Captured by Scent

For Magpie prompt

I changed it to b/w, it fits the poem better.  🙂

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What random object has been left beside the door?

I slowly navigate down our flights of stairs
pondering the mystery that lies at the bottom.
The mystery of objects left….
Yesterday a bag filled of clothes
Last week a frying pan, a playpen
Today, will it be a pile of books
or a set of towels?
What random object has been left beside the door?
Where did it come from?
Where is it to go?
I wonder who leaves these objects and why?
Truly, I don’t really want to know.
I want the mystery, the secret
to continue intriguing me.
These random objects left beside the door
each have a story, a lost history
a tale I am free to imagine just
how I want it to be.
The objects we have left behind
a pair of glasses, a pink sweater
significant or trivial
forgotten or missed
they are pieces to our story
pieces of life we have left behind.
I almost forgot…
What random object has been left beside the door?
Today, a stack of old dishes.
River 9/10

at Dusk, it Begins…. (revised)

at Dusk, it Begins….

stillness shields the air and
parched earth from the humid day
it begins to lightly rain

a burst of light
brightens the dusk lit eve
diminishing the calm
announcing the arrival

from the West come winds
lifting trees into slow dance

echoes of thunder vibrate
beats from beneath
sprinkles grow to drops
the parched earth drinks

the wind picks up and howls
whipping the huge maple around
around in a frantic dance

reaching boundaries and limits
revealing truths of me

bolts of light explode in thought
forming silhouettes of trees
exposing their surrender
night engulfs day

unlocking the power
two forces explode
releasing their hold

the wind moves on
rain begins to slow

the horizon lights up
in a burst of electric white
scattered across the sky
a distant rumble fades

a smell grows of
new rains and
cleansed earth

renewed in life
imbued in me

once more
River 7/10

his poem was inspired from my ramblings during a thunderstorm.  At one point, sirens went off and we went to the basement. Also, I was inspired by the writings of  slpmartin with the writing style.

*revised from a poem earlier in the summer. Are they different? Find the older version and compare them.  🙂    same name just scratch revised.  🙂

Their first Moondance

for Monday Potluck (video & poem prompt)

Time Stands Still

* For Magpie Tales ~ Mag 32

Come hither…..

Come and Compete
at the
Masquerade of Balls

You may think you will win
The chances are thin
The Joker is here
A court puppeteer

Competing with the final nine
Bulging tights and red wine
He says he will win
A problem knows his twin

Royals will judge the final pairs
Two get specialty of the Airs
The higher the bedder
The finer the rounder

The winner will have the honoralls
The highest of all balls!
Good Luck !

*2nd poem for Monday Potluck. lol! Don’t ask! I couldn’t resist!  🙂

when the night winds blow

when the night winds blow was written by Charles Martin and me in less then a weeks time. We took turns writing three or four lines of the poem until it was finished.

I would like to say thank you Charles for the opportunity to write with you. 🙂

echoes

I feel the beat of the drum through my moccasins
and hear the song of the people in my heart
as we enter into the circle
in a dance of movements, beats, and song
filled with appreciation and respect
of culture and belief
we celebrate
Miigwech!

The 23rd piece for my column Rivers Ruminations came out today. It is the last piece in a powwow series I have done over the summer.   Vital pieces to Powwows: Dancers of Past & Present There are lots of pictures and links.

Paralysis Times Three

21
The first time I woke all numb
Equally from my knees down
Traveling up and stopping
At the bottom of my ribs

I found my own therapy
In no time at all
I left the Hospital
All weak and tingly legged

We road tripped out west and on the way
I built up my strength with Hacky Sacs
Soaked my legs in Hot Springs
Then tingly I ran the Oregon coast
~
26
The second time my feet hurt real bad
My left big toe was numb
Later that day it moved
Equally from my knees down

It rose up my body to stop at the bottom of my ribs
Then it turned and jumped to my hands
I was 3 months pregnant
They said it was in my head

I perfected my own therapy
Walking once more
I left the Hospital knowing
It would be awhile till the tingly left again
~
31
The third and final time at last I knew why
I was numb and tingly, unable to stand
I faced the battle more angry then afraid
A relapse from MS different then the rest

I felt tremendous pain too mind boggling extreme
At times it could have flipped me out
But I was stronger no doubt
With Morphine on my side

I pulled out my therapy like a pro ready to walk
But I had a limp and a hand that did not feel
I had changed, damage had been done
That’s when I made up mind this was the final one.

Now I am 36!

One Shot Wednesday by One Stop Poetry! If you would like to read poems by great poets or you would like to join the fun click here.

This poem is for a poetry book I’m putting together about coping with living with Multiple Sclerosis. These three paralysis were relapses from MS. Each time my Immune System attacked Mylen Sheath in my spine. In my case it was mostly in my neck.

I mention the ages and use them to divide time up because there is a pattern to them. A freaky pattern of years that came to be a couple of weeks ago. This time around I will break the pattern that has existed since I was 21. My birthday is 11/30.

I would love your feed back if I should add this poem or the one posted before called Three Strikes I Still Stand or both in the poetry book. Thank you!

A White Tail Feather

The still of the lake calms my soul
I wait beneath the willow.
A breeze moves through her branches
lightly touching my face,
sweeping the hair from my eyes.
An Eagle calls in the distance.

My mind races with pictures and words,
adventures and quests of self and we.
Along the horizon lined with dark blue waters
bursts colors of red and orange.
I offer my asemaa.
An Eagle glides above calling my name.

Morning rises as I answer my old friend.
A gentle ripple forms on the lake
as the wind delivers our greetings to the other.
His calls are carried to my open arms.
His words pass through me.
I hear the call of an Eagle leaving with the wind.

He lands on the broken arm of an ash
on the sands of the shore near the willow.
Praising me for walking the path
many have guided me towards for years.
A choice of life destined to be.
My first tracks are laid down.

He lifts his wings and stretches
to a magnificent size of honor and respect
wisdom and truth with humility.
He tells me to listen and be open
to what crosses my path
for this is just the beginning.

Rising with every flap of his powerful wings
he lifts into the blue sky calling his goodbye.
I answer with gratitude and love
as I notice something lying on a rock.
He has left for me a piece of him
a white tail feather.

This poem is for One Shot Wednesday held by One Stop Poetry. To read other peoples works click here