Photos for January Stones and April PAD 2012 property of M J Dills (exception 1/16)







Sunday, May 23, 2010

M is for Mozart's Birthday

MOZART'S BIRTHDAY















Born on his day
You allowed him influence over your life
That no other was allowed,
Except maybe Jane Austen.
I missed your funeral.
No one let me know you had died
And when I was told perfect strangers were there,
It made me cry even more
That you were gone,
Unable to leash your own outrage
At such an event.
I remember you in your black morning coat
And ruffled shirt,
Long brown cigarettes
And your love for champagne
And chocolate.
In summer you dressed all in white,
Never got soiled.
Inspired, brilliant, loud, droll.
On evenings you would show at our door, late, drunk and lonely,
We stayed up with you
And listened to your recitations and wit.
It was always so cold on Mozart’s birthday;
Your humble home was warmed by adoration.
You glowed then, like a blaze.
I miss you.

Longing

Longing















Pain just out of reach
Memories fading
Like dreams forgotten upon awakening
Photos faded or lost in travels
Messages delivered unsolicited
Yet welcomed with a masochistic longing

K is for Kitchen Monday Morning Blues









Kitchen Monday Morning Blues







Coffee pot full of thick black motor starter
Milk jug empty
Rain beating on the window pane.
Cat bowl showing brown flakes, nothing more
And kitty mewing to come in, come in, come in.
Clock ticking at meteoric speed
While kids can’t find socks and pick a fight
Over whose turn to sit in the front
Before you can even get out the door
And you drop your toast
Butter side down on the floor.
The radio tells you the traffic on the interstate
Is a parking lot
Right before they play your old song
And herding kittens sounds like an easy occupation.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

J is for JOHN

















John




I met you with my great belly and you signed my book ‘so much love.’
Those were some days in my life that once I tried to hide but later
When I’d learned a great deal more I knew I was lucky to have all that
And you
If only for those few times
Before everything went so bad for you.
It was you who made me get my baby back.
I told you that and you put your arms around me
Like no one else ever had and you blessed him
Touched his downy little head
And told me you were glad.
I read you died in a broken down hostel
In England and it made me sad.
You deserved so much more.

Inuits on the Edge







Inuits on the Edge






Inuits on the edge of the world
Who slumber in igloos
Live in bright mornings that stretch into bright evenings
With no separation of day and night.
Generations of eyes have sensed
The shapes of ice formations to map landmarks;
Human compasses knowing the way;
From
Grandfather to grandson
Parent to child
Shapes change with warming winds and terrain
Once familiar
Can no longer be interpreted.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

H is for "Hurt" May 11, 2010









HURT







A scar marks her
Like the one her mother bears
She ignores remarks about her
And pointedly returns stares
Her eyes, hooded and dark
Reveal little, only moods
Causing passersby to steer
Clear of her stony altitude
Giants of any kind
Don’t affect her
Angels behind mirrors
Reflect her
She’s waiting
And the drums may pause for warning
But don’t expect it

Monday, May 10, 2010

G is for: The Griffon in the Garden May 10, 2010










The Griffon in the Garden












The griffon in the garden
Was placed one rainy day,
To guard the house and all within
And keep them from harm’s way.
No one told the griffon
How big would be the tasks;
Sometimes the worst of enemies
Disguise themselves with masks.
How could he know a Trojan Horse
Would put him to the test?
While ruin lay before him
Though he did his very best.
Upon that day the griffon
Held up his wings and wept
While something foul and evil
Across the threshold swept.
His warnings went unheeded,
And misery did fall
How could the griffon be of blame?
What is he, after all?
But just a piece of concrete
Carved with human hands;
We must learn to open our eyes
Before making such demands.
And now the forlorn griffon
Guards the house no more;
He’s left to sit and drip with rain
A piece of backyard d├ęcor.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

For My Mom May 8, 2010




I am lucky to still have my mom. She was 89 last Monday, May 3 and we had the nicest day, playing cards and having lunch with her sister, my aunt.



For My Mom



She wished for a butterfly
To dress in white and lace,
And that lasted for awhile;
The little cherub face
Of honey hair and rosy cheek
Became more like a puppy
Whose curiosity did peak
When ever in the vicinity
Of mud or dirt or soil;
Whatever frock so washed and pressed
She’d manage to tear and spoil.
I was that little butterfly
Who thanks her mother now
For every toiling moment
She was able to endow
To cause appreciation of
The finer things in life
To grow and be a mother
And more than once a wife
My mother gave to me some traits
I’d never want to lose
She did her best, I know that well
And never would I choose
To have another mother
I adore the one I’ve got
She deserves a medal
For dealing with a lot
Of childhood miseries
And angst of teenage years
For my mom, forever
Thanks for being here.

