One

Full moon,

Snared in bare limbs

Of cold trees,

Breaks free

On drift

Of mist.

*Th challenge on GBE2 this week was to write something using only words of one syllable.

Cobwebs in my Brain--and a Poem

Cobwebs are nearly a feature of the decor in my house. I hate cleaning, and my theory is that as long as the spiders stay up there and catch flies, we can coexist. But this morning I woke up with cobwebs in my brain. 

Not the kind made by spiders, of course, but the kind made by staying up too late and getting up too early--plus taking a couple of medications that say, "Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this medication." 

Which brings up a question: Just what qualifies as heavy machinery? Heavy is pretty subjective, don't you think? I assume I'm allowed to use my blender and not allowed to drive an end loader. But in between lies a vast category of machinery that's "a little bit heavy" or "almost heavy" or "heavy, but not quite heavy enough to prevent the taking of medications." What about my car? Is it heavy machinery?

This morning I opted to let Hubby drive to church--that's how cobwebby my brain was. I also opted not to volunteer to run one of the television cameras--a job I sometimes do because everyone else is too busy or too lazy or too intimidated to tackle it. (It isn't that difficult if you have more than four hours of sleep. A college class in studio production helps, too.)

A long afternoon nap cleared the cobwebs out of my head. Wish I could clear the cobwebs out of my house that pleasantly.

On a more serious note, I'm sure I've used this here before, but with the prompt for this week being "cobwebs," I couldn't resist. Besides, it's one of my favorites of the poems I've written.

Love

Is like the silken touch of cobweb

Against the cheek,

And often just as absently

Brushed away.

Prairie Waves

Are touched by alchemists in autumn-

First the wheat, then the beans and corn.

And when all the earth is golden pale,

And the moon rises golden bright,

Farmers, like Neptune riding his sea serpent,

Drive combines through misty fields.

They swallow up the golden waves

And spew streams of gold into waiting vessels

Named International Harvester, Massey Ferguson,

Or John Deere.

Meditation Location--For Clarity

Meditation is mediocre in Illinois,

Where all is green

And green is all.

The lushness of the summer garden

Diffuses thought,

Defuses action.

The hopeful holy must choose an exile

To find the profit

Of being a prophet.

Sometimes the soul requires a desert

For concentration

Of contemplation.

Dirty Old Woman

Dirty Old Woman

OK—so I’m fortyish and soft in all the right places

To be instantly identified as someone’s lovely mother,

Well endowed with all the good housewifely graces.

And I am.

OK—so I’ve been married for twenty-four good years

To the same dark-haired man who thrilled my twenties.

You might even wonder if I’m as contented as I appear.

Well, I am.

OK—so when that tall and sun-tanned youth goes jogging by,

You wonder if I’m turning my head to watch his rippling muscles,

Especially when you see that certain sparkle in my eye.

You bet I am!

Just because my own flower garden fulfills all my wishes

For beautiful bouquets to pick and carry home with me,

Can’t I still admire the blossoms growing on my neighbor’s bushes?

You bet I can!

Stormhigh

Earlier in the year, tornadoes hit hard in several areas in the South and Midwest. I felt like it would be inappropriate to publish poetry about how much I enjoy a good, loud storm. But now that fewer thunderstorms bring tornadoes, I can share this poem. 

Stormhigh

    

The wind's moans make me laugh,

And its shrieks bring me joy

As I capture it in the circle of my arms.

Its elemental parts shift and whirl,

Rubbing positive to negative,

Creating power.

Charge builds, earth and air,

And I, composed of earth and air, take it,

Make it part of me.

I ride the roll of thunder like a wave,

Call down the lightning

And grasp it in my fist.

It crackles and struggles in my hold,

But I drink its ozone odor

Till it fades to darkness on my palm.

copyright Angela Parson Myers 2011

A Little Micro-Poetry

Some micro-poetry I've tweeted in the last several weeks, repeated here:

1.
Fields like the world before the Flood,
Mist rising up out of the ground,
Resting in pockets among the cornstalks.

2.
The uncertain voices of children,
Singing off key, softly or shouting,
Is the most beautiful sound in the church.

3.
Our little acre of yard
Is conquered by wild strawberries
And clover.

The Wolfing Moon--Midnight

When the prompt for this week's blog turned out to be "midnight," the question wasn't what I would write, but which of the pieces I had in my files should I post. Should I post a short poem? My long narrative poem? The first chapter of my novel? I kind of did the one stone thing and opted for a short poem I quoted in my novel to help the protagonist figure out why she awakened covered with blood and unable to remember anything she had done since just before midnight.                       

