once long ago
fear forgoing
ego faded
through death keyhole
our life role clear
soul’s whole again
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Leave behind your suitcase and Venice’s hurried pace
forgoing culture and medieval history for Dolomieu’s Dolomites~
pinnacles of dolomitic limestone chiseled into grotesque shapes
that refuse postcards—carving their own light at dawn and
gently dissolving into peaceful rose at dusk.
Their trails are old conspirators, whispering switchback secrets
to those like me who love geology, nature and
who walk without hurry.
The trails unwind like forgotten stories
each turn a new clause~
a waterfall’s asterisk, a meadow’s ellipsis:
this writer’s inspiration and paradise.
A farmhouse leans into one of the stone slopes,
its shutters laced with blushing pink geraniums.
Inside, my favorite comfort food--speckled cheese
melted over polenta, golden as an Italian afternoon.
Each peak, a vial where daylight lingers,
hoards time in geologic sieves.
These rouge-colored peaks, half-lit, refuse the night~
patient stars and poets don’t mind.
Did you see, did you see
Grampa said excitedly
The system works, it really works
Thank God, they’re not (yet) all jerks
Aw, Gramps, open your eyes, didn’t you see
All those folks forgoing salaries
Airline flights canceled left and right
Millions with nothing to eat at night
Yes, sonny boy, I saw, I saw
And the deal was a bit raw
But the system worked, it really worked!
Sorry, Gramps
You’ve gone blind ~ you old jerk!
And I'm guarded,
like I'm wounded,
my first instincts,
are to find a hole,
dig in, seek ascendance
I wanna lighten my dark,
I wanna swallow the sun,
I wanna feel single; one of one—
I wanna spark transcendence
To feel the pulse of life in every sad heartbeat
So I fire the dreams where passion finds defeat
Flame fueled, flowing forever forgoing deplete
Phoenix rise singular; not to be repetition, like a parakeet
My Gift
My gift to
You is
Gladly giving myself
In deepest love,
Forgoing my selfish ways
Totally surrendered to you
We're born with bodies- set up very well
to grow, survive for sure by what we're shown;
with instincts also ingrained so we dwell
to eat, and drink, then sleep as nature's own.
But then, as humans- free will too survives
to choose and implement what we will do.
The deepest urge for power oft deprives
the peace we long for which does not prove true.
If only free will could negate this urge-
forgoing power for world wars to cease;
reject control and capture since this scourge
won't feed the promise of true worldwide peace.
This search for power must come to a halt;
but such is the dilemma we're in now.
It pains me most since we are not at fault.
Just pray for answers- if, and when, and how-
our hopes for a great miracle one day
that all world leaders draft a common page.
Fulfill this wish for us who duly pray-
humanity may live a peaceful stage.
For the love of Salt and Sea
A man,
Standing tall and feelin free.
With his old raggedy clothes,
Pipe
And his sunburnt nose.
On the bow of Ole Navy,
Just watching,
And waiting for the Jubilee.
With a voice that is raspy,
Calling out
For his old dog Scrappy.
The sun will soon be risen,
nets to be lowered,
boats could be seen on the horizon.
For the love of salt and sea,
A man,
Whose home was never in Tennessee.
Bent to touch waters of blue,
A smile,
A rendezvous.
A knowing,
His days were coming to a close,
Peering deep, forgoing.
For the love of salt and sea
A longing
Now a spirit set free.
© Deborah Seale Schnadelbach
Away in a sleigh
No gifts for today
Santa's gone on holiday
Reindeer unyoked, stray
Mr Claus found a clause
In his contract, to pause,
When boots on reindeer paws
Were threadbare without cause
So folks, its pick-up collect
No delivery to home direct
No gifts in stockings decked
Myth of fee-free delivery wrecked
Mr Claus searched high and low
Tried every courier, fast and slow
But the sticking point for no go
Was chimney drop, to down below
The reindeer are lowing
Stars in sky are glowing
Cause Mr Claus forgoing
Has taken up sewing
My poetry's too cute
I need a vacation
I'm better off mute ~
though I'm forgoing cremation
Drawing near to the end of May
(The month devoted to Mary)
Sweet-scented thoughts of yesterday
Immerse me in books! I tarry...
From the Spring-cleaning I should do
And progressing with my job search
Just so many books to read through!
And I love spending time at church
I made apple-cinnamon cake
With a dusting of cinnamon
Is avoiding chores a mistake?
Forgoing house-dusting, a sin?
Simple pleasures can't be a crime
In the dusting of the Springtime! :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
True story -- this is my life right now haha
"In The Dusting Of The Springtime Sweet
Scented Thoughts Of Yesterday Poetry Contest"
(Poetry Contest Deadline: Sunday, June 18, 2023)
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.
The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.
If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.
I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.
Clothed by a smile, naked through words
A beginning, bound to no end
Life, an observation to be captured
Freedom sought, by a captive soul
Autumn feels, so much like home.
An unsteady commitment, a promise betrayed
To return, an ideal that reality cannot accomodate
Conflict borne, through a mind too heavy to decide
An engagement of fulfilment, finding loneliness
This hand tires, just as this page.
The introduction of a pause, births stillness
A fallen pen, awakening failure
Incomplete pieces, consuming wholesomeness
Momentum lost, a crutch to prevent continuity
Wallowing again, time without purpose.
Another day, another return to uncertainty
Every attempt, shadowed by finality
The joy that had been, anxiety's casualty
Reminiscing of the old, forgoing the new
Where release was apparent, cells confine.
Not without hindrance, the last stains arrive
To deny the inevitable, or embrace it's truth
Slowed has the heart that paced, passion subdued
Mismatched lines, chaos pervasive
Letting go might be best, of a love without direction.
My best friends are “there for me.” Each, in turn, presents their partial list of people who’re upset with me - with my “social suicide” decision to opt-out of my senior year and go, instead, to university.
It seems that by forgoing 12th grade, I'm rejecting their way of life, attacking mass production or committing an act of terrorism.
I try to explain this obsession I have, since the pandemic lock-down, to get out and into the world.
The great pandemic isolation scraped away at me, left me feeling ransacked and empty. I can’t ignore the call of freedom any more than I could yank out my heart and continue living.
They can’t seem to hear me - it’s like I’m mumbling, speaking in tongues, or talking to myself
Giving me sunrise where early dawn be
to tackle morn so tempted to be bare
sensual gifts from natures brightened glee
much gracious from whence altitude is there
channeling voices from inside my head
receiving messages from the unknown
consistent visions are clear to as red
trapping eccentric qualms for to atone
perhaps potion clears up misguided sight
seeing quaint pictures of fuse lit statues
cases of undying flings capture night
forgoing capes of dreariness shall lose
doth favor a worm on the hot asphalt
and a caterpillar bathed in sea salt
Standing in the kitchen, the house is silent.
Mama’s door is shut. She’s sleeping or hiding
Floral lined stoneware, in faded blue
A cluster of sticky notes, with the day’s “to do”
Two warm, brown pitchers of sweetnlow tea
Daddy must have been here, just before me
Working through my thoughts, while shooting some hoops
Then strolling around front, to chill on the stoop
Greeted by a kitty, to join me for my walk
She weaves between my legs and sure likes to talk
Forgoing the stairs, I opt for the swing
Humming birds and bees, tell me, it’s spring
Alone, once again, I drift off in daydream
I focus, intense, then ponder what it means
So much sadness, I feel. It’s all that I know
Such a burden I carry, to not let it show
So why do I insist, on coming back home
The first of many dark places, I’d be, before grown
A nostalgic fixation? Or glorified memories?
Turns out, my subconscious, disguised the enemies
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