Tag Archives: Poem

Colleen’s Poetry Challenge: Photo Prompt – The Messenger

It’s the middle of the month challenge ~ time for a photo prompt! Colleen wants us to use this photo as the inspiration for the poem.

 

 

The Messenger

A

bottle

half buried

in smooth white sand.

Reminder of kisses,

warm braces and loving gazes,

our future we celebrated.

Through cruelty we were separated.

Holding tears this bottle I picked up.

“I’m alive, call this number, my love.”

 

 

 

Colleen’s Poetry Challenge: Photo Prompt – The Messenger

 

 

 

Colleen’s Poetry Challenge No. 136 Photo Prompt – Sweet Memories

Colleen’s Weekly Tanka Tuesday Poetry Challenge has a new feature. For the middle of the month challenge it’s a photo prompt!

 

Sweet Memories

 

For sentimental reason, I still keep many pieces of projects my daughter made. I have a flower pot she decorated when she was in 5th grade. It is sitting on a round glass top table between two chairs in the front patio. I like to sit in the front porch to drink coffee in the morning. The flower pot reminds me of the things we did together when she was growing up.

Kids are grown and gone

Keeping the bikes where they were

Jolly wheels still turned

Muddy feet through door they came

Hungry mouths screamed for cookies

 

 

 

Colleen’s Tuesday Poetry Challenge #136 Photo Challenge – Memory

 

 

To a Daughter Leaving Home by Linda Pastan – re-post

linda-pastan

On May 27, 1932, Linda Pastan was born to a Jewish family in the Bronx. She graduated from Radcliffe College and received an MA from Brandeis University.

Among her publications are – Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems 1968-1998 (W. W. Norton, 1998), which was nominated for the National Book Award; The Imperfect Paradise (W. W. Norton, 1988), a nominee for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize.

Linda Pastan lives in Potomac, Maryland.

I feature two of her poems. The first one makes me laugh and think. When I first read the title, I thought she was writing about her daughter going to college, or at a wedding. When I read on to the last line, I could feel her heart. Yes, our children leave us in different stages and different circumstances.

I found myself letting Mercy go little by little as she was growing up. Letting her go in a way of respect her to become independent but still stay close by to be her support. When Mercy was in fifth grade, she configured my first cell phone. When she was a young adult, she became my friend as remains to be my daughter. At the present, I rely on her expertise and am not afraid to ask.

~

To A Daughter Leaving Home by Linda Pastan

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.

The second poem evokes my reflection on the question: when am I most myself? I think it is ever since I had cancer. I reflect on life vs. death, health vs. sickness, essential vs. contemporary, personal right vs. relationship. I accept who I am and no interest in pretending. I’m satisfied with what I have and no ambition to acquire “one more.”

~

Something About the Trees by Linda Pastan

I remember what my father told me:
There is an age when you are most yourself.
He was just past fifty then,
Was it something about the trees that make him speak?

There is an age when you are most yourself.
I know more than I did once.
Was it something about the trees that make him speak?
Only a single leaf had turned so far.

I know more than I did once.
I used to think he’d always be the surgeon.
Only a single leaf had turned so far,
Even his body kept its secrets.

I used to think he’d always be the surgeon,
My mother was the perfect surgeon’s wife.
Even his body kept its secrets.
I thought they both would live forever.

My mother was the perfect surgeon’s wife,
I can still see her face at thirty.
I thought they both would live forever.
I thought I’d always be their child.

I can still see her face at thirty.
When will I be most myself?
I thought I’d always be their child.
In my sleep, it’s never winter.

When will I be most myself?
I remember what my father told me.
In my sleep, it’s never winter.
He was just past fifty then.

~

This is an expansion of Pantoum Poem Form from 4 stanzas to 7 stanzas.

Stanza 1: 1, 2, 3, 4
Stanza 2: 2, 5, 4, 6
Stanza 3: 5, 7, 6, 8
Stanza 4: 7, 9, 8, 10
Stanza 5: 9, 11, 10, 12
Stanza 6: 11, 13, 12, 14
Stanza 7: 13, 1, 14, 3

 

 

Visit the Beach – A Poem

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Visit the Beach

It is therapeutic to visit the beach

Toes in the sand, Ears to the waves

Eyes gaze at the horizon

Breathe in the fresh sea air

~

Power of salty air heals the lungs

Clears out the unwanted junks

Improves the respiratory system

Helps absorb oxygen, balance serotonin

~

I so enjoy walking on the beach

It’s therapeutic to mind and soul

Chores left at home far behind

Enjoy the presence of tide low or high

~

Smorgasbord Posts from Your Archives – #PotLuck – #Poetry Beautiful Tiny Baby by Miriam Hurdle

Thank you Sally for sharing my archives on your blog – Sally Cronin found this poem about my beautiful tiny baby. Please head over to visit her magazine full of interesting topics.

 

 

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine

Welcome to the series of Posts from Your Archives, where bloggers put their trust in me. In this series, I dive into a blogger’s archives and select four posts to share here to my audience.

If you would like to know how it works here is the original post:https://smorgasbordinvitation.wordpress.com/2019/04/28/smorgasbord-posts-from-your-archives-newseries-pot-luck-and-do-you-trust-me/

Today we continue with the series of posts from the archives of poet Miriam Hurdle, who is a regular contributor to the blog. This time I am selecting the posts and the next one I would like to share with you is a poem that is clearly very close to Miriam’s heart.

Beautiful Tiny Baby written by Miriam Hurdle at Spillwords.com

Beautiful Tiny Baby by Miriam Hurdle

Seven months of being pregnant,
driving from California to Oregon
for a Christmas family gathering.
“Take breaks more often,” Doctor said.

Still, it was 1,000 miles in distance.
When we arrived, I started the contractions,
went to the hospital in…

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Authors’ Day/Book Signing, March 7, 2019

The Publish Before You Perish class at California State University at Fullerton, California organizes the next Authors’ Day/Book Signing on March 7, 2019 at 11:00 a.m. You’re invited to join us if you’re in the local area.

Welcome to the World of Fritz von Coelln

Miriam Hurdle is participating in our book signing at the OLLI Authors’ Day, March 7th  from 11:00 AM to 1:30  PM.  Location: California State University, Fullerton, Pollak Library.  For more information click HERE.

Human being has the will power to travel through an exhausting journey, win a tough battle, and heal a deep wound. Strength from hope keeps us going until the light at the end of the tunnel is in sight and striving until the storm is over. 

Songs of Heartstrings: Poems of Gratitude and Beatitude,

This poetic memoir comprises  themes from the suffering through an undesirable relationship, surviving an aggressive cancer, to the happiness in true love, the joy of parenthood, and gratitude toward the Maker. Hurdle reveals the honest self-talk and reflects a heart filled with optimism, faith and trust. She illustrates the poems with her beautiful photos and paintings.

From inside the flap: When we read poetry…

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RDP Tuesday: My Garden – A Poem

This post is written in response to the Ragtag Daily Prompt Community. The prompt for Tuesday February 19, 2019 is Garden.

“Tell us what garden means to you or what garden you dream of. Put it in a poem, a photograph, a story.” – drkottaway

Here are some flowers in my garden and a poem to tell what garden means to me.

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My Garden

My garden is a sanctuary, a place to retreat

A daily dose of therapy I get for my soul and spirit

I eagerly touch the soil with bare hands when

The gardening gloves are right at my reach

As I trim the plants and pull the weeds

Dense fog lifted out of my sight

Clouds and the clutter of the mind

Parted and cleared out of the way.

My garden is where I go in the morning

Before starting any routine of the day Read more

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