Sea Treasure

I am beginning my 6th year of monthly poems. Poem #1 of 2025 is due today. The prompt is "Shell." I have written a free verse poem. 

 

Sea Treasure

Locked in space and time.

I stroll the quiet shore.

Sand between my toes,

Infinity on the horizon.

 

Glancing down I see

A long-forsaken castle

Holding forgotten stories

In its nooks and swirls.

 

I bend and gently take Eternity into my hands.

The time-lock broken,

The pearly jewels of generations,

Glitter in the gentle grace of spiral lines.

 

The space-lock shattered,

The music of the deep

Whispers peace

As I hold the fragile treasure to my ear.

The Duty of the Octogenarian

 As one reaches my age, there is a sense of responsibility to be diligent in passing along hard-learned lessons in living. We see our grandchildren and their friends beginning to make the decisions that will determine the course of their lives, and we want to help them avoid setting living/thinking patterns that will lead to dissatisfaction, and unhappiness in their personal lives. We want them to see the value that their personal choices have in the continuation of a prosperous and functioning culture. Also, we are aware that many (most?) twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings have been taught by society that all opinions and ideas are equally valuable, and they don't need to listen to anybody else's input in their decision-making (a catastrophically erroneous idea).

For those willing at attend to a few life-experience opinions and recommendations, I offer these:

1. From your early days of marriage, set a pattern of real sharing with your partner. Be sure that you discuss more than just what's for dinner and who's going to mow the lawn. If you want your marriage to endure and thrive into your old age, you must KNOW this person you married. I regret that, in the hugeness of child-bearing, child-raising, and career-building, we had few discussions about what we read, what we heard in worship service, what direction we hoped to see our country move, and many other topics that would have given us insight to our partner's thinking.

2. Read regularly.

• When you read fiction, read at least some REALISTIC fiction (as opposed to all horror, fantasy, sci-fi, or the adrenaline-inducing "action" or "erotic" novels) The reason for this recommendation is that in realistic fiction we see real people facing real problems (like some you might face) and making difficult decisions. You have the opportunity to witness and evaluate the consequences of various life decisions as you read the denouement of the story. How often in real like could you have the opportunity to see, ahead of your own experience, what the long-term complications of a decision might be?
• When you read non-fiction, read about people or subjects that will give you something to admire, strive for, learn that will contribute to the success/happiness/productivity of your own life.

3. Remind yourself regularly that the only way to improved society is to improve individuals. When you live a clean, admirable, productive, and influencial life, you are doing your part to build a good society for future generations. You have little control over how other people live their lives.

4. Recognize that old proverbs, "sayings" "folk wisdom", etc. are actually good and helpful to remember and consider. They endured through generations because people through generations recognized their truth. Some of these include famous bible verses, quotes from great thinkers of the past, such as C.S. Lewis, Aristotle, Plato, Socrates, Abraham Lincoln, and many others.

5. I will add to this as I think of things that I consider really important.

Three Little Lies by Danielle Stewart - a Netgalley Review

Three Little Lies is a very engrossing read from the very beginning! There is no time lost getting into the story; the author grabbed the reader right at the start. The characters are fully drawn and very engaging, the story line is easy to follow and clearly presented. The book continues at a lively pace throughout, with each new development in the story increasing the suspense and building the reader's engagement with the characters and their dilemma. There are unexpected twists in the story right up until the very end. I must say that the ending doesn't follow logic and was very disappointing to me as a reader, seeming somewhat contrived and agenda-driven instead of following the tone set by the rest of the novel. Still, overall, I enjoyed getting acquainted with these characters and seeing their story unfold.  

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.

