Lake Lavern

Bubbles filtrating up through the emerald-like lake

On a warm spring day, I scope out my surroundings

A man positioning his camera

as he beckons for the two swans to pose

The white swans preening themselves

next to a glistening maple tree

A father and his curly-haired daughter

feed the swans pieces of hot dog buns

Up in the sky a plane pulls a glider behind it

The sound of the Campanile chimes

a quarter after four

Breaking the stillness of silence

More from Ruth

Thank you, Anna.  This blog is getting clogged with all my posts.

Yes, I can see my untitled poem has a lot of problems.  I've done a first quick rewrite (note: a couple more since I first wrote this paragraph) and want to see if I'm on the right track.  I feel there are some great images and metaphors waiting to get into this one, but they are just out of my reach.  I already feel closer to the subject emotionally after the rewrite, so maybe I can go on with it.

Under that I will post the other poem I mentioned.  I'll have to go and find it in my files.  I haven't looked at it since before summer, but it's short!  And one reason I didn't want to workshop it:  I considered it finished.

(1)   (Okay, the truth, too cliche, sentimental?  Still working on it.  Other titles, anyone?)

                         Summer's End          ("Remnants of Summer"?)

The end of August is tinder dry. Your steps raise clouds

of golden dust that follow you to the house, hiding

your shadow. On the porch, sun-faded towels

are laid out to dry, and kid's sandals are matched in pairs,

two half-hearts, good luck charms for our marriage.

Inside, I watch from the window.  The oak table

is scattered with lined paper and yellow pencils.

I clear them for summer's last supper. We focus on fish

and rice; the children leave to grieve the start of school, 

though sparks of excitement crackle in the air.

High pitched voices vanish, and in the silence, we see

the day is dissolving to dusk, and we are alone,

together.  We carry glasses of wine out to the thinning

pale grass, to hail the last full moon before harvest,

to breathe in the blue haze of Russian sage.

The moon drops lustrous pearls in our pools

of blushing wine. Iridescent wings stitch

seams of shelter in the descending fabric of fall.

The force of the evening pulls us toward each other.         

Your blood stirs, my breath catches.

Alternate last line:  "We toast to the rest of our lives."

(2)

                  Holding On

July, the leaves are dense with chlorophyll,

a deep mid-summer green, and plums in hand

are sweet. My husband and I keep vigil:

We watch my swelling belly, firm and round,

a melon ripened while the fetus grows,

my sugared blood sustaining our shared bond.

My partner and I are forty and we know

the season soon will turn, descend to fall.

Now I want to feel the jutting elbows

and knees, blanketed in creamy wax, caul

encased and safe--away from the knock

at the worldly door--inside, behind snug walls.

The last time I'll be pregnant, I balk:

I'm five days overdue and culpable;

I've suspended earthly time, I sleepwalk...

A one way voyage through the birth canal--

our cleavage, breath from breath, will be final.

........................................................................

I notice fall descends in both of these--I'm repeating myself!

Animal Ville

Bearing gifts, Badgering Bob and his little Bobby brought holly and ornaments to decorate the woody alcove of the harvesting village of Animal Ville. Christmas was on its way, and “Wow” what a Christmas this would be. Days were short, only three days left till Christmas. The whole harvesting community was excited.

In the hollow of a great willow tree by the river the mice and squirrels counted their “gold,” the acorns they hoarded. They wanted to trade the goods at the store for the red and green tinsel to decorate their willow tree. The squirrels saved up their best quality acorns all year in a community effort of the holiday spirit.

Two bright chirping birds worked together to fasten a beautiful felt evergreen ribbon into a bow, a symbol of their common bond with all the creatures in Animal Ville. The night before Christmas, baby bunny was born and came out of his scrunched up state. It snowed and made a glistening, white, silvery scene. It was felt on that certain day, you could look at baby bunny and feel a sense of tranquility. All the creatures in Animal Ville came alive. The birds chirped, mice squeaked, squirrels chattered, in the happiness of the holiday spirit.

Although exhausted, the creatures were filled with anticipation for the upcoming festivities. All the creatures and their families lay snug and cozy in bed as the day grew into darkness and the snow canopied the town. The night was quiet. Animals lay in bed looking forward to the following morning when they would find homemade presents under the Christmas tree.

The morning sunset basked the snowy Animal Ville with bright colors of oranges and reds. Overnight the skies opened up and dusted the trees and ground with light, feathery snow. The sun started to shed light on the Christmas tree as yawns were heard all around. The animals awoke to the beauty of a memorable Christmas Day.

Baby bunny had a bottle of carrot juice for her newly born baby awaiting under the Christmas tree. Birds had ribbons of bird seed circling the prominent trunk. Mice found farmer's cheese in between bird seed sashays. Ears of corn were left for the squirrels which they nibbled on.

