Oh, technology! I somehow lost my Blogger blog by linking with my domain. All the posts I made after April 9, 2012 are gone. Comments, links, everything. Luckily I have copies of my poems for the NaPoWriMo challenge. However, I cannot get them formatted properly, which is why I was still using Blogger until I figured out how to get rid of the annoying space between lines. I will, somehow, figure this out, eventually. I decided to list all the poems with the date they were originally posted. Maybe, someday, I will find my Blogger blog and get them properly moved here! Oh!
I filled my bathtub with sugar,
buckled up my tap shoes.
On second thought,
slipped my toes
into my old soft shoes.
In the quiet
where no one will bother me
I shall never want for
a proper shuffle off to Buffalo.
I kneel in the dark
how I actually look
I take up much more space
I think I should Eye to eye with my little ones
we are equal in our space
They are bigger here
when we walk side by side The space I am fitted into
is too small
I define myself without
drawing a line around my
space In other’s eyes
I fill too much space
I hover below them
trying to not get in their way Without walls or floors
words pull me
away But in the dark
I feel the floor beneath my knees
I cannot fill the space 04/21/12
I have clay soil.
I should make pottery,
not grow flowers. It is spring and on
Saturday when I could
be sleeping in, I hear the birdsong
just before dawn calling
me to the clay. I ache for the good
soil in the old part
of Denver where it has been tilled and
worked and the clay gave up.
But now near the grasslands where Cheyenne
once staked their noble homes,
I garden in small beds where the clay
is worked and tilled until
it, too, gives up.
Sleep on the heather
So I can rest with you in my arms
Sleep, my little one, sleep Sleep on the shore
So I can rock you on the waves
Sleep, my little one, sleep Sleep on the hills
So I may see where you will go
Sleep, my little one, sleep Sleep on the clouds
So you will hear the angles sing
Sleep, my little one, sleep Sleep on the moon
So I can see your face shine
Shine, my little one, shine
RainI closed the door behind me to leave not
the hope of succulent petals in bloom,
but brittle flakes dusting the pallid room,
just cinders from a sultry fire once sought. In answer to the rain’s whisper I caught
my name wafting on its verdant perfume
and slipped my feet from their rigid costume
into the spate, my fear was all for naught. I danced and splashed along an unknown path.
I could not see the end but did not fear
my feet blindly bespattering puddles.
My promenade will not step back in wrath
For the rain has rinsed me of my tear
And leaves me laundered from all my troubles.
I often muse if I shall ever see
An insect so hankering as the frenzied bee?
A bee whose proboscis yearns to digest
Sweet nectar from flowers without protest;
A bee that flits through God’s breath of air,
And waves it’s wings with fevered flair;
A bee when in spring with delight may wear
Sprinkles of pollen dotting its black and yellow hair;
Then into its hive where the nectar is lain,
Soon candy for the gods who never abstain.
My poem is but silliness for you to read,
But to the bee I hope, forever, Godspeed.
And, now, for something complete different. My husband, Leroy, is a writer, too. Today he felt the urge to join us.
Treez By Leroy LeonardI think that I shall never hear
A fizz as lovely as a beer If you’re inclined to disagree
Have a beer and you will see Then if you still don’t get it, brother,
What the heck have another. I feel sure eventually
You’ll end up thinking just like me. The lovely sound of beery fizz
Is quite the loveliest fizz there is.
Three of ThreeHere I sit ensconced
Castled, surrounded by my bricks
Ones I bought
By my own hard labor
To keep me safe
Protected from the howling My doors are latched
Windows shut tight
The brick unyielding For me to fear
There is nothing I hear the knocks
And then the pounding
The mournful cries
Against the growling But I have proudly taken
The upright road
And am not one of
Those exaggerating Why didn’t they listen
While there was still time?
Why didn’t they work like me?
They followed their path,
Foolishly, their bliss and
Now are woefully coveting Here I will stay
With tea cup in hand
And my brothers
Will be gone by morning
Whether by their own hands
Now willing to work
Or as a tasty dinner for the growling
Two of ThreeThere is a pounding
on my door. Pounding.
Shaking my walls,
my lovely walls.
Hand hewn timbers
sculpted then stacked
one upon the other,
a masterpiece to behold.
no nails needed. Who is pounding
on my door?
Shaking my finely
shimmying my dinner
onto the floor. Stop that pounding,
pounding on my door.
It’s hand carved lines
under the pounding on my door. Good brother,
enter and wipe your feet.
Step sweetly on
the reclaimed planks. No time to talk.
It’s time to flee.
Forget your ebony burl. And under the blast
Looking back at the beast
I should have used the nails.