I, POSSESSED

My favorite possession possesses me.
With a fervent obsession she holds the key
To my flurried schedule. It’s at her command!
She cares not what the rest of the world demands.
The seconds of her day are rhythmic and slow
Passed with the breeze that gently cools and bestows
An aura of peace to her obscure presence.
Thus for my ardent service and reverence
I am granted amusement and grand antics,
And faint purrs, soft calming and therapeutic.

Inspiration

I was moved by my cat, Gracie Lou, to write this poem.
She has been long gone now, but my world has been
possessed by Callie, a grand feline lady who rules what
we thought was our domain. She has trained us well.

CLASS OF ’66 REUNION

Time marches on, an adage oft spoken.
More like a sun’s ray at the speed of light.
Yet our classmate bonds can ne’re be broken.

“Graduate! Actuate!” a keen slogan!
Puerile sight may cloud the road to the right.
Time marches on, an adage oft spoken.

For most a pledge and a golden token
Tarnished by Life thus cancelling the rite
Yet our classmate bonds can ne’re be broken.

Born, the innocents in cribs of oaken
Parenting with no manual! Bless the wight!
Time marches on, an adage oft spoken.

Careers and callings……corporate brogans,
Downsizing, outsourcing, a damning blight.
Yet our classmate bonds can ne’re be broken.

Swiss watch for retirement, golden token
This juncture of talents, freedom take flight
For, Time marches on, an adage oft spoken,
Yet, our classmate bonds can ne’re be broken.

INSPIRATION
I ran across this poem I wrote for my last class reunion, but I
don’t recall reading it at the reunion. But it truly says a lot for
our class. Even with many years behind us, there’s still love,
devotion and loyalty to each other after all this time.
How lucky we were back in ’66!

LOVE SONG

The sunshine is back in my soul!
For I have heard your voice
The depth……the resonance,
Rivals the songs of life and nature.

I feed on your tales.
My mind’s eyes reeling
With adventurous scenes…….
Real……..but for me only dreams.

I hear the rolling summer thunder.
The threat of storms…..the promise of rain
Rain that mimics my heart strings
As…………possibly, a cello moans.

I curl up like a kitten in your strong loving arms.
The quiet broken only by the thunder.
Your breath on my neck, assurances of hope……
Your lips on my lips, a promise of love.

VILLANELLE ON REFLECTIONS

Possibilitarians chivy Life!
Graduates storm the doors of hallowed halls,
Each novel soul braced for plenty and strife.

The young, restless, virile…….lust, love…….run rife!
Nuptials in earnest, endure or fall.
Possibilitarians chivy Life!

Politics and parenting, most pro-life.
Teenagers economics bankroll the mall.
Each novel soul braced for plenty and strife.

Empty nest syndrome, a sign of mid-life.
New opportunities, new ports of call.
Possibilitarians chivy Life!

Seniors, Medicare, a toot from the fife.
IRA’s, 401K’s stall the squall
Each novel soul braced for plenty and strife.

Green or Golden, bracing each phase of Life,
Embrace opportunities, spurn all pall,
For, Possibilitarians chivy Life,
Each novel soul braced for plenty and strife.

Inspiration
I bought a pair of socks at the spa with a tag from the artist who designed the socks. She said she considered herself as a POSSIBILITARIAN! And that word hit me square in the forehead! That’s Me! I’m a POSSIBILITARIAN! And what a grand life it is!

DAY BY DAY

Aurora’s dawn, arriviste, chroma rich!
The Harp and Artist beget the grande scene,
Whilst night sky pearls resplendently bewitch!

Homeless relegated to gentry’s kitsch
Stone dwellings shelter box-tent homes ‘tween.
Aurora’s dawn, arriviste, chroma rich!

Children enslaved on a pirate ketch.
Ungodly intent so evil, mean.
Whilst night sky pearls resplendently bewitch!

Thoughtless human rubble, a peccant glitch,
Fetid trash heaps defile the sphere, blue and green.
Aurora’s dawn, arriviste, chroma rich.

