*A New Blog*

I've started a new blog at wordpress. I'll still be posting here, but less frequently.
The majority of my work will be going there.
Here's the link if you're interested;

http://wordsandthoughtspjs.wordpress.com/

Pamela

"Leaves Regret" A Whirl of Wordling Sundays #7

It’s your favourite rollercoaster ride into the wind;
spinning, it leaves you unafraid …
a barge that drifts on an inky lake, 
you try not to undulate in its presence

It’s stillness of common fear,
confining murmurs of your heart
contained within a purple basin,
broken inside an abyss

Gravestones have been erected
in country to city outlines,
worms burrow in ivy hillsides,
capturing moisture from the night …
lingering in the gaudy glow which
now defines your life

"Relating to Another" Writer's Island #23 prompt: Contingent

It is the soffit of beginnings
When loving something completely
a piece of it stays with you,
a small exfoliated portion,
its imprint left behind

A filum that runs behind you causing
mixed curiosities, sadness
Every night you lose your feelings,
only for them to return at sunrise

Trying to mask outer mishaps
whenever it is convenient …
so compartmentalized,
like your suitcase on a terrazzo floor
by a wilted fern with a fly buzzing round,
keeping time in spaceless anxiety

Surrounding parity keeps
severe situations from entering
Breathing hangs heavy in stifling air
Portions are erased but never lost

"The Moon Through Branches" Collab #4 Breakers At Midnight

  He cries to a pale cerulean moon; brightness is
keeping an eye forever frightful
On the trees we’re aware that
branches sway to something likely
A subtle rhythm may exist out there

Process notes: This is a cleave poem, it can be read three ways. I wrote this in response to Elizabeth Crawford and Jinksy's "Tuesday Collaborative Image" prompt.
Take a look over at  http://claudetteellinger.wordpress.com/
You might want to join in on the fun!

"The Park Bench" Poets United Thursday Think Tank #51-time-out

 It’s your mediocrity that filled rooms
and completed every yellowed page
The sound of your voice was
as coarse as your thoughts
Looking behind old closed doors …
they held answers
Windows opened when closed tightly,
paint accumulated in crevices,
years of wear, and weather beaten

Fountains contained no more water
Funnels were clogged from lack of use
Lyme built up visible from your caustic eyes
You had verified all minor complexities
held deep beneath the surface, like twisting
wire frames that no longer fit the picture

You never could’ve counted errors
of missed satisfaction,
or a dream of less perfect times
when you walked in those empty spaces
I can’t remember anything about you;
neither can the bench where you always sat

"Comets' Tails" A Wordling Whirl of Sundays #6- Wallace Stevens

She doesn’t feel when she should,

preferring to sit cross-legged against

winds, watching fire striding strongly

on carefully constructed stone walls

She doesn’t cry when she needs to;

instinctively she’s too afraid of

turning into something dismal …

like fallen leaves crushed underfoot

An inverse border of planets

lines her twilight

She has become a surrogate

in someone else’s play

Waves, Dulcet Sounds writer's island # 22 - visual prompt

 Flightless bound to the earth
caught in a paradox
Dulcet sound of a cello
through horizons of mixed hues
Barbwire fences keep her on
the edge of a shore …
music is solemn in its lone chord
Waves move closer;
she shares her wing,
but not gratefully
You wait for a melody
Visits are lonesome brevity

"She is Waiting"

 

George Donaldson's All rights reserved   

Model; Emily Franklin Taken in Sierra Cabrera, Spain

 Indigo skies hang low in

stucco landscapes; she rests in a tapestry,  

tucked away somewhere deep inside

valleys filled with topiary …

a place to recline in silk and lace,

leaning on rocks’ coolness, balancing,

placing night behind her

Shifting clouds in the background

leave layers on her silhouette,

worn, loose and plaintive,

reposed

"Bessie" Tuesday Tryouts with Margo Roby at wordgathering-cinquain

Bessie

milk maiden

small wooden stool

Nebraska cold morning chill

butter

"Life in your Room" Poets United Thursday Think Tank #51-chocolate

Willows rest in place under a dimness
Big brass horns playing in a sad foreground
Piles of chocolate on your table,
consumed as it slowly melts in your hands

Fine down pillows, mahogany bed frames,
neon lights short circuit at 3 am
Streets glisten from rain; thick air like casing
Moisture fills your sleep apnea; sweat forms
somewhere beneath your eyes furrowed sorrow