Noel by J.R.R. Tolkien

I've never been a Tolkien fan. The Hobbit and all the related books just never appealed to me at all. I was totally taken by surprise recently to discover that Tolkien also wrote a beautiful Christmas poem that was basically unknown and "lost" until 2013. It had been published 1936 in an obscure literary publication, received little notice at the time and receded into oblivion, not coming to light even after Tolkien's death in 1973. I regret not ever having heard Noel by Tolkien. It is written in a traditional ballad form with a regular rhythm and rhyme, a feature that I strongly prefer in poetry. It has a strong metre of alternating 8 beats and 6 beats per line, with regular rhyme, plenty of imagery, and poetic devices like alliteration that appeal to the ear. It is 5 stanzas of 8 lines each and is a beautiful tribute to the amazing salvation brought to the weary world in the birth of Jesus. Although it was republished in September of this year, it is not very easily found with Google yet, and I have copied it into my blog for my own convenience.

Noel

by J.R.R. Tolkien

Grim was the world and grey last night:
The moon and stars were fled,
The hall was dark without song or light,
The fires were fallen dead.
The wind in the trees was like to the sea,
And over the mountains’ teeth
It whistled bitter-cold and free,
As a sword leapt from its sheath.

The lord of snows upreared his head;
His mantle long and pale
Upon the bitter blast was spread
And hung o’er hill and dale.
The world was blind,
the boughs were bent,
All ways and paths were wild:
Then the veil of cloud apart was rent,
And here was born a Child.

The ancient dome of heaven sheer
Was pricked with distant light;
A star came shining white and clear
Alone above the night.
In the dale of dark in that hour of birth
One voice on a sudden sang:
Then all the bells in Heaven and Earth
Together at midnight rang.

Mary sang in this world below:
They heard her song arise
O’er mist and over mountain snow
To the walls of Paradise,
And the tongue of many bells was stirred
in Heaven’s towers to ring
When the voice of mortal maid was heard,
That was mother of Heaven’s King.

Glad is the world and fair this night
With stars about its head,
And the hall is filled with laughter and light,
And fires are burning red.
The bells of Paradise now ring
With bells of Christendom,
And Gloria, Gloria we will sing
That God on earth is come.

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. 

SMILE - an Acrostic Poem

 Poem #10 for 2024 is due today. The assignment was to write an Ekphrastic or an Acrostic poem. I don't care for either of these as a poetry form, but I wrote an Acrostic. 

SMILE

 

Softens stone walls and Settles fears.

Mimics a hug, and is Medicine for tears.

Invites a stranger to be a friend. Ignites a fire for a heart to tend.

Lightens neighbors’ heavy load. Lifts many a downtrodden soul.

Evicts the grief of unvoiced groans. Engages the human need to be known.

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 Cowboy's Cowboy

 In 2014, my granddaughter, Natalie, had an assignment to write a poem related to "the Wild West" since her class was planning a field trip to Booth Western Art Museum in Cartersville, GA. Teachers from around the region would choose a few of the best poems from their students to enter in a contest. The winners from each school would read their poems at the museum on the day of the proposed field trip. 

Natalie had not previously written poetry and mentioned her anxiety over the assignment to me. When my grandchildren were in public school, I had made it a habit to read whatever literature they were assigned to read and keep up with their school progress in other ways, so one day I sat down to think about what could be written related to "the Wild West." I had in mind sending her a few ideas to help her get started.

I wrote a very rough first-draft light-verse poem about "'ol Hank." A couple of days before Natalie's poem was due, she told me she had not come up with anything, so I sent her that rough draft as a starting point to help her get started writing. That was probably not as good an idea as it sounded to us at the time. Instead of igniting a new idea in her, it seemed to confine her to just adapting the poem I had started. Deadline came too quickly, and she just turned in the poem that we had more-or-less cowritten. Of course, it won!

She was now locked into reading it aloud at the district Western Art assembly. It has bothered both of us ever since. She felt like she had cheated by turning in a poem she saw as mostly mine. I felt guilty because she felt like I helped her cheat and because she didn't see the final poem as truly hers. I also felt bad that I had apparently caused her to doubt her own ability and integrity. This incident became an embarrassment to both of us over the years, and the poem was mostly forgotten/unmentioned/hidden. 

I recently found an old copy. At this point neither of us is sure how much either of us had to do with this version or even it this is the final copy that was entered in the contest. Neither of us has felt comfortable claiming authorship. But I think it's a cute poem, so here is the, I guess, cowritten poem about 'ol Hank. 

