Theme Me, Baby! Vol. 4

[William Haskins]

i got a request for a new "theme me" thread, so off we go:

the theme this time:

finding beauty in an unexpected place

[Shiraz]

The old door
Lies behind the barn
Its original carved beauty
Replaced
With a soft silver patina
Gracefully painted
Atop the russet hue
Of hard clean lines
Etched and chiseled
Revealing a landscape
Easy on the eyes
Only to be disturbed
By sharp rigid corners
Of entangled crystal shards
And pointed edges
Of Winter’s first snow
Soon to change and trickle
Along the furrows of the ingresses
Leaving in peace
The old door

[DeborahM]

The dried roses were more than just that
to her it was a symbolic way of describing
her life and feelings

The beauty of being fresh and alive, their
sweet fragrance known only to a rose, when
they arrived, until the cut stems began to
break down and could no longer continue to
sustain life

Then the wilting and aging started. The red
hue darkened and its softness became rough
and dry, till there was no life in them

They remained in the vase displaying the
need to be thrown away, yet, still telling
their story even when all was lost and gone

There is no reprieve for a second chance
like the baby’s breath that lingers
throughout the roses

The hope only one rose had was to be pressed
between two heavy books then framed in
memory of one bright moment in its past

[Shiraz]

The dried roses were more than just that
to her it was a symbolic way of describing
her life and feelings

The beauty of being fresh and alive, their
sweet fragrance known only to a rose, when
they arrived, until the cut stems began to
break down and could no longer continue to
sustain life

Then the wilting and aging started. The red
hue darkened and its softness became rough
and dry, till there was no life in them

They remained in the vase displaying the
need to be thrown away, yet, still telling
their story even when all was lost and gone




There is no reprieve for a second chance
like the baby’s breath that lingers
throughout the roses

The hope only one rose had was to be pressed
between two heavy books then framed in
memory of one bright moment in its past





Hi Deborah M:

I really like the premise of this. I especially like the message in the last stanza.

I think with a little tweaking, it could really shine. Are you open to some suggestions?

[DeborahM]

Sure, I'm open to critiquing. It is a process in this business!

[William Haskins]

welcome to the poetry forum, deborah.

[DeborahM]

Thanks William -

This is a great site! I'm a newbie as of this morning and have had a great time reading and posting!

[NeuroFizz]

The greatest beauty
of progress gained
is a daily look, not
through the windshield,
but in the rearview mirror

[poetinahat]

Hidden in
a jumble of numbers
is a smooth and beautiful
belle
a paradox of grace:
the Standard Deviation
who
gradually
but without fail
allows you
A Degree of Freedom

And just as sure
just as precise
as Seurat or Monet
gathers single dots
random as they fall
but in their hundreds
and millions
shape themselves
symmetric
and precisely
curved.

[jst5150]

(Author's note: On the Middle Eastern military
base where they are located, the white spires named
in this work are nicknamed "The Tits." The object of refuge
at the end of this work lies underneath "The Tits.")

Finding the Tits

prop-driven hauler
limping home
touches down
on Qatari sand
Dusty, bloody camo costume
combat memories reeking sweat
shuffle down plane's loading ramp
suffer Ra's broiling spotlight
trudge on weary foot to hangar
weapons cleared, bodies beat
sucking sand through dry bicuspids
toes made fists through sand-caked pigskins
seems like only locusts, boils or blood
would relieve me from destructive toil
what liberty could come from so much pain?
but something riles grizzled sergeants
fixes postures, boots start walking
follow boonie hats
past jet fuel tanks, over dunes
through fixed Quonset communities
now another mass of hurried soldiers
what would lead them away
from a sheets and pillows?
Then we discover Her brassiere
as jutting white peaks debut
giant round Tits beneath sky blue
lying waiting in Arab sun
surprises even ardent vets
as smalls of back and thighs appear
we're carried back to Main Street
and no need for mom's fifty pence
as warm beneath Qatari bosom's shade
stirred liquid Sapphire
of a swimming pool

[maestrowork]

An empty chocolate box
contains
your phantom kisses
and
A lifetime of love

[KTC]

In advance, I apologize for my recent obsession. It is nearing its end. I promise.

