House of Fear

Fear lives
inside each of us,
peering outward,
ancient eyes of hate and bias.
Bigotry, racism, sins of all mankind,
one against the other. It feeds
upon the darkness inside us,
insidious, sneaky, a failing of heart
and mind. It fights against truth,
the light of creation and life itself

an all-encompassing orifice through
which knife-edged words spill
spoilage and shame

Fear cocoons,
building walls, dividing,
defeating. It blinds the eyes
from sight and deafens the ears
from hearing. It spiderwebs
outward, geometric rays of captivity,
capturing the grains of truth.
It lives inside the prison
of our minds refusing
to embrace the sun

a cavern of abysmal dark, full of ice
shards that razor, slicing deep,
bloodied and unbowed

Fear resides
inside the grain of spirit,
within the crannies of the soul,
slithering around corners, hiding,
then striking like a snake
poisoning everything, biting
sharp teeth into the muscles,
creating paralysis, afraid to leave,
afraid to stay.

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News: Poem featured on PoetryDances.com

My poem, "Ancient Song", is a featured selection for this quarter at PoetryDances.com; http://poetrydances.com/poemsnov09jan10.htm   I actually posted it in September, and you saw it first!

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Rediscovery

In the city, you forget about the stars
seeing only streetlight’s incandescence
instead of the illumination of nature.

The eye is blinded by imitation, coronas
blazing, fading out the sky, covering
night’s soft beauty, turning it into false day.

At work’s end, I travel home away from
the constant stimulation, the incessant
24-hour daylight, into the softness painted

midnight-blue, pierced only with crystal light,
glowing in the blanket overhead, and rediscover
the wondrous shapes above from tales told

and retold around campfires, and the endless
dreams flying through the sky.

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Red Dirt Book Festival

Spent Friday and Saturday at the Red Dirt Book Festival in Shawnee, OK.  It is a biennial event put together by the library system that brings authors, poets, scholars together with book lovers and aspiring writers.

I really enjoyed it; learned a few things, got to see some of my favorite authors.  Even spoke with some of them.  Everyone was approachable, and more than willing to give of their time and experiences.  I was privileged to hear Sharon Sala, Jordan Dane, Billie Letts, Mel Odem, Michele Bardsley, and several others speak.  Got a chance to actually meet and hold a short coversation with Michele Bardsley who is very gracious and congenial.

All in all - a great experience which refreshed my commitment to writing.  I also have an opportunity to submit a written work of up to 3,000 words to the Red Dirt anthology which is only open to which participants and registered attendees.  Deadline is December 15, 2009.  So, now I have to determine what to submit. 

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Update

You might notice several post popping up with old dates.  That's because I was away from my home computer and attempted to post via E-mail.  Operative word - attempted.  I obviously didn't have it set up the way I thought, so the posts were held.  Until today!  Yeh!  Back with my own computer, although still having problems accessing some things.

November is the Poetic Asides Chapbook challenge.  Each day, we're given a prompt to inspire a poem.  The challenge is that we are to determine a theme and then use the prompt to illustrate that theme in some way.  The idea is that at the end of November, we will all have 30 poems to polish, and then have enough of a themed collection to make up a chapbook of 10 - 20 pages.  So that is what I will be working on this month in addition to some other projects already in the works.

Wish me luck! 

Hopefully, I won't be away so long in the future. Thank you for all your wonderful comments and words of encouragement. You keep me going, inspired!

~LisaB.

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These Four Walls

A house is just four walls, a roof, some windows
and doors erected to shelter inhabitants. Just masonry
and mortar, wood, - rude materials these.

But, if these four walls could speak, what saga would
they tell? They would spin a tale of the hopes
and dreams of those who had walked between;

of the man who constructed each wall by hand anticipating
his bride’s arrival; of the young wife who gazed from
the kitchen window while her hand caressed the life within;

of the eagerly awaited additions that increased two
to three then four, and the love that expanded
with each new arrival. Of toddling steps, scraped knees,

bruises and bloody noises, ballerina and astronaut wishes,
puppy kisses; of first loves and broken hearts, and of graduations;
of a father’s pride and a mother’s tears

as their fledglings left the nest, and of the joy that bloomed
again and again when the next generation danced
across the threshold; of the quiet love that sustained

both man and woman through all the years and joined
them one to the other in life, and then in death. Now these
four walls are all alone with only memories to roam within.

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Her Dreams

As a child, things seem like they last forever
each day, a year between sunrise and sunset;
a minute is an eternity with no realization
of time passing until death comes to call

Her parents were forever, always relied upon
to slay the monsters under the bed,
no wondering, no worrying until her father died
and she learned the weight of sorrow.

When she walked down the aisle to join
her forever love, a vow made until death do
them part; death came calling two years later
with a judge’s decree in a courthouse

She worked hard attempting to be the best
only to be passed over because she was not a he;
still she gave her everything, living for the job,
until her fast-track success dream came crashing down

She realized she’d been trapped inside a false idea,
lost her way, lost herself. She floundered in the abyss
until reconnecting with the dreams hidden inside,
found the words there caged, loosed them on the page,

now she seeks within, realizing that death and life
are necessary just like sunrise and shadow,
that success and freedom are what you make of them
while travelling the road expressed within the heart.

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The Box

The day we met, I wasn’t looking for you,
but we found each other anyway at the fishpond
in the park, both looking for a quiet place to sit
out of the way of the carnival going on around us.

We bonded while feeding greedy Koi, over fuchsia lotus
blossoms and the cool, green water. We discovered
a mutual interest the blues and a dislike of loud,
noisy games that interrupted silent contemplation.

We built from that meeting, with long walks and discussions
of current events, books. You loved Sylvia Plath, hated
Thoreau while I found worlds inside his writing and
never quite understood her at all.

Still we became a couple, joined our lives together
in marriage. When the towers fell, you needed to defend,
to become a part of that. While we disagreed on the necessity
of the war, I supported your position.

We said farewell one rainy morning; I waved to you
as you boarded the plane that would take you far away
among people who hated us. I donned my brave face
and waited for you to come home to me.

Two became one, and life went on. Days passed with bills
being paid, friends calling, solitary dinners and sleeping beside
you only in my dreams. Until the tolling of the door bell. Until
the two men arrived upon our porch.

They said, with regret, that you had died, bravely, a hero defending
his country. I never expected to be alone, sitting in the dark
watching the sky rage wildly against the night. Wondering
how I can face you returning to me in a flag-draped box.

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Shall I . . . ?

You say that you can’t go on, that it all feels too much . . .


Shall I agree that this is the only way, that nothing will ever improve?

Shall I grant you permission, or solace, or your need for forgiveness?

Shall I give you leave to end your life upon this Earth?

No, that I will not do.


Shall I sing a song of tear-cried rivers from anguished souls left behind?

Shall I tell you of my angry heart that rages against allowing your light to die?

Or, shall I fight for you, and with you until the day you draw your last breath?

Oh, yes, THAT I will do.

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You Must be This High to Ride

The photo displayed a lovely
woman with hand held
up measuring the distance
between earth and sky.

Below were the words
“You must be this high
to ride.” Not so different
from the States, I thought.

Then a trumpeting roar
came calling upon my ears
and with it, the realization,
that pachyderm wasn’t

fiberglass, but living, breathing,
trumpeting, and possibly
very upset. It was ALIVE!

I think I’ll skip the ride,
but thank you all the same.

(http://poetrydances.ning.com/group/prompz/forum/topics/prompz-17?page=1&commentId=2834822%3AComment%3A30912&x=1#2834822Comment30912)

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