August 26 2013

I needed to see lovely today
I caught occasional glimpses
Nothing concrete
Until driving home in the darkness,
The beams of the headlights gleaming
I saw bunnies dancing.


Drawing: Let Go by Nakisha

July 19 2013 A World without Color

If the World boasted no color, just various shades of grey
No azure blue of the ocean, or bluffs of swirly red clay
If houses would be crafted in grey stone, and the sun never did shine,
At least not in the mauve, pinkish hues, we watch for at sunset time.
Then, would the World be draped in sadness? Would M&Ms lose their thrill?
Would hatred have a foothold? Or would we all live in Pleasantville.

For it causes me now to wonder, as I ponder a World more sublime
That without any green for envy, or blue for sadness inside
There would be no people of color, white, black, yellow or brown.
With no red to color them angry, no yellow to help oppressors keep down.
Or would nothing be different, is this World as good as it gets?
No rainbows, no yellow brick road, no rose red, no regrets.

So I am mindful to live in the moment, regardless how drab my day
I can refuse to live in that colorless World, and choose to stand up and say
I see color as a philocalic expression, of oneness, escape from mundane
A celebration of life in grand union, all dressed in Techno display
So I challenge all those on the grey side, loose the chains , don’t delay
Or mechanically measure grey tones from birth to judgment day.

Social Mores July 14 2013

 

 

Sometimes

Social mores

Is nothing less

Than an attempt  to

Smother  

Creative response

To the world

Around us.

 

Others dictate

A way of life

Control traditions

Set the pace

Sensing

A new view

Will change

Their world

 

vcl

 

Rain sheets June 9 2013

Rain sheets

stream down

 mingling earthy

herbal flavors

 in the

 early black

of evening

An oasis

 of tranquility

 

The Language of a Smile

I rarely idle time away
But while waiting for a friend today
I settled on a bench~ in a children’s park
...
I watched the children screech and play
As they frolicked springtime hours away
And I envied them their freedom~ what a lark!

The sprinkler sprayed
The swings swayed
As children struggled gamely~ to disembark

As I enviously surveyed the glad display
I observed another watcher meet my gaze
My humor mirrored hers~ an answering smirk!

For even though our childhood days
Were but a mist and gone away
In that shared smile~ the memories lurked.

The Holiday book

I bought a book to read on my holiday.
As usual, I picked it with great deliberation.
My yearly ritual, I placed it in my backpack, near the front, for easy accessibility, hoping to grab a leisurely chapter, here and there on my journey.

 

This year was a different kind of holiday.

Exploring roots.
My first trip abroad, England, Scotland, and Holland.
Two weeks of travel. ” Time for two books”, I muse.
Well, my holiday is over.
I have unpacked my clothes, gifts and memories.
The book returned unread.
I used it to press flowers from the place of my ancestors instead.

Rain Day

We had quite a rain today.
Somnolently we perched on our balcony, Teacups in hand,
Watching June wash away May.                                     

Today I visited my daughter.

The bread maker.  I only have one.

That makes bread that is.

It is a relatively new skill and

I have been eyeing her offerings,

Watching as she has mixed and kneaded,

Nodding as she sighs over imperfections,

Smiling as I have tasted her baking,

 Knowing as only a bread maker knows  

That she is waiting for a sign of approval,

of entry into the sacred bread maker’s circle.

 

Now her Nana is a bread maker

Her bread is healthy and wholesome

Whole wheat.  

She taught me to be a bread maker

I thought nothing could compete…

Until today,

As I sat down to enjoy homemade crusty domed white

With a slab of butter…I told all at the table to

Be silent as I closed my eyes…almost a sacred moment.

Did she hold her breath?

I was transported in time to my Grandmother’s table

And I could almost hear her voice.

“A bit of blueberry jam would go well with that , dearie”

Yes Daughter, you have arrived. You may enter.

