The Plant in the Bar

You would likely not notice me if you came into the bar on a Friday or Saturday night, among the smoke, the crowd, the dim rotating lights, the strong smell of alcohol and the blaring music. I would be hidden away in a corner, silent, claustrophobic, hibernating. If you came in during the day however, here I am in the dusty corner beside the bar chairs, trying my best to stretch my old worn-out branches toward the faint glimmer of sunlight straining through the window a few feet away. You may not see me, but I see you... and I see many others like you. Unlike those who come in on the weekends to party through the night, intoxicated, swaying to the dull repeating beats of music they no longer recognize, you have come to be silent. Perhaps to retreat, to get an hour of respite from your daily ordeal. You order your golden pint, you sit down quietly in the corner opposite mine. I see the emptiness in your eyes, as they linger aimlessly and then wander toward the window, craving that thin sliver of light, of air, of warmth that I too, longingly yearn for. Cast away in a forgotten corner, old, withered, a neglected side-character in life's queer drama, I feel we are somehow connected. As if we are friends, not through our existence, but through our story. 

"Luncheon of the Boating Party"

Pour the wine, then let's dine
Spread the linen that's fine
Let's sit back, relax, and make merry
May I please hold your hand, to get lost for a while
In the flutter of your eyes and that glorious smile
From those lips that are red as a cherry. 😃

First Time Skiing

Visiting a winter fest, she dressed up oh so warm
That no storm or snowy blizzard could do her any harm
There were volunteers, equipment, a chance to try and ski
Cross-country through the snow, being brave as she could be
Uncertain and unstable, barely sliding along was she
Clutching on for dear life, treading very cautiously
Till she came to a slope, started sliding down a hill
Out of her control, giving her spine an eery chill
She almost fell and landed, falling flat upon her face
But stopped herself just in time, to find a saving grace
"That's enough!" She said, relieved, " although I'd really love to ski,
Slipping in snow is scary, I guess skiing's not for me!" 😂

The Player

He showed up with a rose, and his smooth and crafty art
In one move he had captured the naïve young woman's heart
But alas! The next day, he foolishly got caught
Trying the same tricks on another girl that he found 'hot'
Enraged, she approached him, as she quickly lost her calm
"Slap!" The sound resounded, as his red face met her palm. 😉

A Christmas Story

It was Christmas Eve. The mom was putting her kids to bed, not knowing if she should tell them that there is really no Santa, that it is just a fantasy - a made-up story with no real evidence. Her kids, aged 5 and 3, had heard about Santa at school, and, she feared, had hopes in their hearts of receiving surprise presents on Christmas morning - presents she had no money to buy. Ever since her husband had left her two years ago, all she could afford was to have a place to live and put three square meals on the table each day. While the houses in her neighborhood were decked up in charming Christmas ornaments and lights, she did not even have a Christmas tree. Worried and exhausted, she closed her eyes for the night.
She woke up at the crack of dawn, hearing what she thought was a thud outside the front door. "Who is it?" she called out nervously. Silence. Scared and cautious, she tiptoed to the door and opened it. There, lying at her feet, was a woven basket covered in bright red cloth, with the words "with love, from Santa". Hands trembling with surprise, she lifted the cloth. Inside, was a cute little stuffed puppy wearing a Santa hat. In its mouth was a small card with the words "I belong to Hazel". Hazel was her three-year old daughter. Beside the puppy, she saw two tiny stuffed monkeys, one with a bow on its neck saying "Mike will play with us". Mike was her five year old son. Her joy knew no bounds and she was almost in tears. She started to bring the gifts inside. But wait, the basket still felt heavy. There appeared to be one more item inside. Under a panel at the very bottom, carefully packed, was a bright red ladies' purse. The kind she had always admired, stared at in shop windows, but never had the courage to ask the price.
"These gifts are perfect", she thought, bewildered. "But who could it have been?" The kind priest at the church? The kids' kindergarten teacher? The jolly young man next door who often asked how she was doing? Or perhaps, just perhaps, as legend would say, Santa had noticed how good she and her children had been this year, how hard they had worked? Perhaps then, he had read from their hearts those desires they had never written down, and decided fulfil them? She was too afraid to ask anyone, she would never know. But somehow, she was glad she didn't tell her kids there was no Santa. For today, it was a time for them, and for her, to believe in fantasy.

The Order from Disorder

This is my first attempt at a "found"poem. Some of the words and phrases in this poem have been "found"from The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield.

The Order from Disorder

You look at me and smile
I pause for a full minute
We both say good night.
The lights go off, the covers on
But I am thoughtful for a while
Trying to understand
The movement of this energy.
What do we humans give and receive
When we care, compete, argue, love and hurt each other?
We calculate and control, but then let loose and lash out
In a rage, flinging the plate, spilling the water,
Exploding into total disorder
Until, the sky still a bright orange, we become aware
Of the twilight
The clouds in the distance, the plants in the foreground
A glowing sunset.
And slowly, but steadily, the shattered pieces
Start to fall into place
Though shaken and broken, the picture forms again
Not smooth and untarnished,
But uneven, cracked, beautiful.
Real and complete.
And we'll take it from here, bounding down life's path
Sometimes flustered and stumbling, sometimes lost
But always re-found, a scar added, with the gift of wisdom
And we carry on.

What does poetry mean to me?

About Poetry..

Poetry is sharing, exchange
A piece of you for a piece of me
Poetry is reflection
Of times that were, and times that could be

Poetry is expression
Of our joys and sorrows, comforts and wounds
Poetry is celebration
Of the colors of life, its sights and sounds

Poetry is read, thought, written and heard
Poetry flows like a stream, logical or absurd

Poetry is not only for a select few
Poetry is for me, poetry is for you

As you walk through life, eat, see, love and sing,
Poetry surrounds you, every moment, in every thing.

Come join my hand today, try your hand at poetry
Let's peel off layers from our hearts, let's leave no mystery.