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.

Fighting Against Pessimism With A Pen

This is for Ronovan’s décima challenge, a bit too late, but I figured this week, better late than never. 🙂 We are supposed to use the word FALL in the B rhyme spot. By the way, this is almost totally unedited because I really wanted to get it done tonight, so your comments are appreciated.


Life’s not like fairy tales we pen,
Only one it is like at all:
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
And could not be put right again.

Pessimism’s tempting, often.
Nevertheless, I hope to write
A story a little more bright,
Even in some uncertain days —
Reality all hope betrays,
But other ends are in dream-sight.

Ronovan Writes Decima Challenge Image

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.

Burning

For this week’s Weekly Scribblings, we are to write inspired by the phrase “A phoenix must first burn.” I wasn’t in the mood to write anything triumphant, so this cherita is where my brain took me this evening.


I don’t want to hear about the phoenix anymore.

No more rising from the ashes anymore,
Who made me a mythical firebird?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust you shall return —
I don’t mind whether there’s a rising,
At this point solely stop the burning.

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?

 

 

Rediscovery

Rosemary is hosting this Sunday’s Writers’ Pantry.
It’s an unprompted link-up, but she did talk about Shel Silverstein and shared one of his poems. That inspired this cherita, since I was a fan of his children’s poetry when I was in elementary school. I had forgotten about that until Rosemary helped me remember. 🙂


As a child in the library, I read his books of poetry:

Those whimsical, silly rhymes planted poet-seeds,
Also containing lessons waiting to germinate.

Today, encountering these words, they speak to me
Of truths I have only just begun learning,
Of letting the words start blooming.

https://i2.wp.com/art-sheep.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/masks.jpg
Image Credit: https://art-sheep.com/20-of-our-favorite-shel-silverstein-poems/

A Flag Planted

This was inspired by MLMM’s Tale Weaver about flags. (Yay, I figured out how to do the hyperlink!) I’m not totally happy with this poem, but it’s the best thing I’ve been able to come up with today. Lately, it seems like writing has gotten more difficult. Tell me what you think. 🙂


Do not cede your territory,
Fight against the enemy,
And try, never to surrender
Nor any white flag fly.
Why be borrower or lender
Of what makes you you uniquely?
Why bend to brusque demands
That you can never satisfy?
Grand is the better life,
Which lies  truthfully in your hands.

IMG_0453

This Feels Odd

I just got switched to the block editor today, and it definitely feels odd. https://fivedotoh.com/2020/09/03/fowc-with-fandango-odd/ That’s the link for FOWC: Odd, since I can’t figure out how to do a better hyperlink (the kind that was so easy in the classic editor). I should probably consider myself lucky, since it seems like, for whatever reason, my blog was among the last to be switched over.

I had very little inspiration for poems today, several ideas but little more than phrases. This is extremely odd for me because, usually, even if I don’t post, I write 4 or 5 poems a day.

I suppose I’ll try to write a poem about this awkward new editor….Sharing also with DVerse Open Link

OpenLinkNight #273

These blocks do not impress,
Why the heck, WordPress?
I hope I’ll learn to use
This goofy thing, or choose
Somehow to go back
To “Classic” editor, whack
This into internet oblivion.
To disgruntled voices listen:
If it ain’t broke don’t fix it,
Why won’t the coders nix it?

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?

Wanting Rest For You

This is inspired by FOWC: Drain and today’s Weekly Scribblings about rest.


I see it: the way the pain drains you.
You say it with the slightly-labored breathing
And the careful, painstaking way you move.
You say it when a grin shifts into a grimace
And in your reluctance to make many movements.

I love you: saying this with a cup of cold water
And many prayers which you will never hear.
How I wish you could have a restful rest,
Without the flaming, aching joints and muscles
Which are giving a relentless test.