                       The Wolfing Moon

The midnight moon, icy white,

Rides the clouds across the night.

Its leering face is full tonight

Above a world misty bright.

Street lights gleam with swarthy glow

Onto pavement black below;

Ponds of lamplight together flow

Into moons within the stone.

The whimpering wind is damp and cold,

Laden with stench of leafy mold.

Brown leaves race across the stone,

Chased by demons of their own.

In those of us who bear the curse,

Again awakes the ancient thirst.

The changing swells within our breasts

As howling, we lost turn to beasts.

copyright Angela Parson Myers 2011

First Love--A Postscript

Because my prose usually comes from my slightly off-kilter view of the world, while my poetry usually comes from deep within, I just had to do another post with these poems. I blogged Valentine for Autumn last Valentine's Day, but this is the first time I've published viewpoint.

Viewpoint

“Youth and beauty fade away,"

 I’ve heard the poets sing,

 And God, I know it's true.

 All that's left of my youth and beauty

 Now, my love, is you.

 I see the lines etched in my face,

 My mirror tells no lies.

 But love of my youth,

 My beauty clings-

 Reflected in your eyes.     

Valentine for Autumn

Come, walk the night with me

And feel the silken touch of mist

Cool upon the warm bare flesh of arms entwined.

Come, walk the velvet darkness.

Follow sparkling fireflies through the wood

And wade the dewy grass with naked feet.

Come, stay the golden autumn night

Till dawn strokes the sky with nacre pink,

And we will walk together all our nights

Until the winter snows.

copyright Angela Parson Myers 2011

When Do You Say Good-Bye?

The recent announcement of a beloved author's diagnosis of Alzheimer's has touched many of my writer friends deeply. To me he's just another of many who have touched my life to fall to this and similar diseases. I have lost three aunts and an uncle to Alzheimer's and my mother to the lesser known Lewey body dementia. And yes, I worry about myself every time I can't immediately come up with that exact word I was seeking for a story or poem. Because I tend to express my strong emotions in poetry, I wrote "I Don't Know When to Say Good-Bye" when the first of my aunts died, and "A Slow Sinking Downward" when my mother died.

I Don’t Know When to Say Goodbye

What happens to the soul

When light fades from the eyes?

Does it flee the faltering brain,

Leaving the body an automated factory

That makes all the right moves

But produces nothing,

Until finally enough circuits are broken

To freeze machinery?

Or is the soul trapped within,

Imprisoned in a black cell

Where no voice, no light, of reason penetrates,

There to go slowly mad

Before death arranges the escape?

A Slow Sinking Downward

I used to think of death as violent,

Sudden—

Gunshot ripping night, or

Scarlet burst exploding heart

Or brain.

I never thought that death would be

Shedding of memories

And dignity,

One by one—

A slow sinking downward

Into darkness.

copyright Angela Parson Myers 2011

Picnic Season Has Arrived

I know picnic season has arrived because I'm fighting my yearly battle with ants in my kitchen. Can you blame me for fantasizing about revenge?

Barbeque Guests

With sun-bright shell and fragile limb,

When all the world is still and dim,

Before the dew and the setting sun,

On a muggy summer’s eve they come.

They dip and weave on gossamer wing,

Those that glow and those that sing,

In whining cloud or sparkling group,

String quartet or ballet troupe.

Like good performers, right on cue,

They join us in our barbeque.

So we, with heartfelt heavy sigh,

Turn on the bug-zapper and watch ‘em fry.

copyright Angela Parson Myers 2011

On Second Thought....

In my little corner of the world, we have enjoyed one the longest springs I can remember with many days of rain and rolling thunder and only one tornado warning. I love thunderstorms like that, and had planned to post a poem about how intoxicating storms can be when they offer no imminent danger. But the recent series of storms that pounded the South, leaving so many dead, injured, or homeless, have made me think better of it. Instead, please enjoy these micropoems I've recently shared on Twitter.