Ol’ Hank was a cowboy’s cowboy –

That feller knew how to live.

Any case that came along,

Hank had advice to give.

 

Now, he warn’t no shoddy blowhard;

He didn’t talk no bosh.

But when he’d meet a greenhorn,

He’d fill their ears, by gosh!

 

“Hey, Dude!  Hey, City Slicker,”

Ol’ Hank was known to shout.

“You’re all hat and no cattle -

That’s not what cowboyin’s all about!

 

Now, being a real true cowboy

Takes a bigger man than you.

If you don’t wanna get your plow cleaned,

Here’s what you gotta do.

 

Don’t never squat with your spurs on.

Don’t drive black cattle when it’s dark outside.

Don’t dig for water near the outhouse;

Don’t get in the saddle ‘less you’re ready to ride.”

2014 by Natalie Davis (Akins) (with Joan Turrentine)

Who?

I submitted this very incomplete poem to the Deadlines for Writers site this morning. The assignment was right in the middle of my wheelhouse and should have been a piece of cake for me - using rhyme, alliteration, and/or assonance; I just didn't work at it until the last minute. 

Which me am I today? I ask.

I really need to know.

If I’m the me that hates to cook,

How will dinner go?

 

If I’m the me who always does

More than I have to do,

We’ll feast on caviar and prawns

Like kings, and counts, and dukes.

 

The me who likes the finer things

Will wear an evening gown.

The me who lives for comfort will

Slouch unkempt into town.

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 Haiku (on Grief)

 Poetry Deadline #2 for 2024 is today. The assignment was to write three Haiku on one theme. 

I wrote on "grief."

Grief is no clear pane.

It’s a toy kaleidoscope –

With endless faces.

***

Grief storms my defense.

Now released, rivers of tears

Bring peace as they flow.

***

Allow tears their course.

Rolling down the face, they cleanse,

Washing grief away.

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.

The Cost of Living

The last short story in the Deadlines for Writers Short Story group is due today. The prompt is "price" with a wordcount of exactly 300 words. Here is my entry. 

The Cost of Living

If there was anything Marti had learned in her twelve years of the chaos that was her homelife, it was that everything has a price. If she wanted supper, the cost was obeying Daddy’s drunken directives quickly and without giving him “any mouth.” If she wanted to go to sleep at night, she had to give away a little of her reasoning power and believe that the yelling she could hear, AGAIN, through the wall of her bedroom, was just the television.  Protecting her little brother had cost Marti a few false confessions and the enduring of punishments he had earned. She sometimes had to spend a little of her integrity and pretend to be at the library working on a project when she needed time with her friends.

Now, holding her hastily-packed bag in one hand and Billy’s hand in the other, Marti stood knee deep in the creek beyond the woods. The stinging skin on her behind and the ache in her jaw was beginning to numb now that they had almost outrun the echo of the back door banging like a gunshot behind them.

Marti and her little brother turned to look at the orange glow they’d left behind. Above the trees, smoke billowed up almost blocking the big glowing zero moon in the night sky.

“Are we going to Grandma’s?” Billy looked at Marti, wide-eyed with fear, but trusting.

“Mama will pick us up there when she gets off work,” Marti affirmed.

Having paid the price for their freedom, the children stood in silence. Devoid of any external comfort or human sound, the silence was deafening. Still Marti could hear the echo of her father’s last words on Earth, as belt in hand, he growled, “Stop crying like a baby, Girl! Just buck up and take it!”

Live a Little

 This month's poem was due today; the prompt was "little." This is the poem I submitted. 

Live a Little

The sturdy fence I built to guard my heart,

Went rogue and wrapped itself around my brain.

My thoughts imprisoned, snagged on barbs of fear,

Refused to free my soul to live again.

 

My stronger self took charge and fled the walls –

She stepped away from fearfulness and doubt.

She opened up the gates and took the risk

Of finding what real living’s all about.