There is Beauty Here

I am sunning myself
at the feet
of your unvisited grave.
Soaking up the rays
meant to darken
your once pale skin.

Alders rise like awkward armies,
attempt to break through
the wrought iron barriers
built to keep them out.

Swarms of bees
persist,
beg communication
with wilting flowers
left to permeate in the stew
of their own dying moments.

The grass, mowed to perfection,
allows for the trace of footprints,
paths to the graves most frequented
by the sorrow of the living.

I daydream here,
in the place full of niches,
wonder at the umbrellas of shade
falling from the lingering elms.

Death surrounds every footfall,
marked by the cumbersome stones
left as monuments to lives now gone.

The smoke leaves frequently
from the nearby crematorium,
peppers the sky with the remembrance of life.

Peace is found here,
among the quietude of bodies
sinking deeper into the land
of was-not-was.
Peace, and the joyful
memory of time
spent with the same sun
that once darkened
your porcelain skin.

[LimeyDawg]

Charlbury

Years ago I left this place
thanking God for my good fortune
and vowing never
to return.

Now time finds my wounds healed
and I look upon my former prison
through eyes tinted with the truth
of experience.

Beautiful village now;
Cotswold stone set against the gray
of slate roofs under a blue
summer sky.

The scent of cut grass
whispers forgiveness
for memories of my
foolish youth.

Cold, clear water bubbles
over brown pebbles
whose edges, like mine, have been rounded
by time.

Narrow streets haphazardly weave
through a town that was old
before my adopted land
was born.

I close my eyes and echoes
of a lost time reach to me
from the past and beg of me:
“Look again.”

Strange, the sensation of a past life
I though I would be glad to be rid of;
where I once found a prison I now
find sanctuary.

Here, along the quiet Charlbury streets,
where, in dreamtime, I find safety
from the troubles that
find me.

In this place, five thousand miles
from where I now live
I finally know where my heart
calls home.

[P.H.Delarran]

these are brilliant.
lovely theme.

[Appalachian Writer]

The winter forest
twists its way
through dry sticks
and rotting leaves,
gray, without color,
but then,
the smallest movement,
perhaps a mouse,
sends a browned limb
to the side.
Beneath,
a bud,
tiny, barely green,
life.

[Magdalen]

Exhaust fume puffs
scatter grime and
cigarette butts in the gutter
they dance, tumbling
to land heads up
embers still aglow
in a mound of ice blue slurpee.

[onestepp]

Ice, snow fallen onto tree branches

woven with an artistic drawl

of crystalline forces

by god's own awl

[Meerkat]

Shrouded in mourning,
as one wrapped in a shower,
excused from all banter,
and numb without wonder.

Arms weak as if wounded,
small cuts loud reminders,
all trespass forgiven,
all vice cured with blinders.

New equity found,
as those left now appreciate,
shared lot the value,
which all will reciprocate.

Yesterday's grudge,
for the gone and the here,
waived as the trivial
notion so mere.

Newly discovered,
this country of souls,
invested with beauty,
weeping through tolls.

[HeronW]

It grew by the dumpster
as if to say
there is more to life than
trash, dodging
heavy blind trucks
that grate on hard pan
breaking up the soil by
infinitesimal pieces so
roots can break through
and further growth
to reach up into a wealth
though small
of golden rose.

[Appalachian Writer]

Ashes rose like fog
above the chair,
it's flowered cover faded,
left blackened by long ago flames.
One ankle
still broken
tilted its face to the east
as if waiting for the sun
and just beneath
a charred finger of cloth
a wildflower
blue and new
looked eastward also.

[Feiss]

If the freeway is a river
then we are synchronized
swimming dolphins,
swerving between and around,
in this unspoken, roaring dance.

You, soccer mom
don't look at me.
Just dance,
this late afternoon
sunset dance with me.

Bumps on the freeway
reflect pink
in my rearview mirror,
and keep the beat
buhdum buhdum.

Concrete river stage
dancing the workaday
stress away.