sojourner : a Miz Quickly prompt

http://imprompt.wordpress.com/2013/10/12/freezing-motion/

Film clip: Older Lady (maybe being interviewed - talking to the camera?)

sojourner

when I am an old lady

maybe fifty more years from now

since I don’t think I am old yet...

(both mother and

mother-in-law are living)

will I remember more of what I want

or what actually was?

when I am an old lady

will anything that I have done

mattered...all the written words...

(both the ones shared and

those missives still hidden)

will I be remembered kindly

or as a thief of time

when I am an old lady

or maybe next week

whichever comes first

(both thoughts of time

seem irrelevant when living)

will I remember anything of value

or will I just be happy?

©JP/davh

Miz Quickly prompt: Double Cross

http://imprompt.wordpress.com/2013/10/10/place/

That day in yesterday’s poem?  Go back to it. Move the events to a new location. Same time, different place. Down the hill; across town; a world away. Tell us the same story, but elevate “place” to the starring role. or; Write a poem about a place.

(Yesterday’s piece)

Wired Up

The big heavy black handset of the old rotary phone...

the only phone in my grandparents home

Daddy wasn’t there, but sister and I were.

been staying with them since mom died

The ring was loud and was picked up - adults talked

I was called over, I might have been about three years old

I was told to say hello to the nice lady who

we hadn’t met yet, but she was going to marry our father

The only thing I could think of was to ask;

“Can I call you Mommy?”

(Answering today’s prompt)

Double Cross

So my friend, she like, meets this guy, falls in love

was it just for her money, quick romances are questionable

It is the beginning of the decade of ‘Make Love Not War’

and she doesn’t want to fight anymore - she wants peace

There is a twist here, he comes with more than just personal baggage

he comes with two little girls, an instant family

She hasn’t even met his daughters and they’ve set the date

so her first meeting with the dearies is a little chat, via a handset -

She tells me she it was the cutest thing, really when the youngest asked;

“Can I call you Mommy?”

©JP/davh            

WWP 178: The Great Escape

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2013/10/10/meeting-places-prompt-178/

The Great Escape

I’ve moved around too much

to have one favorite place

tucked in the folds of memory

when I want to duck out of life's fast pace

Unmarked stops, waiting to go to school,

The platforms of trains, or benches for a city bus

Holiday meals round the dining room table

Venues where there is hoopla and fuss

City corners where the news stand

hawked several dailies and a myriad of magazines

near the entrance to the subway or the farmer’s market

in the country selling fresh green beans

The sacred sanctuary of the faith du jour,

the committee, sports practice or rehearsal hall

The park to celebrate national holidays

or the place where the phone hangs on the wall

When the children were younger

and spilling their food was the name of the game

we ate in the kitchen where linoleum lined the floor

after putting in hardwoods the dining table gained fame

From the recesses of the past

the first wedding where we met

Then too the hall where our nuptials were held -

the diminishing space in my mind where I hold regret

The family room in the home for the aged

where the eldest of our family must now reside

but the favorite, if I had to choose is that place by the creek,

and my willow where I can be embraced by nature and  momentarily hide...

©JP/davh

For Miz Q: The Truth Set Free

http://imprompt.wordpress.com/2013/10/08/it-was-all-like-a-fairy-tale/

The Truth Set Free

The woodcarver made toys.

But no one wanted hand crafted things anymore.

They only wanted imported goods from far away places..  

The winter was cold.

The mattress lay on the floor, the fame burned.

The table and chairs consumed by fire.

He salvaged his few books, and one

Three legged stool - the shelves long since bare and

Gone to ash... he had saved his beloved puppet for last.

Did it matter if he untied the strings?

He chose to bind the eyes shut so they would not see.

And with his tool scraped off the painted mouth...

He so hoped he couldn’t hear

The echos in the imagined death throes

Of the screams... as his tears streamed...

Down his craggy old face that he

Would bury in his pillow one last time

As he lay broken hearted.

©JP/davh

For Miz Q: Still Two Feet Above

http://imprompt.wordpress.com/2013/10/07/upside-down/

*Still Two Feet Above

pluck the harvest, press and mash apples

add spices and mull over the weather changes;

raising cider

vampires, demons, and politicians faces too

movies; realities that make us reel and shutter

haunted visuals

curfews for little ones, but if you have none

outten the light on your porch - and proclaim

none here, ‘evermore

free hay rides through the corn fields

time to get lost in fall color and be amazed by

raising cider

just when candy come into the picture?

gourd faces ward off grave invitations

haunted season

©JP/davh

*instead of six feet under!

For Miz Quickly: Bound

http://imprompt.wordpress.com/2013/10/05/books-backs-bindings/

Bound

Printed in the late 1960’s in two languages -

only about five inches by four by one inch

there are about four hundred

and fifty pages silver spine, front

and back cover too

commanding decorations of leaves, stars

and a crown, nine turquoise gems;

four oval about the size of my pinky finger nail

and five studded circles barely bigger than

a the large rolling ball of a pen

A guide book of sorts to show

the way to daily devotionals -

A treasure found buried amid trees

at an open air flea market -

a priceless heritage

Given a place of honor in the china hutch

protected from daily dust

a reminder, connection to history,

a heritage the continuing gift

of what was, is, can be

Only words fill fill the pages

ancient script the art of sages -

one just needs to use their imagination...

of what might have been inscripted

upon the one missing page...

©JP/davh

for We Write Poems 177: narrowly straight?

http://wewritepoems.wordpress.com/2013/10/03/prompt-177-the-road/

narrowly straight?

sometimes there is a dog-leg, a sharp left or right

can’t see what’s around that bend, worse than fog at night

starts as a well worn path, and then ends up being paved

other times there is that stretch that just cannot, should not be saved

there are roundabouts that once you’re in, it seems you can’t get out -

some are well lit, and others through tunnels dimly lit that echo when you shout

there are those avenues you have no choice in taking

unlike the choices you think you are actually free in making

take the lane over the river and through the woods -

the grandchildren remind you of the ‘coulds’ and ‘shoulds’...

but in remembering the twisty paths that make up the pathos now adhered to

one seems a tad more flexible, as if ones heart were made of a water based glue

because of all those things that couldn’t be had, for the unhappy times and the sad -

no sense now to let that spilled milk or those odd and old memories make you mad

navigating as the crow flies to the actual milage on the map

does it really matter as long as there is a positive flow from the tap

climb the mountain before it becomes deserts dust

follow your heart, in yourself you must trust  

sometimes there is a fork in the road

take the one less traveled ...I say... follow the toad

©JP/davh