The Lune: Day 1 NaPoWriMo

napo2016button2  Well.  I missed posting on yesterday because I left my lune at work.  That was the first prompt for NaPoWriMo 2016.  Way to be late on day 1.  I worked today and took it out of the place I had it, to be sure I  took it home today.  I again left without it.  I will publish that later. Since there seems to be an overflow of muse juices recently, I will post another here.  I hope to make most of the 30 days of poetry.

What is a lune?  The lune is also known as the American Haiku. It was first created by the poet Robert Kelly (truly a great poet) and was a result of Kelly’s frustration with English haiku. After much experimentation, he settled on a 13-syllable, self-contained poem that has 5 syllables in the first line, 3 syllables in the second line and 5 syllable in the final line.  I have found that it can also be the 5, 3, 5 word count as well.  So here is my lune after seeing a past boyfriend after 30 years.

Love is bittersweet.

I looked back.

Wisen eyes see truth.

~~~

The things I see now,

I don’t like.

I missed that back then.

~~~

I don’t like him now.

We don’t  sync.

God!  We never did.

 

 

 

 

When The Gray Birds Fly

pg-10-winter-pa_80102bNaNoWriMo #6

The day was gray and filled with clouds.

Birds flew against the white sky like silver flecks in a snow globe.

They say flocking birds fly taking souls to heaven.

The birds told me I was not in time.

I glanced at the flocking birds as numbness encapsulated my soul.

Disbelief crept into my thoughts as time was not on my side.

The birds flew higher with your soul as the silent ambulance flashed by.

Just days before our eyes met for the final time.

I knew it would not be long as gray had infiltrated you from the inside.

Gray clutched my heart and squeezed.

I knew you only had a little time.

You lay there warm and I stoked your hair, your face, your  hand.

I felt good as your suffering was gone.

I felt good as you were at peace in so many ways.

Gray silence was left in your wake.

Silence and the need for me to be strong.

The gray birds spirited away but you came back in a gossamer veil.

Like Lazarus you were transformed.  A new body, a new smile, eternal life.

You, the You, you could not be in life.

The better you, the happy you, that you could only be in death.

I was so happy to see you and know that things are better on the other side.

Cha-click-bang. Cha-click-bang.  Such an odd sound to awaken to,

It was you with one last message for me

Cha-click-bang. Cha-click-bang.  You demanded I get up out of a deep sleep.

Cha-click-bang. Cha-click-bang! I obeyed and went straight to your room.

As I walked that demanding whisper faded as alertness moved in.

Words you never told me, I heard for the first time whispered softly beneath the words of a song.

“I will always love you.”

I knew it was you talking to me for the last time.

It’s been six years since the gray birds flew.

Six years since that last whisper from you.

It will be a long time till we meet again.

That day will be gray and filled with clouds.

It will be a day when the flocking birds fly; fly my soul right up to heaven.

Until that day Dad…goodbye.

Change is a Hard Thing

Change is a hard thing.
It taxes the mind and soul.
It frazzles the nerves and jaggles old thought patterns.
Resistance is ugly.
And trying.
And viscous.

Even more so when thinking is only one way.
With no room for options and no flexibility,
one really becomes a great liability.
It makes you crazy.
It hardens your mind.
It bitters the soul.

Sad.

Constance resistance means strife
Day in and day out for no reason.
Discord and out of sortedness
is the front and center order of the day.

It drains my soul.

Escape is my way of finding solace.
Escape is my way of finding sanity.

Change.
Just bend a bit.
Happiness may come your way.

For the Love of Egg Salad

Middle school. Most likely 6th grade. 1972.

I was making egg salad for lunch the next day. The time was about 7pm. I was very tired. I had put 2 eggs on to boil. My father was finishing up the dinner dishes at the sink. Mom was in their bedroom getting ready for work the next day.

All I know is that I am tired. So…so tired that I tell myself I will just go lie down on my bed and rest my eyes for just a minute. My father leaves the kitchen. I leave the kitchen table and collapse on my canopy bed just to rest my eyes. I will get up in just a few minutes and make my egg salad. Just a minute…

My eyes open to pitch blackness with a hand covering my mouth tighly so that I could not scream. It is my mother.

She is whispering. What I do not know. I just woke up and do not know what is going on. She whispers some more and will not remove her hand until I understand the whispers.

The whispers are orders… over and over again orders–to get up, to not speak, to tiptoe and come with her. I get up and follow her out my room into the hallway. There is my father with the shotgun aimed ahead of him. There is my brother as well. My mother places us in the correct order. She gets behind my father, I am behind her and my younger brother is behind me. We all tiptoe down the hall toward the kitchen.

I hear sounds now and we are all terrified. Sounds like someone is moving in the kitchen and looking for something. It was a burgler. Why else would my father have the shot gun and why else would the four of us be tip toeing in the pitch blackness toward the kitchen. Why did’nt my parents simply call the police? That was the only thing I could think. We were going to die or get shot with that gun or would have to fight for our lives.

We continued to tip. The sounds got louder. Popping sounds like a gun going off in the kitchen. We got to the entrance of the kitchen and my father fired that shotgun blindly into the night. I think my father fired all the bullets. I heard a click and no more firing from his gun.

We only heard silence from the kitchen. We all stood frozen in the hallway for what seemed like an eternity. We still only heard silence. My mother whispered for my father to turn on the light. He did. I was expecting to see dead bodies. There were no dead people in the kitchen.

The only thing of any great notice in the kitchen was just my pot sitting on the stove, black from heat. It was devoid of all water and had been for quite some time. It was also devoid of eggs. The burglar sounds we thought we heard was the sound of eggs exploding right out of their shells. They had burst wide open and yoke and egg white was strewn all over the cabinets and the floor.

My parents turned to look at me. My legs turned to jelly. My father had shot up the kitchen for the love of egg salad! I did not make egg salad again for a long time.