Froot Loops

Day 13 of (Friday the 13th mwahahaha) and Magaly is prompting us for the 30 Days of poetry at Real Toads. She has given us this quote and we are to use brtween 3 – 13 words from the quote to fashion our poem. I used four. This is also for the 55 at Hedge. The quote is longer than my poem.
The quote:
“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” ~ Diane Setterfield

Froot Loops
6:30 a.m. sharp
She began the annihilation
of her morning bowl of Froot Loops.
She crunched them as she would
old dry bones
and slurped the milk like she would
would the liquids from corpses.
Reading the morning paper
She laughed in high glee
and ripe humor.
The tyrant was in the midst
of a Stormy.

Long ago rooms

Day 11 of NAPOWRIMO….the prompt at Real Toads is to use the phrase “long ago rooms” from a Maya Angelou poem and to use 12 or less lines to write the poem.  #30 in 30.

Long Ago Rooms
Through open windows drifts the scents
of honeysuckle gardenia magnolia –
Books are covered with dust
And unread – memories sleep
in these long ago rooms.
Childhood has become old age
laughter has been stilled –
the night lasts forever.

The First

Today the theme at Toads is first, one….It is the first of April. Everyone seems to be jumping onto the nanomopomo or whatever it is. I don’t do it. I follow the advice my father and my mother gave me many years ago.

My First
I wrote my first haiku when I was six.
I write my first poem when I was eleven.
I kissed my first boy when I was fourteen.
I kissed my first man when I was twenty.
But the first poem…
It was as devastating as the first ocean wave
that roared over me knocking me down
and rolling me about on the sand,
That first poem was as astounding as the first
falling star I saw,
As miraculous as the first time I walked barefoot
in the dew bedecked grass.
It was as mind blowing as the first book I ever read
from beginning to end –
The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe,
I remember the fountain pen my father have me –
Write from your heart he said.
The small black loose leaf notebook
given to me by my mother –
Write in this everyday wherever your soul leads you.
After my mother died
I found the cedar chest she had bought when she was fourteen
crammed full of my notebooks, school work,
poems and stories…
I closed the lid and the door to her room.
Maybe one day, I will open the door again.


For Paul’s Prompt at dVerse – soul searching

Katsumoto: The perfect blossom is a rare thing. You could spend your life looking for one, and it would not be a wasted life.  The Last Samurai

Trees blooming in the spring –
cherry, pear, plum –
their blossoms last for a day and then die.
Petals drift and fall to the ground –
pink and white snow of petals.
My lover called me “*onnabugeisha”
And so I am.
I fought my way through grief
through rape, through death
and even through ovarian cancer.
I swung my katana
and cut through them all.
And the timeless prayers
to an Ancient Hebrew God
I know healed me.
I learned that I did not need to fight.
All I needed was to bloom –
To soak up the rain and sun
and gaze at the blue sky.
I should have died I know.
But my petals hung on.
I continue to gaze at the sky
and to allow my soul to bloom.

*Japanese for female samurai or warrior*


see blog for copyright information of poems and photos

March 3 – March 17

For Hedge’s 55 and Poets United

March 3 – March 17
March is the cruelest month –
I disagree with my favorite poet,
But then, he did not lose
in the same month of the same year –
From lugubrious third to sad seventeenth –
Funerals abounded
Funeral meals fed
Funeral flowers scented the house –
Funeral I’m sorry cards piled up
like spring snow
or dead cherry blossoms

Real Toads: Friday Farewell

Suzuki Harunobo 1724-1770 Wikimedia free use

Jisei of the Samurai

how brief the blossoms
of the cherry tree – their
lives end at sunset

snow falling at night –
melting flakes gone before day –
bare branches feel them
drift through skeletal fingers –
birds sleep as snow falls

cherry blossom moon
holds back the night sky – my night
will conquer that moon

A traditional, nontraditional farewell: It was a tradition for the literate Japanese (monks and Samurai for example) to write death poems shortly before their anticipated death, seppuku, or battle. With the changing of the seasons from summer to autumn, we see changes as the seasons of spring and summer end. All things pass – mono no aware. The images of dying are also symbols of “farewell”.  This is not a morbid subject at all. It is rather, an exercise in fiction writing for me. Although the “jisei of the Samurai”, it is “written” by a fictional Samurai character I have created, but based on a real person. I have been working on this for some time. I have chosen to buck the tradition a bit and have composed this using three Japanese poetic forms -I) haiku II) tanka III) senryu. This is posted for Real Toads Friday Farewell prompt given by Kerry.

dVerse Poetics: The Smell of Chrysanthemums

Today Kim is prompting for dVerse Poetics: Autumn. I never get enough of autumn. Come join us and read. This is also posted for Real Toads:

Silence of autumn
I sit on my back porch steps –
Autumn is silent this year –
insects are quiet at night –
The moon is a thin s(l)hiver
in the black sky.
I smell autumn coming –
I see autumn coming –
but this year
autumn is silent.
Golden leaves among the green
drop to the ground – dead
from a dry spring and summer.
Autumn is silent this year.
The first frost is not yet singing –
It waits in the clouds
for a cold dark night.
Autumn is silent.
Too many losses –
Too many tears.
The moon is a thin s(h)liver
in the black sky.
Autumn is silent this year.
My mother loved chrysanthemums.

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