A worn little puppet sits on your shelf
It’s reminiscent of days now long past
His clothes are torn and dirty, sewn little
patches of gathered scraps; hope can’t hold him
together.  Watch the sunrise fill your room
Look out your window for crows with black plumes

"Gods and Flowers" We Write Poems #55 Everything, and how it began! / Tuesday Tryouts-Cascade Poems

Journeys can bring happiness, but not destinations
While grabbing halos, we pull ourselves up,
meeting Morpheus in gracious prospect,
changing the resonance of memories within

A boundary with no limits,
micro specks in concavus hands,
like a comatose flower lying in itself … sleeping
Journeys can bring happiness, but not destinations

Theories of converged information
quieted by cacophonies of distance;
epiphytes drinking air and rain, sustaining
While grabbing halos, we pull ourselves up

Dancing in tilted galaxies,
ruby poppies surround Hypnos; senses
incongruous amidst curves and folds,
meeting Morpheus in gracious prospect

Shattered suns on unfolding wings capture
shadows in profiles
of faulted madness,
changing the resonance of memories within

¨Grapes and Scarves¨ Poets United Poetry Pantry # 50

¨May the road rise to meet you,

May the wind¨

blow across fleshy grapes with smooth, firm skin

Purplish hues hanging on strong neat vines

“I often wonder about green valleys”

where you walk upon bursting seeds therein

France has always fit well in my backpack;

as Prince moves rain to sweep across lush fields,

your nightmares no longer are repeated

We dance through hula hoops spinning round us

Get off the floor, pick up the silken scarves;

place them in the holy washing machine

to watch whirling winding cycles slipping

perfection and unison like red wine

being passed from decanter to the vine

* This prompt came from  Donna Vorreyer 

http://djvorreyer.wordpress.com/2011/05/21/poetry-tow-truck-21-line-by-line/

"Light No Longer Enters" A Wordling Whirl of Sundays #5

Follow the contours of gathered aspects …
mapped out lines beneath valleys and mountains

Stare into a dark rearranged cave of
expiration, a hollowness exists
you cannot see beyond; surrender lulls
eyes half sealed with a waned void lifeless stare

Like a scream suspended in motion, utter
tautness, rigid with no reflections, flight’s
coldness enters bones with a weariness,
muscles freeze in place, now inflexible

Releasing angels of oxygen through
an open yellow window, a painting
composed of absolute and different hints …
no more to risk

"Highways Intersect with Visions" We Write Poems #54-Take the Driver's Seat

Trucks move on asphalt as it melts
under tire movements
Glass glistening,
set in weathered window sills

In her future of
a room filled with silver besoms

Feelings,
allowing one to miss certain bursts of recognition,
not seeing anything;
it’s not here …
like a chorus of
voices that lull you to sleep
following sounds with depth
inside echoes of absolute silence
Nothing is what it was before

Misty drops grab your attention,
drenching clothes
beneath wetness on skin,
clinging for a life of its own

Remembering what to like;
disregarding all else

People drop facial expressions when she passes,
while trying to catch them falling in clusters …
maybe to be contained in an embroidered handbag

*Prompt idea, (which, I am not very good at):

Observe and Report:

In a week’s time we see many things. So, for this prompt,
write down anything you notice that seems significant to
you, and then compile the information and attempt to write
a poem from what you gathered during the week. I sometimes
do this and end up with interesting results (and other times not).

"A Cup of Coffee and A View" A Whirl Wordling Sunday #4

The Hudson River has no rural landscape;
as ferries pass you can hear the slurping of
salty water splashing on bows

All chimneys look gigantic as
we eke out phrases,
expecting others to understand …
while brandishing our textured visions

A lift takes you up to a green cinder block loft
with infusions of Matisse paintings hanging on its walls;
colours are filtered in the dim light of this city

There’s a bridge that leads to calmness,
but we don’t know
how to cross it

I have substituted my tranquility for this panorama
I stop to watch the buildings crumble

"Sun on Arboretas" Poetry Tow Truck 20-My Chemical Romance

Herons are flightless in the simmering sun

Nesting by a languid lagoon the movement of

arboretas bend with glistening leaves as a breeze passes by

Kraals surround the outer edges of a scene where an ancient

xebec is approaching the village’s sandy shore,

rendering a delicacy to its atmosphere

Donna says;

Exercise One: Starting Points
From the periodic table, choose a line of at least 6 elements in a row in any direction: horizontally, vertically, or diagonally.  Write those letters/sets of letters vertically down the side of your paper.  Use those letters as inspiration for the first word/words of your line.
I chose He, Ne, Ar, Kr, Xe, Rn,; thanks for the exercise Donna.

