The last poem of 2025 in the Deadlines for Writers group is due today. The prompt was "underneath." My thought chain started there and made a long and winding journey before arriving at this poem. 

Lessons from the Aged

Thriving on Earth for eighty-four years

Is no small accomplishment, Friend.

Lessons  learned through blood, sweat, and tears

I’ll share as I reach life’s back end.

 

First lesson, now listen closely to this:

Value those who stick by your side:

Possessions will never bring any bliss.

Relationship’s where real joy abides.

 

Another truth to hold onto, I’ve learned,

Is that happiness comes from within.

Some folks won’t like you, but don’t be concerned;

Validation from others is thin.

 

You can’t control everything, much as you try;

Others will do what they will.

Peace and contentment will come by and by

If you let go, let God, and be still.

 

Kindness lasts. Comparison steals,

Money’s a tool, not the goal.

Gratitude’s what makes living real;

Be grateful down deep in your soul.

 

Grateful for every friendship and smile.

Grateful for even the strife.

Grateful you get to travel each mile.

Be grateful. Be gracious. Live Life!

The Glassblower's Secret

 Poem #11 of 2025, using the prompt "shatter," is due today. I wrote two quatrains using iambic pentameter as a rhythm/rhyme pattern. 

The Glassblower's Secret

A vessel in the heat becomes a pot

A vase, a bottle, statue, or whatnot.

While in the fire, most anything can be

The options stretch to all eternity.

 

But once a vessel’s shaped and cooled and set,

Its form is what it is despite regret.

Changing now is not a simple matter.

Transformation starts with painful “shatter!”

Grocery List: an Acrostic Poem

Deadlines for Writers poem #10 for 2025 is due today. Acrostic Poems don't seem like a legitimate poetry form to me, but that was the assignment, so this is what I submitted to the group.  

Gotta

Remember milk;

Oh, and

Can’t forget

Eggs,

Rice, and

Yummy yogurt!

 

Let’s see now…

I think I’m armed.

So…..into the

Trenches I go!

Measuring Time: A Cinquain

The Ninth poem (the prompt was "measured") is due today. I submitted a double Cinquain. The American cinquain is an unrhymed, five-line poetic form defined by the number of syllables in each line—the first line has two syllables, the second has four, the third six, the fourth eight, and the fifth two (2-4-6-8-2). They are typically written using iambs.

Measuring Time: a double Cinquain

One life

Don’t waste time with

Was yesterday the best?

Will tomorrow fulfill my dreams?

Tick Tock.

 

Today!

‘Time’ doesn’t pass.

We ourselves pass through time.

Be fully present for each “tick.”

Spend time!

My Treasure

 Poem #8 in the Deadlines for Writers group is due today. The prompt is "treasure." I pushed the deadline to the last minute this time and just finished a first and only draft. 

My Treasure

In the quiet early morning

I close my eyes to the flashing lights of Now

And my ears to the cacophony of Hurry.

The clouds above me drift apart, and I see the stars shining behind.

Alone now, I gather the treasures of my life close for comfort and courage.

 

Opening my box of treasures,

I consider, and rejoice in the largest diamond therein: the presence of God -

His grace, His faithfulness, His guidance, His Truth.

His Magnificent creation!

Oh! The beauty I’ve treasured!

The daily resurrection from a good night’s sleep.

The sun, brightly welcoming me to each new day and dazzling me with a display of ever-changing colors to celebrate the day’s ending.  

Sand between my toes and the kiss of the waves upon the beach.

Crisp breezes on my face as I tread a wooded path alone.

The rustle of leaves as walk the shoreline in harmonious company.

 

I gently lift the memory of the relationships that made and make me.

My hands trace the many facets of this precious jewel.

Long-ago reprimands and guidance from loving parents.

Lifetime support and companionship of brothers and sisters.

Long and laughter-filled family dinners – Oh, the joy!

Real conversation with receptive and insightful companions.

A smile received in payment for appreciation.

Little arms around my neck.

Strong arms around my back.

A loving touch on my shoulder.

Affirmations of understanding and connection.

 

I reverently touch the jewel of Purpose and Creativity.

Each facet of the gem reflects the light of the Great Creator.  

Sharing the joy and purpose of my being with words, with colors.

Starting on a new creative project.

Learning something new.

Mixing the perfect color.

Finding just the right word.

Searching for voids to fill, needs to supply, hearts to join.

 

I close my box and greet the new day.

I have a God to serve,

Hearts and souls to nurture.

