Do you feel your loves gone stale
And your relationship is beginning to fail.
Do you find a reason just to stay
Or do you just walk away.
Do you talk to work it out
Or do you both just scream and shout
Do you say it's not you it's me
Or try to save your family.
Do you cry with tears that flow
Or do you give it one more go.
Do you deny the secrets you hid
Or do you admit what you did.
Do you try to paper over the crack
Or do you walk out and never look back.
Suzette was Auntie Dolly’s favorite porcelain wonder.
None of us liked her, yet, we could not give her away
Maybe because we loved Auntie Dolly so much.
And we knew she would want one of us to keep Suzette.
Suzette is too prissy for me, a cousin told us.
Not me, I have six little ones. She would not last a week.
I am packing to move to a new town.
Excuses all over the place, no one wanted this creepy doll.
She is not that spooky, I say, offering to take her.
Suzette stayed in a box the first few months with me.
But I had a dream that she had to be unboxed.
I put her in the living room, on the mantel.
The next day, she was sitting at the kitchen table.
Reading the paper over my husband’s shoulder.
Not on my watch! I told her.
She went back into the box.
The snow is gently drifting down,
Not like two days ago,
When it was blowing sideways,
In a heavy dump of snow.
All the snow had melted.
The birds are coming back.
The flowers just now breaking ground,
And this dumps in our lap.
My lilies were up almost a foot.
Now they're laying flat.
I put some paper over them,
Hoping they'll come back.
The paper bags I used were large.
I made for them a tent.
I propped them up and prayed for them.
Poor things were limp and bent.
It's now April twenty-fourth,
And snow is drifting down,
Covering trees and flower beds,\
And blanketing the ground.
The weather man said we'd have rain.
We got cold wet snow.
Guess when Alberta is your home,
You just go with the flow.
In America teens prank neighbors for fun, sometimes maliciously
by throwing toilet paper over branches on their trees. Today, not
a square would be spared for such frivolity. Not every day is a
parade of roses but every day can be filled with the joy of the Lord.
MONEY ON TREES
would that rain could erase the ill — wet paper wrapped around trees
3/13/2020
All my life I have been a big dreamer
and a big storyteller,
my mom used to say, I had imagination, just like my sweet grandma,
gosh, she was a great story weaver . . .
at first the tales formed in my mind were just things unwritten, and
I liked to watch grandma's face and all the expressions within her voice,
so, soon with storytelling- I was bitten and smitten.
Grandma created wonderful characters and scenes,
and because of her this I was blessed too.
But, oddly none of her stories were ever written on paper, not a single one,
no pen dripped on paper for grandma,
but my own words have fallen to paper over and over.
All her stories existed in her mind and she stored carefully each script,
and when grandma died at ninety-four
sadly she could not speak a single word,
so I tell her stories remembered in words written.
____________________________
October 17, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/A Big Storyteller
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 1117-309-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, End Feb 2019
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
Don't get confused on what's really green. The henna........the trees.....the herb....the eyes......money isn't green, it's as dark as the evil it possesses , how greedy it makes us , all of us. Couldn't possibly picture happy life without the....don't need things to crave them. One taste of a dead president will have your life spiraling into a closet of give and take that takes and never gives. The cycle that replaces life. Green is the green that is green to the eye. Touch soul. Love is green. Smoke love touch the soul. Let it curl and embrace your insides till it's fuzzy fingers massage your scalp and release the blood back into your body. Don't let the paper over rule the plant. Mary is here , we don't need the bens and franklins. Earth gives us what we are. Weed give ourselves what we want. We'ed gives ourselves what we need.
Hineni *
A tourist is looking for a synagogue, unwrapping the map.
He is sliding a finger on the paper over the distance travelled, Finding passage from cul-de-sac to the next dead and, Like someone who has lost sephirot, his main line.
I explain how he well get directly through Sioni,
Through a small square, opposite Jvaris Mama** to the synagogue.
I am shifting attention elsewhere,
I bid farewell, but he does not intend to go anywhere.
He days that he is not glad to open the tomb,
The fire started in Haifa and his house burned down.
At least nobody was found. Nobody met there. Fire has endured over his head.
I got upset, moved away from the bunker’ s dogs
We walked for a while side by side, closely, along the path:
An old woman on a pavement, feeding her cats.
An old woman on the balcony, shaking a carpet.
*Hineni is Hebrew: Here I am” Gen. 22:1
**Jvaris Mama (father of the Cross) is the name of church in Jerusalem St. Tbilisi
.
Trust not, know not,
Love not, show not,
In the midst of such vague
expressions, lies the life,
of the pessimistic cynic,
or rather the temperament
born from his solitude,
a solitude which remains fortified,
Hope not, see not,
Free not, be not,
are the unwritten rules
of his constant confinement,
Faithless and motionless
due to comfortable surroundings,
He sees the world through logical,
eyes from the darkest spectrum,
As light is merely the wrapping
paper over the ugliest truth,
Illuminated paint covering walls
that shall forever remain the same
Yet the appeal is incredibly seductive,
The brighter allure of hope keeps light desirable
Whereas his view has no seduction,
merely the fact of being fact,
Thus he embraces not corruption,
nor does he take pride in eradicating
any sheltered scent of optimism,
For he too would enjoy a moment
of essential ignorant indulgence,
if only to know the touch of acceding,
Yet he chooses not to, despite his
opinions condemned to being despised,
He sleeps in his only comforting reward,
the serene knowledge that he helps
truth be seen, known, and heard...
You are the master of self aggrandizement
You have forgotten how to be in the wrong,
Manipulation is your art,
Insidious word-play, gentle put-downs,
Reminders of all my failures are your tools,
I am the dartboard,
Peppered with your sugar-tipped barbs
You push me down with such skill, such grace,
I can barely feel my feet sinking through the floor
And before I know it I’m up to my chin in mud
But still bound to you by my love,
A coiled quicksilver chain
I’ve learned a few tricks along the way, sure
I’ve absorbed the art of soul-scarring, with a smile
I emulate your gritted-teeth cruelty,
Your tender slaughter of self esteem
But the student has not yet surpassed the master
You slice my frailest longings, you mangle my melting heart
And then you kiss the oozing sore you opened
You paper over the cracks with a concerned comment,
An off-hand ‘I miss you’
You mortar the raw bleeding gaps with tenderness,
But in the dead of night, when truth weighs heavy on my chest,
I lie in bed alone and cold, and wonder how much of it is true…
And how much of that affection really comes from you
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