Grand Plans Beaten to a Pulp

Once again, I have a response to Linda Kruschke’s paint-chip poetry, at the last minute. This is about how, this year, I had a bunch of plans and it’s all down the drain now. 🙂 I am also sharing this with MLMM’s Tale Weaver, because any attempt to plan this year has become an epic fail. Without furthr ado, these are our paint-chips:

January 2020: the year was a
Blank canvas of optimistic possibility,
A green flash to signal, “Go for it.”

March 2020: a rainstorm was brewing,
We began to become tongue-tied,
Under the sea of shocking surprises.

September 2020: somehow we have
Tumbleweeded through a surreal summer,
Crispy leaves and autumn colors are coming.

I am a glass of fresh-squeezed
Orange juice, filled with the pulp
Of pressurized emotions, in my skin.

Keyhole in the Moon

This poem is inspired by DVerse Poetics and the image below, which is by Catrin Welz-Stein. I enjoyed writing to one of her beautiful, surreal pieces of art. Her other art can be found here:
http://catrin-stein.imagekind.com/store/


He holds a key that’s half his size,
As a giant feathered-thing flies
Away with him, away, as he stays
Looking at the moon.   He’s left a piece
Of himself, never to be released
From that beautiful, liminal gloom.

With the First Bite of a PB&J

I am transported back to the lunch table,
The innocence of elementary school friendships;
And the sun which now shines on me witnesses
This hit of intense nostalgia-bliss:
Taste of sticky-sweet and I am somehow free,
All else that surrounds me is extraneous.
Extracting happiness from the memory,
Sensing a stable, never-gone presence.


Good things happen when I eat lunch outside, I guess! Inspiration is found in the most random places. Linked with FOWC: Extraneous.

Earthling

This was inspired by Paula Light’s Thursday Inspiration, and the theme is “butterfly.”  The image is below. I’m not sure if this poem is finished, but it’s what I’ve got so far. Comments would be appreciated. 🙂


Place of birth: Earth,
Though my mind often seems
To be up in space,
Or at least in the sky
With hundreds of butterflies.
Or it’s inside books,
Looking to solve a mystery
As pages whisper memories
Of being a mighty tree.

Library butterfly books

Beautiful As Antique Brass

This is for Linda Kruschke’s paint-chip poetry #37, where she gives us a few prompt words and a theme. The theme this week is “When I’m old.” Update: I am also linking with DVerse OLN.


When I am old, may I be
Beautiful, as antique brass.
May life still be
Fresh as the wild huckleberries
Which grow under the
Wide, Montana sky,
The state where my grandparents live.
May the turbulence which comes
From storms of cumulonimbus clouds
Provide rain and light, to make
The ground on which I plant my life
Verdant; and if
The grass is greener in the past
Remember: yellow is
The color of happiness, and candlelight.

A Short Attention Span

This is in response to Angie Trafford’s Writing Wednesday prompt, which this time is “unfocused.”


My brain is that butterfly
That I can’t help noticing
Out the window, taking time
To stare at its mesmerizing wings —

My brain is that butterfly,
Fluttering from one idea to the next,
So many flowers so little time
To drink all the nectar before wings

Of whimsy take my brain away;
My brain is that butterfly,
Which wishes to explore infinitely
But not for long to stay.

 

My Self-Portrait Looks Too Much Like You

Today for DVerse Poetics, Sarah invites us to come and take a selfie. So, this is a self-portrait poem, which I wrote today and which I was and am unsure about sharing but whatever!


I have my father’s eyes.
Blue, which can pass for green
Depending on what I’m wearing —

I have my father’s eyes
In their color, their appearance,
But far from their substance

Because I see beyond the surface:
He is content with the placid sea,
He has fooled himself into thinking

He rules — he drowns reason
In another liquid, functions,
But how well does he think he’s hiding?

He has tried to sweep
It all under the rug — this family keeps
Secrets — don’t tell me I don’t see!

I have my father’s eyes.
Blue — for the sobering insight
Does anyone else sense the tsunami?

 

 

The Future

This is  for Linda Kruschke’s paint-chip poetry #35. I think it turned out okay for something that was almost a stream-of-consciousness, but I do think we were supposed to write something uplifting, which did not happen this time.


The future is like a red-velvet cake:
Despite its classy name
I’ve never preferred its flavor,
Just give me the same
Chocolate cake I’ve been baking.

Here’s a piece of honesty: I’m bluffing
When I say it’s exciting.
This “new normal” is like planting
An acorn in a little terra-cotta pot —
Do you expect a towering oak?

Sunrise is my favorite time of day:
Morning-glory hues up high
But I must ask if it is morning that’s broken,
Or if under that sky,
It is I who broke, and am breaking?