I have lessons to learn,

Visions to paint,

Words to compile,

I have voids to fill,

Needs to supply,

Hearts to join.

I have life to live. 

DFW Poem 202506 Like

 Here's my 202506 entry in the Deadlines for Writers Poetry Group using the prompt "like." It's a simple 4X4 rhyming ditty.

Behind every “like” on your media page

Is a purpose, apparent or not.

Is the like for the content of the message you shared

Or simply a way to say you’ve been got?

 

Did he like the picture, the message, the theme?

Did she like what the commenters said?

I like you, I hear you, I support you, my friend.

Let’s raise our shared past from the dead?

 

I agree with your political point, my friend.

My like might sway some to our point of view.

My “like” is a bullet I can fire at will

In the culture wars we’ve been conscripted into. 

 

A like is not simply a like these days

It can be many things in addition.

Enjoy the likes you get on your post,

And consider the liker’s intention. 

Fulfillment, a Tanka

 The fifth poem for 2025 is due today. The prompt is "hollow." I wrote a Tanka inspired by a quote by Craig D. Lounsbrough.

Though I feign fullness,

I sit at the world’s table.

Achingly hollow.

Fulfillment is only found

Kneeling at the feet of God.

Get in the Game - A Triolet

 The 4th poem of 2025 is due today. The assignment was to write a Triolet. 

A Triolet: 

Has 8 lines. 

Each line has 8 syllables. 

The 1st line recurs as the 4th and 7th. 

The 2nd line recurs as the 8th. 

The rhyme pattern is abaaabab.

Here is the poem I submitted.

Get in the Game 

The world needs you just as you are!

Get in the game – ready or not.

The night wants some shine? Be a star.

The world needs you just as you are!

Your song can’t be heard from afar?

Just hum if a hum’s all you’ve got.

The world needs you just as you are!

Get in the game – ready or not.

Inner Life: A Sonnet

Poem # 3 of 2025 is due today. The prompt is "undo." Here is the sonnet I wrote and submitted. It is very loosely inspired by the writing of Veronica Roth and Horace Mann.

The self that’s only self will undo self.

Obsession with reflection blinds the eye.

To truly live our lives, we are compelled

To focus OUT, see much more YOU than I.

 

The image in the mirror teaches naught

‘Cept selfish, unkind actions that annoy.

While reaching out in loving deed and thought

To others is the truest path to joy.

 

I choose to turn away “me” and “my.”

And give to others trust that they deserve.

I know that my successful inner life

Depends on finding ways to see and serve .

 

Projecting ever outward, self restrained,

I disappear and only God remains!

Sunrise! a Cinquain

 Poem #2 for 2025 is due today. We were to write a Nonet or a Cinquain. I had never heard of a Nonet. It is, as it sounds, a nine-line prescribed poem. I went for the simpler Cinquain. 

Morning,

Fancy-dressed in

Garnet, topaz, amber,

Sprinkles joy like bright confetti.

Sunrise!

The Bridge of Repentance

 The last poem of 2024 is due today in the Deadlines for Writers group. I don't intend to continue this challenge for another year. I did an incomplete year in 2019 and have completed every month since. This poem is my 63rd monthly poem. The prompt is "forgiven." 

The Bridge of Repentance 

I journeyed with you through the days, months, and years.

Our paths converging and true.

Until one day, a boulder stood in my way,

And I needed a boost to get through.

 

I reached for you and only touched air.

Behind me, the Earth split in two.

There yawned a chasm deep and wide,

Keeping me from you.

 

The only path between us now,

As you stand on the other side.

Is the rickety Bridge of Repentance,

So I swallow my fear and pride.

 

I crawl back to you, confessing my sin,

Risking it all to regain “Before.”

Like a true friend, you take my hand.

That rickety bridge is a challenge no more!

 

Hand in hand, we press onward again,

Heads high, hearts warm, goal-driven!

We’ll get there together as we always planned.

From the past to the future. Forgiven.

Ode to the Human Spirit: a Sonnet

 Poem #11 of 2024 is due today. The prompt is "taste." I began to write reflecting on a quote by Leonardo DaVinci. 

“An average human looks without seeing, listens without hearing, touches without feeling, eats without tasting, moves without physical awareness, inhales without awareness of odour or fragrance, and talks without thinking.” 

Ode to the Human Spirit – A Sonnet

 

As life moves on from day to day to day

We mortal beings sometimes lose our way.

We look around yet somehow fail to see

The beauty and the grace in you and me.

 

We listen to divergent surface sounds

And do not hear the need in those around.

