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Saturday, April 27, 2013

Checkerboard Colors - Haiku

Checkerboard colors
Red and white geraniums
Exploding in bloom

Precious Linda, c. 2013

Friday, April 26, 2013

My Teddy Bear and I


I have a pink, Teddy bear,
I hold her close and tight,
To comfort her from memories
Of days gone by and fright.

She needs the comfort of my arms,
I hold her close, you see,
To keep her safe from all alarm,
To know she’s safe with me.

She isn’t able on her own
To settle down in peace.
She needs the comfort of my arms,
In slumber, to release.

Her memories are different
Than mine would ever be.
I can’t believe the things she says,
It never would be me!

And yet, my body says a lot,
With frightened feelings, too,
And then I hold my Teddy bear
And tell her, “I love you!”

The wounds and fears, the great big tears,
The little ones, as well,
The scary thoughts that come our way,
That drag us right through hell,

Remain no longer buried deep,
But move along to find
The way back from the recesses,
From deep within our mind.

I wonder if the things she feels
Will ever feel like I,
Right now I cannot fathom them,
Nor see them with my eye.

No matter what tomorrow brings,
My bear and I will try,
Together to become as one,
One person, she and I.

Precious Linda, c. 2013

Thursday, April 25, 2013

The Sunset – a terza rima poem


the western sky shot colors from the sun
with hues of orange and pinks and dazzling shapes
reflections on the water never done

vibrating colors like some bobbing grapes
a spectacle of beauty and delight
tossed by the waves, with many diff’rent shapes

a grandiose display of brilliant light
that takes away one’s breath, with gasps and awe
and forms some salty tears that mar one’s sight

this vast array begins to drop the jaw
and with a mouth wide open catches flies
which may end up inside a person’s craw

no matter what, the person never lies,
majestic beauty overflows his soul
and whispers that he’s found a special prize

igniting passion, deep within, he’s whole,
and will again begin his blessed stroll

Precious Linda, c.2013

I used the prompt of writing a terza rima today. The description is as follows:

“The literal translation of terza rima from Italian is 'third rhyme'. Terza rima is a three-line stanza using chain rhyme in the pattern A-B-A, B-C-B, C-D-C, D-E-D. There is no limit to the number of lines, but poems or sections of poems written in terza rima end with either a single line or couplet repeating the rhyme of the middle line of the final tercet. The two possible endings for the example above are d-e-d, e or d-e-d, e-e. There is no set rhythm for terza rima, but in English,iambic pentameter is generally preferred." 
Quotation from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terza_rima (2013-04-25)

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

The Kitchen Table


yesterday, left behind,
with a table filled with yesterday,
thirteen orange juice bottles,
standing, side by side
filled with aging water
for the fish aquarium,
repotted geranium plants,
pruned from winter growth,
beginning to blossom,
a book and photograph,
a gift from a friend,
visited yesterday,
a plastic bag, filled with
an assortment of bandages
and supplies, a container
of Vaseline to cover
a recent skin biopsy,
a library book
to be returned,
3-hole punch paper,
in a wrapper, on its way
from storage to the office,
a home-made wristband
made from a sock
to hold gauze on the wrist,
but it didn’t work,
two more pieces
of the cut sock,
waiting to find its purpose,
an empty box of
Playtex Living Gloves,
extra long gloves, used
to wash dishes by hand
without getting the
wrist wet

one look at the table
with clutter overtaking,
stirred up within her
feelings of
overload
overtired
overstressed
overworked
rising up to
overflowing and
overwhelmed

needing rest from
a tiring day before,
she went to lie down
with thoughts and feelings
swirling through her
heart, mind, and soul,
filling her head
and all extra spaces,
with no place
to just be
free

and then,
she sensed
the Lord
speak to her,

Will you clear off
your table, please,
making room
for Me
and
will you share
a cup of tea
with Me?

she smiled at the idea,
went out to the kitchen
and looked again
at the mess,
scribbled a poem,
tired as she was,
and began to
prepare a cup of tea,
cleaned off a small
place on the table
and began to feel
real again,
in the present moment
of grace,
to spend time
with the Lord,
in spirit,
face-to-face,
with nothing
more important,
to distract her,
for those few
sacred moments
of time
together,
sitting at her
kitchen table,
in sweet communion,
with her Lord.

Precious Linda, c.2013

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Frozen in FEAR, Once Again


The door SLAMMED
and, once again,
the young child
froze   
in
fear
not knowing
what would happen next,

anticipating
shouting, yelling,
penetrating reprimands,
a cold shoulder with frozen silence,
sharp eyes of disapproval,
permeating everywhere,

filling her heart with
overwhelming terror,
leaving no room
for love,
mistakes, accidents,
or immaturity,

always promising disapproval,
sporadic expressions of love,
and the hopelessness of
never being fully accepted,
as her little,
immature
self,
but rather
annihilated,
in spirit,
once
again.

Years later,
she didn’t know,
if the wind had
blown the door shut,
or a person had shut it,
accidentally loud,
without malice or ill intent,
but she froze,
out of habit,
accepting
the blame
and subsequent
shame,
as her own,
once
again,

until
her body began
to release those
old, old feelings,
turbulent, at times,
and, then, as a
cleansing
wave
washing
her soul.

Precious Linda, c.2013

Monday, April 22, 2013

I Was Raised to Be a Clone


I was raised to be a clone
with no sense of self,
like an appendage,
controlled by another.

Anything that didn’t measure up
to their beliefs, ways, or thoughts
was quickly smashed,
along with me.

I was never free
to become
uniquely
me,
in
their
presence.

And now,

I still have memories
of the pain of being
different and not
measuring up,
of needing
to be
exactly
the
same.

I’ve tried to blend in,
chameleon-like,
but that is death to me.

My sense of self
comes creeping up,
like a shadow coming alive,
but then, I become afraid
and try to stomp it out,
just like what
was done
to me.

I don’t want to be a murderer,
but I am so afraid,
that if I am so different,
I will be rejected,
again and again,
as I have been,
from time immemorial.

I’m continually told,
I should be different,
fit this mold,
or else,
I will not love you,
I will not be with you,
I will not talk to you,
I will not hug you.

Apparently,
the choice
to be
me
is
very,
very,
very
lonely.

Precious Linda, c. 2013

Sunday, April 21, 2013

SLUMBER – Acrostic Poem


Senses sleeping
Living dreams
Unconscious awakens
Memories explode
Body rests and restores
Eventually, spirits show up
Restless commotion, inside

Precious Linda, c.2013