2000 Years Later

Golden trays
Gleaming in candlelight;
Doves diving like hawks
Through intertwined rings
On scarlet cloths.

Church Coffee
Better than most.
Random black guy
Sits at piano in hospitality room
Sings, "It will never fade away,"
And plays like water
Flowing over stones.

Pinewoods

Silver smoke
Caresses each slim needle
And rises on
To join the silver moon.

copyright 2011

Butterflies Aren't So Poetic After All

Hubby and I are kind of addicted to "Bones." We know how unrealistic it is, but the interaction among the characters has us hooked. So we were watching the other night when a butterfly hunter (lepidopterist?) discovered a corpse that butterflies had been feeding on. Kind of a shocking revelation for watchers who thought butterflies ate only nectar from the bowls of flowers, I'll bet. Anyway, it reminded me of this poem I had written several years ago:

 The Tangerine Flower

 Saucer-large and beautiful,

 It rested on the dirt path

 Worn by years of deer-hooves

 Through the Kiamichi Mountain woods,

 Hundreds of tiny petals

 Quivering as if in gentle breeze.

 It would have looked at home

 In Hawaii or the Amazon--

 In Oklahoma it made us pause.

 Who brought it here,

 Where only deer and hikers walked?

 A hopelessly lost Teleflorist man?

 One more step for a closer look,

 And the blossom exploded,

 Petals flying away in pairs

 As hundreds of small, bright butterflies

 In panic rose and left behind

 The pile of dung on which they fed.

copyright 2011

April Evening--For Reasons We Never Dreamed

An elderly friend of mine (I can say that because she's even older than I am) was left with impaired ability to use the entire right side of her body when she suffered a stroke--ironically during surgery that was supposed to help prevent them. But her sense of humor was intact, and her story about learning to put on her panty hose was laugh-till-you-cry funny. She loved this poem with its over-the-top alliteration because she taped it to her bathroom mirror and read it aloud every morning until she learned again to pronounce her S's. When I wonder if my work is worthy, I remember her and this poem and realize that sometimes the poems we doubt most wind up being our best work for reasons we never dreamed.

April Evening

Something in a soft spring night
Whispers possibilities--
Perhaps the sound of splitting seeds
Shooting through the soil,
Or silent step of summer coming
Soft upon the soaring moon.

copyright 2011

March Is a Fickle Mistress

"In like a lion, out like a lamb; in like a lamb, out like a lion" notwithstanding, we Midwesterners never really know what to expect of March. This year has been a prime example. When I left nearly two weeks ago, March was warm enough to make me wonder why I was going. When I returned, snow nestled in the shaded places around hedgerows. And this year isn't so different from past years in that respect. Here's a poem about a childhood experience:

Winter Violets

On a cold and blustery mid-March day
The wind whirled the snow away,
And there, hidden among the leaves,
Grew violets in winter.

copyright 2011

On the Night of the Supermoon

I'm late with my post because the world and I have had a very busy week. But tonight the moon will rise over the prairie appearing bigger than it has or will for many years. In its honor, I'll share this poem with you:

Moonrise

She blushes as she rises,
Naked,
And pulls a filmy cloud
Across her face.

But modesty is not her virtue.
Soon the blush has faded,
The cloud is cast aside,
And she strides
Silver, shameless,
Across her sky.

copyright 2011

Itty Bitty Poems Pique My Interest

For years I've been writing very short poems I called vignettes for lack of a better word. They didn't fit into the structure of haiku or any of the other accepted short forms of poetry. Most of them were intended just to paint a picture with a few brushstrokes, and I enjoyed them, but nobody else seemed to take them seriously. Then along came Twitter....

Recently I've discovered an entire community of poets who write Twitter poems, some of which are haiku and similar forms, but some of which are hashtagged #micropoetry and seem to fit none of the established forms I know about. I'm not sure if the micropoetry hashtag is an open community, so I haven't used it, but I have tried tweeting a couple of my vignettes. Twitter doesn't have enough characters for titles, but the first one is "Carpe Diem" and the second is "View From My Bedroom Window--Broken Bow, OK."

Purple thumbprint clouds / Like bruises / On the smooth pink flesh / Of sunset....

The moon, somewhere above my sight / Mocks the darkness of the night; / A thousand clouds reflect its light / To turn the earthen road to white.

copyright 2011