We touch and know the outer shapes of life

Not feeling others’ needs, and aches, and strife.

 

We sample this or that but do not taste -

The present moment’s flavor gone to waste.

We sniff the air but do not smell the rose

We miss the poem and only breathe the prose.

 

Let’s not forget that many a wrong is wrought

When words are spent before engaging THOUGHT. 

Final Childhood

 Poem #09 for the year. The prompt was "moments." 

The child encounters life with joy!

The world, not yet reduced to inconsequence,

Looms as an immense mystery.

 

The wandering brook in the backyard

Needs no label;

It is as big as the Mississippi!

He fords it with daring and

Emerges a conqueror.

 

The dead willow nearby

Needs not be cleared away or disregarded.

It invites exploration.

He climbs,

Perches in the crook,

Surveys his kingdom below.

Finds a hole,

Secrets away his treasures.                                                                                                              

 

The child has no need for public acclaim.

He has the sky!

The masses, self-presenting and petty,

Conduct their insignificant business far below.

While he finds humble comfort and concord with nature.

 

Now growing old, I draw near to childhood again.

Outside my notice,

Public players, foolish and tedious,

Fill the world with discordant noise.

Empty souls boom, loud as kettle drums.

Strident sound by people who dread the silence.

 

Returning to childhood,

I learn to pray again.

I retire to the world God made,

To the memories of people who’ve gone before.

No longer attending the croak of the unnatural frog,

Fat and ugly and unmeaning.

I rest in the lapping of lake water on the shore

And the laughter of children.

 

 

Inspiration by:

Psalm 43:4

Anthony Esolen “The Final Childhood”

 

A Walk along the Ridge

 Poem number 8 of 2024 is due today in the Deadlines for Writers online group. I wrote free verse which began with the prompt "Nine Months," which morphed as I thought about it into "The Passage of Time."

A Walk along the Ridge

She strolls the wooded path in celebration of Fall.

Brilliant colored leaves swirl - yellow and red and gold -

Catching leaves in her hands and dividing them with her steps,

She spots a low-hanging tree branch and stops to rest.

 

The tree, having lost its youth, trembles in the Autumn wind,

And she knows,

Even as Autumn leaves swirl around her feet,

She knows that

Just a few steps around the bend,

Winter waits.

 

She watches as the late light plays on the fallen Autumn leaves.

Closing her eyes to better hear the melody on the breeze,

Sunny Spring and Summer seasons fill her memory.

 

Those were carefree days

Vibrant greens and blues danced in the sunspots along the forest path

Long into the tardy sunset.

Just minutes ago, it seems, the grass was green

And pregnant yellow-green buds,

Bursting with unborn life,

Filled the branches overhead,

The embodiment of wonder waiting to be discovered.

 

In those fruitful Spring and Summer days,

The Sun stayed high in the sky long and warm!

And children played late in the meadow!

 

She shifts her unsure seat on the sagging branch

Which seems somehow to signify her very being.

Seasons have come and gone!

Come and gone!

Come and gone!

Like fingers snapping.

Winter!

Spring!

Summer!

Fall!

 

The seasons have flowed

And flown.

Magic memories of Spring and Summer persist…

And their joy and beauty remain clear and pure.

Spring was hope and anticipation.

Summer was good and fulfilling!

And now the Fall of life is waning.

Winter is just around the bend.

 

Still she whispers, “Yes!”

“Winter can be beautiful,”

She reminds herself.

She rises from her Autumn resting bough

And walks into her Winter with Joy and an open heart.

(Inspired by "Seasons" by Deborah Malone. 

The Estate Sale

 The 6th poem of the year (in the Deadlines for Writers group) is due today. The prompt is "tempted." I started there and ended up somewhere very different. Writers are commonly advised to "write what you know", and what I know right now is the settling of my parents' earthly estate. Here's the free verse poem I submitted. 

The Estate Sale

The long-empty driveway fills with cars and trucks.

The homeplace, alive again just for the day, braces for one last invasion.

Not the hordes of children whose excited voices once filled the yard with joy.

Not the recent lines of workers laboring to give the place a modern appeal,

The old house, instead, braces for one final invasion of strangers.

 

The front door, unalarmed, snubs the knocks of unknown visitors,

And they walk in as if visiting the corner store.

The back porch steps creak restlessly as the curious saunter up to the open doorway.

The opportunists, with darting eyes and careless hands, fill the hallway with the odor of greed.

The once-private bedroom grieves as a burly man in grease-stained jeans nonchalantly disassembles her bed.