The night’s fractured like cymbal’s heinous pitch
Holy lands dare dream of peace so serene,
Whilst night sky pearls resplendently bewitch!

Joy and love shape quilts with hopeful stitches.
yet, baby angels are tossed midst styrene,
Still, Aurora’s dawn, arriviste, chroma rich!
Whilst night sky pearls resplendently bewitch!

INSPIRATION
So interesting…using flowery words to describe such vile
acts of inhumanity. But whatever it takes to get the
attention of people with hearts for understanding and love.
Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do Unto You!
Let there be Love!

This poem was published in Best Poets of 2019 and ended up
winning second prize in a prestigious collection of poets. The
following is an exert from a letter from the publisher:
Congratulations!  Your poem “Day by Day” is a second prize
winner in the July to December 2019 contest!  This is a remarkable
accomplishment of which you should be very proud, as your poem
stood out among the thousands of entries we received.  Our
judging staff ultimately selected “Day by Day” for its poetic merit,
which is a true testament of your effort. Talent, and dedication to
your craft.  You exhibited a creative flair for verse, and by
incorporating various poetic elements and techniques,
you have created a piece of work any poet can appreciate.

THE CREATIVE FACET OF A KILLER

Faceless Killer, masked illusory pseud,
Quarantining our Planet, One by One.
Sunup….Sundown….Sanity?….Solitude.

Immure walls of home, a needle’s eye viewed,
Kin and friend grasp cells, shields from the undone.
Faceless Killer, masked illusory pseud.

Canyons of suites emptied; careers detrude.
Time to focus on the backyard home runs.
Sunup….Sundown….Sanity?….Solitude.

Respectful to mask, yet blind smiles delude.
Tainted tongues of world news spun and unspun.
Faceless Killer, masked illusory pseud.

Each soul born with seeds of dreams included.
Actualize innate gifts, for some unbegun.
Sunup….Sundown….Sanity?….Solitude.

Time on hands searching quiet aptitudes.
Tiers of gilded gifts unveiled by the One.
Still, Faceless Killer, masked illusory pseud,
Sunup….Sundown….Sanity?….Solitude.

INSPIRATION
The subject of this poem was requested by the publisher,
memorializing the world’s reactions to Covid-19 and the quarantine.
The day after finishing this poem, Jane Pauley reported that
quarantined rocker David Lee Roth explored an ancient art using
a centuries old formula of ink. The frustrating gift of time in
quarantine has encouraged a world of people to explore and enjoy
hidden talents. Also, a gentleman cleaning his garage found an old
bucket of baseballs he used with his son and grandson. A neighborhood
boy had lost both his grandfathers, but the bucket of baseballs enheartened
a friendship, sharing the love of baseball. This poem was published in
The Best Poets of 2020.

EULOGY FOR TRUTH

Eulogy for Truth; death by depraved wile.
Sleaze media’s duplicitous deceit.
Americans mourn travesty so vile.

“Fake” news regales falsities to beguile.
Reliant souls read inked pages, lies excrete.
Eulogy for Truth; death by depraved wile.

Personal politics, opines defile
Axioms of Truth, unbiased, discrete.
Americans mourn travesty so vile.

Stars, politicians, targets to revile.
True or not, are derailed by just one tweet.
Eulogy for Truth; death by depraved wile.

Hate wears a marred mask, cloaked in cyber files.
Behind cubed booths, false faces feign conceit.
Americans mourn travesty so vile.

Journalists careers wrote the facts, erstwhile.
Trust, Truth must now replace back street bleat.
For the Eulogy of Truth, a death by depraved wile,
Americans mourn travesty so vile!

INSPIRATION
Eulogy of Truth, is a topic on the minds of many Americans. “Fake” news
is something we never thought we would ever face in America. We have
always trusted the media to follow the rules of journalism……just the facts,
no personal opinions. Oddly enough, in my Roget’s Thesaurus, the
definition of journalist is “(a) person who writes about factual events for a
living”. It is beyond me that a significant percentage of the media has
elected to ditch “factual” and replace it with “fake”! My Mom, a politician,
would never have stood for this national travesty, and neither should we!
This poem was published in Best Poets of 2018.