 

 

 

Spring 2013

Miss Spring is a darling, but most distracted.
I sauntered past her today. There she was, hunched over the table in the gazebo at the restaurant.
Examining the contents of her purse, doing spring cleaning? All spread out for display in giddy array.
I tried not to stare but it was difficult not to notice the bits of winter, the odd snowflake, crumpled tissue… probably used to wipe the tears of last year’s early cold...Remnants of autumn, an old Christmas program, various pressed flowers and one four leaf clover.

 She saw me observing as she applied a new spring lipstick to her lips, a glorious shade of cherry red. Stuffing her treasures back into her Gucci and raising a hand, she fluttered her fingers to the waiter. Spring had arrived for tea.

Earth Day 2013

 

Earth has a day
set aside by its inhabitants
to remind us that it lies beneath our feet.

It lies mostly quietly, sometimes grumbling
Stomped by history Trodden by explorers
Trampled by the insincere
Ever humble , refusing to admit defeat.

To those who long to view it’s beauty
Protect it’s future
Love it’s core
Comes a call to clannish stewardship
Before that memory is no more. 

VCL

 

Casting stones

In the dead of night I ponder

all my stones of awkward weight

Mentally skipping them o’r the water

of my mind's achromatic lake.

 

Casting stones of dreams and wishes

skimming hopes and fears obscure

Tossing far across the tide line

stones I’ve gathered on the shore.

 

Sweet release I feel unburdened

 As they sink down into the calm arcane

Yesterday’s stones are now a memory

 I stoop and gather an untouched day .

 

The first Rain

Merrily
I sit
in the rain
first of the season
Spring

Tipping
my head
my tongue juts
sampling chilly silver droplets
Rain 

The stars are out.

The stars are out tonight
They twinkle
and discuss the day to come
from their vantage point.
We look up and wonder.

Easter Ode

 

Amongst the myriads of odes ere written

From cross to tomb, or womb to sun-kissed Spring

Across time’s ever reaching tribute,

This special time is etched in angel’s wings.

 

It matters not that faith may sometimes waver

Or quick denial purse one’s lips to thin

None can deny this time of special savor,

Of somber quietus to the sprightliness it brings.

 

The earth is tuned to its own eternal music

So celebrate we will

Forsaking past to grasp the joy of friendship

Gifts of smiles for cross or eggs, or chocolate baskets filled.

 

My attempt at a Triolet :)

The geese are back
Although I haven't seem them
Have they settled in...unpacked?
The geese are back
Obviously didn't read the Almanac
Did I miss it, never heard a quack?
The geese are back
Although I haven't seen them.

Shopping for Spring

Miserable spring/winter storm in western Canada...ventured out to the grocer.
This is what happened...I swear ;)
I almost bought some lemony yellow roses.
My favorite.
... But as I hovered hesitant,
I'm sure I heard them whisper~
You can have us anytime.
Why not select a newbie to herald the genesis of spring.
That sultry hyacinth lounging is her robe of purple, or
perky tulips in their long legged green-ness, topped in vivid hues.
Perhaps that youthful gardenia entwined in a blingy thing.
Giving the roses a knowing nod, I reached in and captured the pussy willows
and clutched them to the till.

Armor

 

I crawl out of bed and into my armor.

Most people don't see what I see

The undergarments of support

The jeans of determination

The shirt of power

Socks of patience encased

In shoes of service

People think they see me.

I see a warrior.

Strawberries

Strawberries

When I was young there were strawberries.  Rows upon rows.   

      Strawberries were a lucrative business in the Valley. Each spring, succulent, ruby red offerings matured. Nestled in their green leafy blankets they waited to be snatched from their protective straw beds to be sliced, mashed, crushed or dipped by eager consumers.

An early alarm had jolted me from my warm bed. Exiting the sleeping house I scooted down a well worn path to the patch. As usual, in a cool, damp foggy dawn my eyes strained to see familiar landmarks. The dilapidated hen house on the left, the outhouse, traded for a new indoor model, now a lonely sentry to the right. As if from nowhere, Skip, my neighbors’ dog, materialized from the mists.