Her pink robe, looking on from behind the door, cringes as the man discards the worn sheets with disdain and begins hauling her bed, in pieces, out the door.

 

Now without her cherished silverware and ubiquitous Blue Willow china,

The bereft dining room sets the table with silence and empty space.

Chairs are scattered and separated from their lifelong sisters.

Though once clustered together around the family table,

Each now stands alone – no longer part of the warmth of the family’s gathering place.

 

An interloper sits rocking in the 100-year-old rocking chair where Great Granny fed her babies.

Where Grandmother soothed the hurts of her toddlers.

The same rocking chair where she sat as neighbors comforted her all those years ago as the hearse bearing the body of her husband, pulled away.

Unknowing, unthinking, the squatter rocks and complains that the asking price for the old rocker is too high.

 

One by one, her things leave their cohorts and their home in alien arms.

A lifetime’s collection slowly reverses course and becomes uncollected.

In the quiet kitchen, where she used to gaze out the small window into the woods behind the house,

The half empty canister of tea stands in the corner and silently consoles the weeping sink,

And mourns too her absence.

Fancy Writes a Poem

 Deadline morning found me still totally blank on the prompt "underneath." I wrote and submitted this short nonsense rhyme this morning. 

Deadline day was here,

And words were still unbendable.

The month had been quite drear

And wifi  undependable;

 

Thus Fancy sent the mind away

“Let me do it; hit the road.”

So Thinking took a short vacay,

And Fancy bore May’s load.

 

She quickly dove under the bed

Wrote this poem no-one expected

As I read, I shook my head.

Hope Mia won’t reject it.

Flight

 Today is deadline day in the Deadlines for Writers poetry group. The 4th poem of 2024, a sonnet or a villanelle, is due. I wrote a sonnet. 

Flight

 

A lonely child, rejected by the herd,

Seeks solace on the swings, her head held high.

She rises through the air, a seeking bird,

With wings outstretched and longing in her eye,

 

The sunlight warms her heart with its embrace;

And whispers, “Let’s be friends, just you and me!”

The friendly breezes kiss her hopeful face;

And she looks down -- sees mere humanity.

 

She’s striven for this courage all her life -

Now dons her armor, readies for attack.

No callous ugly names can cause her strife.

No one can call her less or hold her back.

 

New strength and joy beam from the cobalt sky.

“I’m someone!” she exults. “Just watch me fly!”

An Ode to Purple Days

 Poem #03 for 2024 is due today addressing the prompt "Purple." Here is my entry - a sonnet about those dreary, dark, and cloudy Purple Days. 

On purple days the dawn breaks indigo.

No burning orange glows in the Eastern sky.

No vibrant red or gold engage the eye;

Just mystery clothed in violet manteau.

 

On purple days, the air is heather-hued,

Providing mood for heart and mind to roam,

‘Til calm and wisdom find in us a home,

And souls can rest in royal solitude.

 

The frantic pace brought on by bright displays

Recedes on pure transforming purple days.

Three Limericks "The End"

 The first poem of 2024 was due today. I had written three limericks on the prompt "the end." I had a hard time deciding which to submit. I finally submitted the first two below.  

BIRTH OF A SHORT STORY

A lonely young writer from Creekbend

Wrote himself up a best friend.

Oh the fun that they had

‘Til one day he got mad

Killed his pal with a scribbled “The End.”

 

A lonely young novelist from Creekbend

Wrote himself up a best friend.

But when the writer felt scorned,

A short story was born

As he angrily scribbled “The End.”

 

A lonely young novelist from Creekbend

Wrote himself up a best friend.

But on the tenth page

He exploded in rage,

Killed his pal with a violent “The End.”

Remembered Thrills - A Poem

Today is the deadline for the last poem of 2023 in Deadlines for Writers. The prompt is "Thrill."  I found this a hard topic and ended up writing my poem late yesterday, determined to just have an entry, however lame, to submit. In late life, few people are still the thrill-seekers they might have been in their younger days. 

Remembered Thrills

It comes to me sometimes in my dreams -

Memory of carefree youth.

When life was all challenge and thrill and risk,

And death was intangible truth.

 

No dare was too great for omnipotent me -

No mountain too tall to climb;

No ocean or cavern too deep to explore

And be home before dinnertime.

 

“Fear? What’s fear? You’re kidding me, right?

It’s not too dark out there!”

I always believed if it came to that,

I could easily outrun a bear!

 

I no longer need a thrill a day.

I’m happy to dream thrills instead,

I don’t have to prove I’m alive anymore.

I take all my risks here in bed.