THE GREAT AMERICAN GAMES

Elect.  Reelect.  One musical chair.
Debate.  Propaganda.  Merry-go-round.
American Dreamer, brave Truth or Dare.

Race. Trickery.  The Tortoise and the Hare.
Special interest mavens prance like proud hounds.
Elect.  Reelect.  One musical chair.

Our Grand Constitution.  Jeopardy.  Beware.
Freedom shredded by fiat.  Source unsound.
American Dreamer, brave Truth or Dare.

Vain civic souls feign veritable care.
Party theriac……verbiage, the noun.
Elect.  Reelect.  One musical chair.

Patriots panic through Labyrinths and lairs.
Governance grotesquely swell and abound.
American Dreamer, brave Truth or Dare.

Wits and Wages, the middle class not spared.
Charades.  Risk.  Go Fish.  No Clue!  Wits End!  Zounds!
Still…..elect.  Reelect.  One musical chair.
American Dreamer, brave Truth or Dare.

Source of Inspiration:  During election year, our lives are consumed by a barrage of political verbiage, enough to leave us stupefied!  But this is a time to remind us of our FREEDOM to make these political decisions.  Therefore, we must revere, respect, and execute the right to vote.  Always!  I was raised by a mother who was a politician and a father who was a highway patrolman.  From my father I learned a healthy respect for the law, and my mother taught me to always vote for the person, not the party.  And always vote, lest you waste or lose your right to vote!

Writing a Villanelle

Words, like ebon tiles jumbled in a game,
Broach Life’s loves, fated wars, edgy affairs.
Poetic portraits in echoic frames.

Oversoon notions tossed into the flame,
Sketchy, shapeless, precociously bare.
Words, like ebon tiles jumbled in a game.

Ancient scribes penned psalms, songs for history fames,
Exemplar recitations trumpets blare.
Poetic portraits in echoic frames.

Burgeoning bards with contemplative aim
Scribble rash embryonic artful wares.
Words, like ebon tiles jumbled in a game.

Abstruse expressions of a soul, marred, maimed,
Scrawled in ink, agony, evoking tears.
Poetic portraits in echoic frames.

Life’e circadian rhythms fan the flames
Of balladry verse.  Passion’s novel pared.
Thus, words, like ebon tiles jumbled in a game,
Poetic portraits in echoic frames.

Source of Inspiration:  A friend of mine coined me The Voice of the Villanelle, and then taught me how to create a blog by the same name.  I’ve been asked many times why I write Villanelles and the answer is……..for the challenge.  My favorite game is Scrabble and writing a Villanelle is much like playing Scrabble.  The rhythm of life is merely mocked by the rhythm of poetry.  And that is why we write………poetry.

Crosswords

Life, like a crossword of questions and clues,
Phrenic play with words; what great toys they make.
This jumble of absurd dailies amuse.

Moments pandered to bemoan or bemuse
The quizzical quakes human tongues bespoke.
Life, like a crossword of questions and clues.

A grid of blank blocks to fill in with truths.
Black holes, the pathways of trails not to take.
This jumble of absurd dailies amuse.

Words, these truths, depend on another’s cues.
Mortals cluster for sodality’s sake.
Life, like a crossword of questions and clues.

Blunders, falsehoods, a domino of rues
Taint the game in a maniacal wake.
This jumble of absurd dailies amuse.

New dawn.  New match for word warriors to muse.
No prize, reward, just gray matter at stake.
And, Life, like a crossword of questions and clues,
This jumble of absurd dailies amuse.

Source of Inspiration for Crosswords
Crosswords, like poetry, are word games–great toys for people of all ages.  I began my writing career at 49.  Before that, I was in hand-to-hand combat with life, living memories to write later.  I encouraged my children to learn the play of words, which they learned early on would serve them well.  Thus, they are expressive and savvy writers.
Crosswords was published in International Who’s Who in Poetry, 2012.