Friday, May 7, 2010

"E" is for EQUAL May 7, 2010






Equal















We may speak in different tongues
Sounding strange to each other’s ears
Hands and faces used to communicate
But we are equal

You call your god by a different name
Although to me he is the same
And we pray in different words, different times
But we are equal

Your shoes, your hats, your every piece
Which clothes your body is foreign to me
And though it may look strange in my eye
We are equal

Your body has been the den of cruel thieves
Who stole your legs or your eyes or your ears
Or your mind and maybe even your dignity
But we are equal

No matter whom you love or give your devotions to
Regardless of where you live, how you vote
Whether you drive, walk or take the bus
We are equal

I share my shame with others who make judgments
I open my door and set my table
I ask you to forgive if I ever treated you as anything but
Equal.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

"D' is for "Dem Bones" May 6, 2010





Dem Bones




Dem bones confused me as a child
When I learned to sing the teaching song
While being told to listen to the Word of the Lord
I didn’t understand the connection between the two
Until I grew much older and realized the importance
Of praying that all connections might be well oiled
And in working order.

Coco Skye for the Letter "C" May 5, 2010







Coryn Olivia Skye








This Christmas package was delivered with little fuss;
A delicacy arrived with anticipation of the highest degree
While her waiting cousin slept under the tree.
Just in time for the starring role in the church’s pageant of
A well loved tale of another baby long ago, she
Slept in the Pastor’s arms for most of the show.
A fairy princess of the highest form,
She knew from whence she came, a kingdom far away
And brought with her friends with whom to play.
Cornelius, Louise and Dukes and Queens and Kings,
Sparkling creatures escorted her, some with wands and wings.
A princess she claimed to be and there was little doubt
When she speaks of castles, fancy steeds and pretty dresses
Is to be believed for the acquaintances she possesses.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

May 4 MY BEE








B is for My Bee










My Bee


Born on Mother’s Day,
A gift to the women;
Her color was blue
Though we expected a different hue,
And then she pinked
From her head to her toes,
And reached with startling strength
Taking hold of whatever was within her grasp,
Like to say:
“I’m here.
I’m hanging on.
I found you.”
The first blood of my blood
Arrived on a May morning and
Her mama wept
When the Bee was
One
Day
Old.
“She will grow so fast,” came through the tears.
And now comes the time she will count for us her first six years.
“The Bee”
She is to me
Though that is not her name;
Just what I heard her say
When she arrived that day.
Tall she will grow
And sturdy;
Her honey colored skin and hair
Betraying not who she is
But who she portends to be
A queen, a busy one, a monarch of all sweet things.

May 3 ARIZONA (an acrostic)









We are going to do the alphabet for prompts. That's A to Z. I will follow best as time allows.




This poem is in the form of an acrostic.



A
rizona made a blunt statement to the world when its
Reigning Republican signed new legislature in the name of an
Immigration law that would ultimately allow
Zealous profiling of a huge percentage of its population,
Of which most proprietors could not do without, but then Arizona
Never pretended to not be racist and narrow minded.
After all, look how long they took to recognize Martin Luther King, Jr.

May 2 Your Milk










Your Milk







Tears that all but bathe the floor
Of the shattered cathedral while distant
Mortars tell the true mood and
Occasional spurts of coded noise
Like tapping-rapping on the edge of the hills.
Shrouded aunts and stumbling nieces, cousins
In the absence of any true masculinity,
Just stoic little boys,
Whose fingertips flicker and twitch.
The cloying scent of broken incense
Brought out of stowage for instances like these.
Moments that mounted and could
Be counted on lists posted for the fearful to read
While one high pitched wail above all,
Pleading and starving for what can’t be had
Nor replaced and has now gone to waste:
Your warm blue milk.

May 1... the poetry continues DAVID

When I can, I will be contributing poetry from prompts from my Poet's Group, The Baker's Dozen (as we refer to ourselves.)
Today was a free prompt.


David


With your clenched jaw and chin thrust forth,
You held yourself on the air beneath your feet
So as to appear taller.
Gathered with your conceit,
Your receding hairline drove you to despair,
And your vanity
Led to shattered mirrors…
(Kicked in)
Shattered friendships …
(Caved in)
Shattered memories…
(Vanished in anguish and e-meters).
Born on D-Day,
When others were declaring peace,
We heard each June the endless tales of
The mother you never knew and
Your father’s refusal to wake up
One morning in the tainted childhood
Of your abandonment.
Your disastrous placement
With a family who shared your childish disdain,
Equally foolish until they lost you
To Canada,
Where we found you,
And held you for a brief time,
In the company of our fools.
You suspected you were Tutankhamen
In some past lifetime
And how could we dispute
A man who thought he should be king
Of some small fiefdom.
When we sought in later years to find you
And eventually learned you were dead
We hoped you finally were able
To rest in peace.