"Blue Selvage" writer's island #20-superstition

A blue blouse adheres to

stitches, moving along the finest edges

of colours, exploding and vibrating

patterns, laid out smoothness

Hands slide, holding together beauty,

ease of fingers pressing with

great care …

a seamstress

Give or grading matters most,

constructing from selvage of fine material

A top stitch keeps everything in position

while searching for a safe place to exist

We tuck and gather to become the pattern,

dancing to maracas’ syncopation

as we seek to be that blue blouse

Parking Lots and Studios big tent poetry #48-borrow a line or two

“The only word left is compassion”
We hold it deep, often not releasing it until faced with strife
We know blue is cool like water, red is hot, full of energy,
and a rock from a garden is green, representing fertility
But feelings of sadness visit when least expected
while walking down city sidewalks
looking at skyscrapers

Sincerity is an act, if the trap door slips
how do we pretend nothing has happened
when all photos disappear with each shutter click
As silhouettes lie facing the north, vanishing from vision,
captured forever and bordered
Smashed pieces glow with life on lit edges
like dark clouds looming over figures;
that’s when your hands feel raw from the abrasive
wear on rough edges

Arrangements fill empty parking lots
where Molly found her lost bonnet,
its ends frayed, containing no more magic
Spirals fill abandoned studios
Mandy wears lavender, a delightful aroma
found within leaves hanging on a horizon
“Marvel at the miracle of the ordinary”


* first line is Deb Scott’s and the last is Vivienne Blake’s

"Sparrows Talk" We Write Poems #53-Centered Cento

Barefoot, gingerly walking on the small, sharp rocks,
naked along the side of the house
8 a.m., spreading sesame seed oil
over my body, Jesus, have I come
to this?
A small plane passes overhead;
I look upward as if it made sense to
look upward.
I cry when it’s fashionable to laugh;
now I’m not laughing
Things are made of something and
go to nothing  
I only did to you what the sparrow did to you
I hated you when it would have taken less courage to love
                                                                                          


Poems:
"back to the machine gun"                    
"As the sparrow"
"decline"

   
*I chose Charles Bukowski  because he is gritty, in your face and interesting.
You can see what he´s writing and he's just really damn good.

Molecular Structure A whirl of Wordling Sundays-#3

River’s mist rises in the morning
evaporation of water released
tiny molecules not seen
seaweed tugs beneath the surface
it breathes as it slides and supersedes
nature’s embroidered landscape

"A Poem for My Mom-Sylvia"

Like a breeze on my shoulders
warm and caressing, it’s felt
Days pass in sequence,
soft memories of your voice
placed in daedalean packages,
spun with silver and gold …
your eyes of deep blue;
pools of discernment
Love and guidance filled my days,
fain of your unselfish heart
As my tears would fall
you caught them in an abatis-shaped goblet,
banishing them from the atmosphere
You are missed

* I borrowed the following words from Elizabeth Crawford @   http://1sojournal.wordpress.com/
Elizabeth is having a word a day, wordplay at one of her sites.  
I wanted to write a Mother's day poem, and used three of the words she has posted so far. Thanks Elizabeth.

#4 Dae-dal  > 1. intricate: complex  2. ingenious: skillful,
may imply cunning, or cleverness  3. decorated with
many things: especially natural wonders.

#6 Fain > happily: with gladness or eagerness
willing or eager to do something
compelled: forced by an obligation or circumstance to do something.

1 Ab-a-tis
barricade: a rampart made of felled trees placed so that their bent or sharpened branches face out toward the enemy.

"Winter Passes Through Summer" Writer's Island #19-Season

A room filled with candles
keeping vigil on baroque statues 
sitting upon exquisite shelves …
I’m descending a ladder that goes
beneath presence

On a nearby beach with multi-coloured rocks
she sits listening to the oceans’ heartbeats,
dancing around a gazebo with lattice coverings
filling with water,
watching waves rush over sand
where ships in glass bottles are smashing
against cliffs’ iridescent reflections


My intricate gazebo’s crumbling,
as I’m trying to catch pieces as they fall
All remaining icicles break before melting

"Curtains of Existence" Big Tent Poetry - #47 revision prompt

Black curtains have lifted,
exposing, evaporating, extracting
Stitches have been edged tautly
Coiffure is smooth, sleek, supple   
My body is arranged precisely between
The scarlet silken veil behind closed eyes
No movements
Nothing to be heard within, only a
yearning to go on auspicious journeys
That was the existence I cherished
when amongst the living …
longing, languishing, lushness
Supercilious lines have entered lost vision,
aligned on wires converging
A thousand birds have come to whisper in my ear
to tell me of my soul’s travel


*You'll find the original poem here:

http://flaubert-poetrywithme.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-soul-rwp-120.html

I prefer the revision myself, though they are both a bit dark.