 

 Her familiar “yip” her only greeting, she joined my morning mission.  We reached the edge. Skip slouched on her haunches, looked around, yawning as if to say” You go girl…too early for me!”  Reaching into my pocket I found the sandwich I had made (I was not into breakfast), offering the crusts in the usual morning ritual. I surveyed the rows. The sun was beginning to peek through the mists.

 

Grasping the first of many quart baskets I scrunched down in the straw, examining the condition of the berries. Mother earth smell tickled my nose. Would I find feast or famine? Rooting among the leaves I imagined them all snuggled together in their berry bed muttering and complaining, trying to find a more comfortable position as the light shone in their eyes. “Wake up sleepy heads!”I muttered.  How I wished I could trade places.

 

Though the fading gloom I could hear voices…words undistinguishable yet, like the babbling brook flowing nearby.  I grab another basket. My nimble berry- stained fingers gathered..intent on their harvest. The older girls that work at the Canning factory would arrive soon...everybody gossiped about how fast they could work a patch. They only picked berries till the Cannery opens. “That was where the real money was.” they said.  Cannery girls live in the Valley forever. I didn’t aspire to be a cannery girl…my fingers picked up speed.

 

 

 

Making the journey home
Blushing Sun easing it's way from the day
Naked black tree sentinals
Silhouetted in stark lineation
Waiting for the Spring parade.

 

 

I Sit.

I sit.
In the night.
Still (ness) writing.
Words flowing from the open tip pen.
Fueled.
As if the ink flows from a vessel.
My brain.

A browser.
Casually glancing.
Perusing the words.
Leaping from pages once pristine.
Imagination sparks.
Fuel ignites.
Their brain.

I saw Spring

I saw Spring the other day...

She had a tight grasp on Old Man Winter's shoulder.

Whispering in his ear....

"It will soon be time for you to leave".

I wish she would be bolder.

Beckoning me

Three wick candle
Flaxen flames flicker in trinity
Beckoning me

Me.

Me.

I was different

Busy

Anxious

Overachieving but never quite arriving.

I was alone

Nervous

Willing

Looking at the world around me with dismay.

I am me

Busy

Anxious

Nervous

Willing

Not quite alone but teetering.

Waiting for grace.

Two little cousins at Grandmas’

as posh as girlies could be,

were having an afternoon splendid,

in the pantry with biscuits and tea.

 

The feast was pronounced to be ready,

and morsels disbursed to each guest,

so Grandma returned to her kitchen,

her slippers finally at rest.

 

When above the tinkling of teacups,

said the more spiritual of the two,

shouldn’t they wait for grace,

 the proper thing to do.

Silence enveloped the pantry,

Grandma smiled into her tea,

If  Grace were really coming, said  the other,

where could she possibly be?

 

©vcletkeman

If I Should Sing~

If I should sing~
What would be the song?
If it were joy, who would hear it?
If it were grief, who could bear it ?
Perhaps a ditty,some would share it.
If I should sing.

For in the song~
 The world expands,
And grasps what 'er the song demands,
From folk or swan or torch or psalms,
If I should sing.

 

Forgive Me if I Mourn

Forgive me if I mourn.
Sorrow always makes room for one more.
Tragedy's cup is always brimming.
Spilling on the unsuspecting.
Dignity lost ~ I stoop to wipe the splatter
~ of a relationship that is no more.

I am not a Writer.

I am not a writer~
Oh, I have stones crammed inside my head, bursting, like an abandoned trunk of old forgotten valuables left to expire in the dusty attic ~but I am not a writer.                                                      

I am a holder~holding the stones of childhood memories, sibling quests, love gained and lost, birth pangs and the fool's gold of age. I hold the stones, smooth to my caress ~but I am not a writer.

Getting Old~

 

Getting old~
Like a shoe that has
lost it's stitching.
Flapping in the effort of hobbling down the path.

Without Regret.

As the evening shadows gather~There are things that I would rather~do than spend the twilight with regret.
 I would rather ponder sunrise~
from the perch of gloomy star eyes~ casting gloom and greeting dawn without a fret.