Lake Lavern

Bubbles filtrating up through the emerald-like lake

A man positioning his camera

as he beckons for the two swans to pose

The white swans preening themselves

next to a glistening maple tree

Dan and I are fishing as I scope out my surroundings
A father and his curly-haired daughter

feed the swans pieces of hot dog buns

Up in the sky a plane engine pulls

a glider behind it

The sound of the Campanile chimes

a quarter after four

Breaking the stillness of silence

Night Life

Night Life

I am running as fast as I can with a dark, shadowy figure chasing me as I fumble in my purse for the key to my front door. I am terrified and my heart is pounding as hard as it can. I am running towards my house but actually running in place as a cartoon character does. My progress is hindered by the wind from the tornado. I wake up knowing there are people in my house and they plan to hurt or kill me. I have been kidnapped by terrorists and am being held hostage in a cave. My mother is a terrorist complete with middle-eastern garb and a huge shiny black automatic machine gun. I am in school and walk in to my classroom where a test I didn’t know about is being given. I am in school and can’t find my locker, don’t know the combination and don’t remember what classes I am taking or the time and location they meet. My supervisor at work is berating me for my incompetence in front of my coworkers and clients. My sister and my mom tell me I am the worst person in the world reciting a litany of my errors and faults. They never want to see me again. Welcome to my nightlife, the world inside my head when I try to sleep. I have been diagnosed with Nightmare Disorder, an actual illness listed in the DSM IV.

My earliest memories are of insomnia and nightmares. These began before I started school. Then the nightmares consisted of tornadoes, witches and window-peekers. Now when I sleep the nightmares start as soon as I reach REM sleep. While I am having a nightmare, I am terrified-they seem so real. I awaken just before the point of actual harm in my dream. I believe the dream really occurred and I am terrified, shaking and my heart racing. Sometimes I find myself screaming. I am in a fog, a state of almost consciousness until I ascertain it was only a nightmare. After I convince myself I am safe, I go back to sleep. This poses another problem. I either resume the same dream or start another one equally as frightening only to wake up after another twenty minutes or so, again terrified with my heart racing. This cycle repeats over and over until I finally get out of bed exhausted and shaken. Thankfully, this doesn’t happen every night, some nights I don’t sleep at all.

Nameless Revisited

Nameless

Debbie Johnson

Sept 14, 2010

My name was given me,

An infant I had no choice.

Mother was spiritual and my Biblical name a chance to rejoice,

I should rise up and others would hear my voice.

Debra, most common girl’s name of 1962,

But the Deborah spelling made me feel inadequate, blue.

I felt since my name was biblical, I should be better than the rest, 

Be perfectly honest and get an A on every test.

Much thought was given to changing my name once and for last,

To have my own identity and leave the past.

I pondered a change to my middle name Ellen,

While not biblical should get me to heaven.

As I grew I realized how many my age had this name.

It made me sad

I longed for one of my own, not a variation of what many girls had.

Deb, Debbie, Debby, Deborah and Debra too much the same.

If folks aren’t careful when using these

I often don’t know if they are speaking of me

Or some other Debbie.

Most deal with the confusion by calling me Debbie J.

I guess for now I will keep it that way.

Another poem from Ruth

Hi Folks, Well, it's been a week, so time to post something again. I would like some feed back on my last poem on the one line "...tied to the one that is mine," as opposed to the original version.

For the next one, let me explain. I'm going to register for a one day poetry workshop where someone critiques your poem anonymously. The poem has to be 20 lines or fewer which is hard for me. The deadline is soon, October 4.

A while back, probably six months ago, I wrote a short poem which I thought was finished, and so didn't want to submit it because I'd rather have help on something I'm unsure about. On the other hand, what I thought was finished may really need some critiquing.

Anyway, I am writing a poem specifically for this event. I unearthed a very old poem and have tried shortening and redoing it. It seems kind of lackluster, maybe because I don't have my heart in it (as I would have when I wrote the original.) However, it is kind of typical for me, so I would probably learn a lot from hearing the critique.

I tried a few new ones, but they weren't my usual stuff which is what I want for this workshop. Anyway, I really do need some timely input on this. I want to get rid of the glaringly clumsy parts, and who knows, maybe the whole thing should be tossed. In which case I'd like to post that other "finished" poem I mentioned earlier.

Maybe I should also post the other one to get opinions about which to submit. But right now I am interested in some timely comments on this one.  There are a couple of parentheses in which I've put possible alternative words:

Untitled (as yet)

The end of August is tinder dry. On the path, your steps

raise clouds of golden dust that obscure your form,

already cryptic (distant maybe?). You pass faded blue towels, laid

out to dry, and kid's sandals I've matched in pairs,

each a hook and eye, a charm to keep us joined.

Inside, the oak table is scattered with new red

notebooks and yellow pencils. I clear them

for summer's last supper. Tonight you're remote;

the children eat and run to grieve the start of school,

though sparks of excitement crackle in the air.

High pitched voices fade, and in the silence

I see it's dusk and we have some rare time alone.

We carry glasses of wine out to the thinning, pale grass

to hail the last full moon before harvest,

to breathe in the purple haze of Russian sage.

The moon drops lustrous pearls in our pools of blushing

wine. We glimpse iridescent wings stitch seams

of retreat (shelter maybe?) in the descending fabric of fall.

The force of the evening breaches the wall 

between us.  Your blood stirs, my breath catches.