Dad made the low table.
one of the things his hands
have given the house.
Now it holds her photograph,
the small lamp,
and cyclamens lifting
their pink faces
through lace-filtered light.
Each morning, he says Good morning,
then switches on the lamp.
He takes the walker
into the garden each day,
selecting what is flowering
among her favourites
and brings them back
in his careful hands
to place beside her frame.
The curtains soften
the afternoon to green.
On the table he made,
fresh stems lean close
to her face in the photograph.
At night, he says Goodnight.
He brushes her face
before turning off the lamp.
Beyond the lace,
one late flower
holds its colour
in the fading sun.
Boy my writing is pale stale tonight
Despite this still it gives me delight
What is it about selecting a phrase
That keeps me preoccupied for days
Is it the hope to craft and create
Something new despite old ways
To fondle fuchsia ideas into new
Tasteful thoughts of teal and blue
In a writer's block you’ll find
A new idea in the darkest mind
A blank canvas like an empty page
Will soon bloom with creative space
In that moment before we're about to touch another life
when deciding whether to be cruel… or kind
here a little something we need to keep in mind…
Think of all we both will gain
when it’s kindness we are choosing
Or…
when it comes to selecting cruelty,
think of all we’ll both be losing.
If there is one lesson our life experience has taught
when we think we’re only touching one life…
there’s a good chance…we are not…
Because when we touch one life…we never really know
how far the ripples of our kindness
or our cruelty will go…
So, in that moment before we’re about to touch another life
whether it is kindness or cruelty we clutch
may we take that moment and think of all the other lives
our kindness or our cruelty may touch.
pollinating bees
selecting random flowers
creating beauty
Death
in autumn
colors in their beauty
falling without fear
without grief
simply ending the
story of the summer's
green outgrowth~
similarity cries out~~
Autumnal Tints in Concord.
"It is pleasant to walk over the beds of these fresh, crisp, and rustling leaves. How beautifully they go to their graves! how gently lay themselves down and turn to mould!—painted of a thousand hues, and fit to make the beds of us living. So they troop to their last resting place, light and frisky. They put on no weeds, but merrily they go scampering over the earth, selecting the spot, choosing a lot, ordering no iron fence, whispering all through the woods about it,—some choosing the spot where the bodies of men are mouldering beneath, and meeting them half-way. How many flutterings before they rest quietly in their graves! They that soared so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again, and are laid low, resigned to lie and decay at the foot of the tree, and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high! They teach us how to die."
-From "Autumnal Tints" by Henry Thoreau; 1862.
SILENT CURATOR*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aging is not a thief,
but a silent curator,
selecting the finest moments,
the quiet triumphs,
the lessons learned in silence,
the wisdom that blossoms
like wildflowers in the cracks
of a once-bustling sidewalk.
So I embrace the years,
the softening edges of my spirit,
the grace of acceptance,
the gratitude for the journey,
for every heartbeat, every breath,
a reminder that life, in all its fleeting beauty,
is a gift wrapped in the delicate layers
of time.
*Note:This poem was originally published on Writer’ Monk’s Facebook page (www.facebook.com › thewritermonk). This is my original poem.
(A lone voice whispers)
Are you like me when selecting poetry or books to read
As they come up on your timeline or newsfeed
For I've met some interesting people in my long life
And the most interesting ones I enjoy reading on any given night
Are those courageous ones who use the sharp knife of experience
To write
To let go of whatever they need to purge using fonts as a testimony
In their own personal magical Fire Ceremony
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Image shared under fair usage policy
Home work
I have so much of work no time, but
I have time to play with the shirk cycle.
Ohh my god uhh this hard gear of
chain pushing the hand on it by watching straight to the hole confused of style and selecting the hole, nasty Naa home work maaga....
My wife home work,
Stupid a**
With love all
Jagdish bajantri
There she is
working tirelessly every day
spending her time and effort generously.
She is confident in her business.
Always encouraging me spiritually.
Respectful and kind in speech, yet
firm when she speaks the truth.
There she is again
giving her best to Jehovah,
impressing me with her authenticity.
She expresses her heartfelt happiness,
her voice infused with joy.
There she is again with that smile
after she told me nothing will wipe it away.
Telling me she chooses to be selective,
selecting me as her confidant.
There she is once again
being the kind of woman I need.
Truly a gem in a loveless world.
Being loyal as she can be,
caring for me genuinely.
I am fully convinced
She's a man's woman,
albeit too modest to agree.
Happily, I would let her be
a man's woman just for me.
Chanté Walker
November 26, 2024
As I look upward at the wooden door labeled 'My Demise',
I clearly see thirty-nine wooden steps on the rise.
Each step takes a minute to grasp what I'll leave behind,
With many memories and thoughts, to recall and unwind.
There are just sixty seconds to replay each precious step from my past.
Joys and sorrows, loves and losses, with sobs and laughter broadcast.
The first memories of childhood, growing up with family and friends.
Each a fleeting echo, highlighted in a telephoto lens.
Each step a treasure that soothes my weary flaying soul.
Building like a jig-saw puzzle to make the picture whole.
I'm like an old film editor, cutting and selecting,
The scenes of my life, beloved and cherished, collecting.
At the top of the stairs with thirty-nine stairs lies the door.
As I grab the handle I know: "Time's up!" "There's no more!"
I am the scent of Jasmine within indigo wind
I am purple painted passions sandy sultry sin
I am a thousand piece puzzle you love to dive in
Selecting collecting my peace my pieces again
I am the big fuchsia fish who you never caught
I am wonderful kiss that leaves you in lavender lost
I am the youth inside of you so wild strong free
I am the denied truth in the forest of green trees
I am your inner child so boisterous and beautiful
I am your silver soulmate all purposed and dutiful
I am in you golden goose and you are in me
I am your unfiltered light and lover of your dreams
Atypical fanfare
watch me with recoil
old dowager puts on her entice
withered cobwebs
of renewal desire
somewhere in the city
she resides
selecting her prey
on social milieu
Greeting avarice like a dear friend
over a coffee and carrot cake
ODE TO MONEYLENDERS
Oh, what designs can one possess
Lending succour to those with naught
Such desperate need one must confess
And how hard one must have fought
When courtesy has no more currency
With those to whom one is indebted
And there is a sad loss of coherency
Then additional loans must be netted
Limited choices never were the best
Yet lenders all may seem attractive
In selecting just one from all the rest
One does have to be quite proactive
Yet each time, the first steps are easy
Later payments getting ever harder
Mounting dues can make one queasy
It can be hunger and an empty larder
Interest becomes the pound of flesh
With debts spiralling out of control
Raw need and sympathy never mesh
As timely repayment is ever the goal
Whether institutional or private loan
More than money may be involved
Property as capital soon sets the tone
And any timely exit is rarely solved
Pleasant outcomes appear quite rare
Borrowing is always a slippery slope
With risk of ending in a pit of despair
And yet for some, there is still hope
Looking out from deep inside
this fortress here wherein I hide.
Formed brick by brick in rounds of pain,
some circumstantial, others made
by hand selecting from the first -
fine crafted moldings of the worst.
With clays of pity, doubt and fear,
mix in the water, make it clear
so all around will go away.
Form isolation day by day
til self-inflicted world of one
is all that’s left, the fortress done.
Now every brick formed tells a tale
of how I crafted out this hell,
where trapped inside I live alone…
my self-inflicted one-man home.
If I could live life over again
And choose one thing never to do
I'd elect to never complain ~
Selecting gain over pain, wouldn't you
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