A Red Dress and High Heels #52=We Write Poems-Limits

Life has never been inadequate, but
still you’ve grabbed edges of infinity
to move perimeters
so they aligned in the mind
of a flightless structure … 
as it was perfectly endeavored 

Many days have passed
when I felt nothing
until I saw a bloom sprouting
from a small opening …
life began again

Stars are merely aligned against
the sky for gazing …
So we may wish for something immense

I should’ve worn the red dress; then
I would remember what I’ve forgotten … or
entwine it away forever

"Words Fall in Silence" Wordle 2-A Wordling Whirl of Sundays

 

Never ending thrumming rifts in swiftness,
in richness spoken, sustaining me, teaching me to see …
gratefully eternal, to know without written labels
metaphorically and grandiose
I’ve been engaging animated scenes, only
given logically to roses’ daily whispered growth

Revenge is done, it’s hoarded my sunshine;
we die begging for such gestures
Beacons have such similarities;
therein, privately, I’m accosted by thirst

I’m elegance converted and resilient
in fortitude on landscapes of vision,
left and done on the terrain in nights fallen, while
sitting on hillsides questioning, scribbling 
Do zenith extensions send me to scintillation?

Under two separate habitations
where dusk nudges blessings,
in freshness holding death’s warmth
I Piqué to and fro in the boxcar of a lonely train until
my aching body will pirouette no more …
wearing kaleidoscopes in death,
left jousted and caviler, spent alone


* I wrote this poem the other day using the prompt from NaPoWriMo
   Prompt #28 “translate a poem”. I used a poem by an Austrian poet, Alfred Brendel.

http://austria.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=493&x=1

This poem, however, just sat there staring at me, and when Brenda offered the wordle words I decided to insert the words, which meant  moving a few words around, and this is the final result. Which has no semblance to Alfred's poem, whatsoever.
Thanks Brenda.

"If We Fall Off Center" NaPoWriMo #30-What’s at the center and Write a poem in which the wheels (of a ____) fall off-Big Tent Prompts

Brilliance is centered thinking,
like a stone sparkling in sunlight; 
outer edges reach marrow
There is an exit from the
tunnel leading you to everywhere with anyone
who will wrap their arms around you in the rain,
comforting like an essence of fruition 
until the pivots quit working; wheels
fall in the dirt - lifeless, 
an indication that manufacturing had some serious flaws
They never really cared,
only wanted to play a game of exaction
Resilient, you jump back on the spokes,
teetering your way home
to re-engage your domination while attempting
to adhere with the world surrounding you

* I want to thank everyone who has been with me

on this wonderful, yet exhausting, poem a day journey. 

I'm completely awed by the talent out in this sometimes

perplexing, but always amazing, world we live in.

Portrait of a Sociopath or Who Misplaced Those Jars? NaPoWriMo #29-mason jars

Placing fireflies
inside mason jars;
they’ve been scattered everywhere
Time has ceased when lights go out;
you’re in need of some guidance …
A specific jar tucked under your bed is accumulating dust
when night folds in;
reach for them to light your path,
looking for intermittent brilliance to illuminate pathways
Electricity in the air moves objects round like silver leaves,
swirling in rhythm as they bend to follow …
trusting fireflies will lead you in darkness,
bringing you back resplendent

What Happened to the Sun? NaPoWriMo #28-Big Tent Prompt-Write a poem about a bad idea

Amidst the worst
responses put forth
as doors swing from both directions,
one
is blue,
another
is red
It was a bad idea to believe
fish could live out of water
or that we could submerge ourselves
into water ill equipped to
sustain our breathing
Raunchiness of animosity …
reckless, rude, riotous,
developed in a vicious mind or when
you woke up on the wrong side of the rising sun and
can’t float on papier-mache cutouts …
if I’m drowning in a pool of mud
that’s breached a portal and
seeped in many different directions