In dark Corners…waiting For dawn

sometimes…..you miss the

……………………………madnesS

……………….It becomes more of a hunger

than an urge

you listen Close to silence,

study it’s …………………………………movement

follow the slow
……………………………daRk
…………………………………….trails
………………………………………………of its path

you Shout often

revEl in the boundless ………….power

of an unrestrAined wind

…………………………hold close the sound of

………….whispers.

Memory is a gritty irritant

…………….like sand in your

………………………eye…..

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Let Us Argue a Thing to Death

The quest has become consuming,
a desire to try and find meaning,
satisfaction in events of the day
and some signal there are others
who mimic our thoughts and ideals.

It is elusive, this walk upon the shore
of dogma,
a crusade to detect the sigh
of a lover in the mist,
to find a specific pine needle in a forest,
to detect the echoing chime of truth
in a politician’s promises.

Frustrating, this insistence on symbiosis,
maddening as the pursuit of happiness
or attempts to understand women,
fruitless as the anger which causes
us to throw pebbles at the sky.

We argue with the wind,
unable to change another’s mind,
much less the world.
Plus,
the words are always more limber
in my mind than how they appear on the page
or escape from my mouth.

Warhol Questions

I wonder if Jacqueline appreciated 

the seriousness of Andy’s study

of JFK’s assassination, or his 

portrayal of her life afterward?

Did Mao find the humor

in his cartoonish caricature?

Would Marilyn be secure enough 

to understand no amount of screen-

printed color could hide the glamour?

Is Campbell’s appreciative of the massive

amounts of free advertising?

Did Valerie know her bullets would alter

the tone-focus-mood of the art

as much as they altered the body

of the artist?

Friday Haiku

How much more lonely

The barren winter branches

For lack of birdsong

 

Check out Patricia K Lichens weekend haiku and limericks.

Days

Posted to the Open Link Night on dVerse Poets. Focus on today before we get too wrapped up in resolutions for tomorrow. A short and simple offering.

Days

When tomorrow passes and

We long for each other more

Than today –

We shall smile at our yesterdays

And believe in love.

But, should we be denied tomorrow,

Let us sit hand in hand and

Enjoy today –

Smile at me as we forget yesterday

And believe in love.

Friday Free Write

This was written for, and posted too, Kellie Elmore’s ‘stream of consciousness’ Friday prompt. Something new for me….

 

It was one of those summer storms that you could watch coming for you. The oppressive August heat of Georgia made the likelihood of a pop up thunderstorm pretty high; the kind that spring up dark red on radar out of nothingness. This was not one of those. This was one of those that grayed out the horizon in wispy sheets of dark grey gauze that grew thicker, more substantial, as they made their way towards you. The scattered clouds flying before the rain made it seem unnatural. How could it rain? I am standing on my own private island of sunshine with no trace of a shadow. But, it was coming and I was too fascinated to do anything but watch. i have driven through these on the highway before. You can see it ahead of you and it is like driving into a waterfall. It is different when you are standing on the sidewalk seeing it move towards you like a locust storm. Peripherally, I was aware of everyone taking cover, but I did not move. The noise grew as it rapidly drew near and the energy was frenetic. It was like some massive day camp for overly energetic pre-adolescent raindrops. Trancelike, I watched the pavement become magically wet foot by foot as it crossed the street and enveloped me like a crashing ocean wave. Soaked in seconds and feeling beaten by the force of the rain, there was nothing to do but stand there -smiling in awe. The wave of rain passed in mere minutes taking its clouds with it as brilliant sunshine returned. Looking around, everything shined; grass, pavement, cars, mailboxes, trees. The air was heavier and slightly sticky, but it looked as if everything had been scrubbed clean. Dripping, but not unhappy, i resumed my afternoon walk.

Merry Christmas

Live2writetoday posted a prompt for Christmas with the theme of Presents vs Presence. Still with kids at home, it is very much about both for us. Two offerings here about our Christmas events. One more focused on tradition; the things we do, the activities the kids expect. The second somewhat more whimsical.

Every Year

 

Tree, decorations and all Christmas thoughts

Must wait until Thanksgiving and,

More importantly, Son’s birthday have passed.

Then it is Mom unpacking, Dad with the lights,

All of us decorating the tree; Finding the perfect

Place for each ornament, remembering it’s history

And it’s true meaning to the one whose name is written on.

 

The Eve of the Birth, always quite busy;

A meal with friends and in-laws and the

Exchanging of gifts. Not as many this year,

But not nearly as important either.

Candles lit during the evening service,

One on the mantel for the Son gone too soon.

Home fairly early and settling in,

Pajamas are on and stories must be read;

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ followed by

Luke Two, first through twentieth verse.

 

The Day starts early as would be expected,

Kids watching the clock for the time appointed.

The moment of discovery still a delight,

For the parents as much as the child; perhaps

Even more so for seeing the knowing grateful

Glance from the teenage boy. Keeping the

Secret and enjoying the younger sister’s joy.

Home all day, never a plan or a place to go;

A big brunch on the table, extra seats to spare,

An open invitation for any that would share.

 

The perceived obligations of our youth

Become expectations to our children,

Which time turns to family traditions.

 

You Better Watch Out…

 

I think it all started

The day the tree went up….

The fighting seems to be less,

Something of a miracle

With girl of nine, boy thirteen.

It was subtle at first –

I hardly noticed –

Till I heard him offer a compliment,

Then two…. without being prompted.

They went running together yesterday,

And he let her keep up,

Then, when leaving for school

I heard ‘I love you’ from down their hall,

Followed by ‘love you too’.

I have not heard name calling or

Exchanged insults in days,

And just this morning

He took out the trash…

Without being asked,

And she fed the dogs.

In our hurrying to and fro

We almost missed one of

The greatest joys of the season –

Peace.

Seems it is not just the adults

That are getting prepared. 

©MarkWindham2011

To be honest, these would be a re-posting (kind of like re-gifting? 🙂 ). Both were posted previously at Poetic Bloomings for their weekly prompts.

Boxes

How valuable is your box?
I suppose, as with most things,
It is a matter of perspective.

Is it a great big one,
With several smaller inside,
Wrapped by a mischievous parent?

Could it be the smallest one,
Poorly wrapped by a loving husband,
Proud of the treasure placed inside?

Maybe it is the one in the top of the closet,
With pictures, cards, tickets and notes;
Cherished memories of no monetary value.

Perhaps it is the one you live in,
Salvaged from behind the liquor store,
The closest thing you have to a home.

©MarkWindham2011

Written for the Poetic Asides Wednesday prompt.

Dream of Flying

Brian Miller at dVerse presents four paintings by Tera Zajack as poetry prompts.

The gulls say it is not so very hard,

for a young girl to fly.

How far can it really be

from cliff face to sky?

 

When clouds and waves touch

the climb is not so risky,

it  is not really soaring,

when arms are as good as wings.

 

Mother will not mind us

being gone a little longer,

flying again with the gulls as they

guide us from cliff face to sky.

©MarkWindham2011

From Behind The Glass

Response to the We Write Poems ‘Rinse, Repeat’ prompt.

Ghosts,

Visions,

Mocking me;

Living outside

Of this fractal glass,

My broken bubble home.

Confined by guilt and fear

Behind reflections of real life;

Lost to the joys of rain and puddles.

 ©MarkWindham2011

Inspired by Margo and her strict use of form.

Posted to WeWritePoems.