Checkerboard Colors - Haiku

Checkerboard colors
Red and white geraniums
Exploding in bloom

Precious Linda, c. 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

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)

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

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

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

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