of a songster singing for all it was worth right outside my window - sitting right there on the roof in the dark of night, in the wind and freezing rain. This little bird sang for some length of time; it was like a gift. I wrote the following poem. Like some of the others I've posted today, this one might not represent my best work; but it made me happy.

The Spirited Soloist

Frozen crystals beat a cacophony
Against the window pane,
Shattering the silence of night with
Wind and frozen rain.

Uncanny in its delicate power and
Beauty in its alabaster sheen,
Snow quilts the earth and sleeves
The branches of evergreen.

Next, dawn approaches, night fades
Albescent; Life quickens weary;
Awakening to an earth hibernated and
Made February dreary.

Yet, audacious Spring attends the dial,
And buds the tree branches;
While outside my window, a bird, in
Defiance of winter prances.

He beats his wings in a cadence to match
My heart and spirit - Sings his Song
With Proud Resonance, just loud
Enough for me to Hear It.

Another Apology to Caryn

I can't claim that the below poem is one of my best. But, I rather warned you when I said this was the blog of "The Poet or Not."

One winter day the ground was free of snow and the forecast gave us no warning when a sudden storm hit the Pocono Mountains and my husband and I found ourselves stuck at the bottom of the steep hill leading up to our community. Mothers who were meeting their kids at the bus stop were unable to make their way up this hill, and we found ourselves stuck at the bottom until everyone else had given up trying to tackle the steep slope.

Bruce is a great driver in the snow so we made it home. Within less than half an hour the woods around our home was transformed into the most beautiful winter scene. The snow was so heavy that many of the tree's branches were laying low to the ground. We were afraid that some of them were going to break from the weight, but by morning the snow had completely disappeared, as though it had never been.

I wrote this the following day. Several times I've sat and swivelled in my swivel chair, thinking I might bring some better literary talent to this piece of work; I did nothing but swivel. So here it is, just as it was.

Snowsquall

The Luminary of the Day began its descent by degrees
Toward the Horizon; acquiescent to Twilight,
As the earth's spinning decrees.
Snow burdened clouds, driven by Northern Gales,
Migrated 'ore head and 'neath heav'ns floor,
Nature's Kite, Bearing a Squall, Winter's gift
to this Earth, a Generation given Rebirth.

A swirl of hoary snowflakes, dense and opaque,
Transforms the environs and different age make.
Where once the pines and spruce bore needles of green,
They now bow and embrace hooded cloaks of white.
Surrounding embranchments stretch outward and lean
To capture their own attire, generous and eager
For sharing their nature, to thrill and delight.

The Luminary of Night beams down on the scene,
Reflecting upward to'ard heaven, its radiance
Making the forest glisten, twinkle and gleam.
Courteous of life, the winds continue to blow,
so that, by Morn, before any damage is done,
The evergreens and branches are divested of snow.
The moon goes to rest and yet emerges the Sun.

Shakespearean Winter

QUIET! 'Gainst mine skin brushed Air's Breath,
Hastening to Chill, Inciting Wind's
Passion to another Winter Still. Welken
'bove adds its rejoinder, Rehearsals
Behind a Winter's Haze, Orchestrating
The Cradle Song of God's Harmony;
Thus begins this Annuals Laze.

ANON! Earth shall Slumber whilst snow, wind,
Ice and Rain, Artists of the Hour
Compile their Elements, Unleash their
Gentle Fury And Create by Divine Power
A Pantomime of Beauty, a Mute Song of
Muffled Silence, A Semblance of
Divergent Age. The Performance shall beckon.

Intoxicated by its Placid Vitality mine own Heart
Leaps upon The Stage. Mine own Spirit mergest
With the Vortex or Kaleidoscopic White Snow,
Gossamer Fair. Ah! Attempt to Match,
Attempt to Share Mine Own Enchantment,
Emancipate your own Perceptions and Transcend
Mine own Joy . . . . Only if you Dare!

The Dream of Poets

There isn't a poet who doesn't want to see their work in print. A poet doesn't exist who doesn't want to see their work in a single publication authored by themselves. It sure is my dream.

In search of the dream, I used Google in hopes of finding small publishing companies that might give me a fair reading and be so bowled over by my words that they would be banging on my door begging for the opportunity to make a book few people would read and that would cost them money they would never recoup.

Instead, I found this pithy writing by a fellow poet and publisher of a small press in Easton, Pa. - a little city near enough I could communicate by carrier pigeon and the bird wouldn't have to stop for a respite on its journey. Being inundated with poets, such as myself, inspired the editor to create a form letter of, gasp, rejection to remind us of why we write and, oh how horrible the thought, of why we won't be published unless we pay for it ourselves. Here is her letter.

"Dear Would-Be Poet, If you are expecting to be paid for poetry, you are sadly misinformed about the genre. You are wasting your time writing poetry because you have missed the point of the entire effort. You have failed to understand that poetry doesn't pay, it costs. Writing poetry costs your heart and soul. It costs years of study, of reading, and of listening. Poetry costs going to readings not only to read your own work but to truly hear the work of others. Poetry isn't a paying job; it is a way of life. If you expect to get paid for your work, dear poet, look elsewhere. Poetry pays infinite intrinsic rewards and few, if any, external ones. Sincerely, the Editor."

God pity me. My dream is in tatters and I'll probably always be poor and unknown, like most poets. She goes on to remind us of these truths.

"Friends, you've got to love poetry to be a part of it. What else but a love of the art (and make no mistake about it, poetry is art) could explain endless hours spent on one poem -- or even one line -- squeezing it, rolling it, shaping it, into something that makes the connection between heart and paper via pen? Or driving an hour to stand with shaking knees behind a podium (or worse yet, just standing up in front of a group with no "prop"), to read one two-minute-or-less long poem? Or sending out submission after submission in hopes of publication; not in payment, but in publication.

"You've got to love something that gives such small repayment for devotion: the ink on a sheet of printed paper that spells out your heart with your name attached. And yet, friends, I've got to tell you that after more than 30 years of writing poetry, just seeing a poem of mine in print, with my byline, is worth everything, nothing more required. Funny, isn't it?"
Carole J. Heffley

That byline is worth more than money. When I was writing special interest articles for a local newspaper, I had to fight hard to get that byline. Ever notice that most newspaper articles don't have one of these coveted and precious bylines? Editors are stingy with them. Credit isn't always given where credit is due. I carried my scrap right to the mayor. If I didn't get a byline, the newspaper didn't get my articles, and, since I was writing about a wagon train that was traveling through our town, the editors really wanted my article. I won and was forevermore given appropriate credit.

Now, I rarely win. Journals want a particular style or subject and they have their own agenda. I can't write for the market. I can't study a hundred periodicals just to find out what is selling and then write accordingly. Hence, my dear followers, I've decided to share more of my work here on this blog. It may be the only opportunity I have to share my work. I've awakened from my dream to live reality and, if the dream ever comes true, that will just be the icing on the cake.

Some Days Thoughts Are Sad

Bittersweet Sorrow

I walked to the
edge of a cliff
and remembered
I couldn’t fly. I
prayed for wings
to carry me across
the dark abyss;
I sang a hymn,
a dirge, hoping
you would hear.
My mournful cry
went unheard; you
were nearby, yet
so far away and
my keening was
as silence in the
darkest loneliest
of nights. Your mystery
remained unequalled
while the moon cried
tears to bathe my
wounded heart of
a sorrow you never
knew, in a place you
could never go.

In Honor of Eternal Friendship - For Rich C. Vietnam 1969-1972

With startling abruptness I lost contact with a dear friend who owns and lives on a ranch in Washington State. I've tried finding him on line, without success. This poem is in honor of our dear friendship, written with the desire to send it across the vast expanse of space, hoping that it somehow lands within his view. This one's for you, dearest sweet Rich.

A Poem in Honor of Eternal Friendship


Keeper of the Gate

The world around me accedes
to and welcomes darkness
and sleeps while I
remain awake, as the
Keeper of the Gate, content
to feel the earth breathe
and softly moan. The stars
that dot the sky with
pin points of flame makes
me believe you are still
out there, somewhere,
as I stand here, the
Keeper of the Gate, while
the herd of wild Mustangs
snuffle softly in their corral.
Birds, in the wee hours
of the morn, sing for awhile
with quiet little chirrups,
sensing my mood, as
Keeper of the Gate; they
beg me to cheer up too. Llamas,
Llola, spelled with two Ls
in honor of her species.
move and rest within their
pen and the Great Pyrenees dogs
are like me, the Keeper of the
Gate, as they protect the flocks,
the goats, whose kids stumble,
sliding across the floors of your
house, making themselves at
home and the sheep whose
lambs frolic and play beside
the kids, the stray cats and mutts,
the brood of hens that lay their
eggs and the old leghorn rooster
who gloats about the time.
Crickets have not yet gone to
rest; the katydids make a scratchy
tune – the nocturnal singing
insects sharing their hypnotic
musical songs of night in a
great musical fest. In the somnolence
of night, I, Keeper of the Gate,
imagine that I could be Nox, that
ancient Roman Goddess of Night.
I close my eyes, but not in sleep;
it is to see to the far Northwest,
and nearly three thousand miles
away, the Northern Lights. I
can also see Vietnam and re-read
the stories written but never
told. The bartender in Denver,
an airport cocktail lounge on
one leg of a route between Arkansas
and Washington, who charged
four bucks for a drink, was given
a twenty and then gave in return
change in a ten, a five and five
ones, tapped a hat that said Vietnam
1969-1972 and said, “Thank you.”
A house without a wife, but two
sons, traveling the god-awful
Sonoran Desert in a van called
home. The forty-two men who died
and another wished he had – face
crushed by the windshield of an
M60. These memories kept by
the Keeper of the Gate. A Time
Capsule, the custodian of precious
remembrance. The Moon is brilliant;
even I can see tonight’s rings that
shine around the sphere of night.
The Earth has a succulent odor
of its own, the nectar of sunset;
deeply I breathe and my chest rises,
as does my spirit, to soar far, far
away, hoping to find out where
you are, the roots of our friendship
reaching out across the air, like
the roots of the Banyan Tree,
searching for life, a place to grow, a
locality to live. Another’s presence
is sensed and the Keeper of the Gate
must leave, giving way to Aurora the
Goddess of Dawn; I hope that you
are out there somewhere and, wherever
that may be, you have felt the gentle
touch of a friend, one who has always
cared, one who is now the
faithful Keeper of the Gate.

For Rich, wherever he may be.