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charbeingchar

~ Char Being Char

charbeingchar

Monthly Archives: May 2015

Half Lives

28 Thursday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades

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Photo by John Richards

Photo by John Richards

The Walking Wounded
Step all round me.
They and I afraid to touch.

Cautioned by the Sun,
“Leave space between your atoms,”
It advised that too dense a mass
And we will implode.

In lieu of “hellos” and “adieus”.
“caios” and “tatas”
We excruciate over
Times move —
a.m. to p.m.
And back again.

Fretting over issues
Of when moments became and went,
How they got so quickly sore
Then even worse, Infirmed .

We look longingly for a place to rest
A chair on which to sit.

No lounging here,
Perpetual motion, the rule,
Never wind down
For if it did, we’d have to
Call it quits,
Call it a day.

Mornings, noons, and nights
Taken away,
Replaced the Sun
With Dark
Losing motion, knowing only pain.

Thought for the Day

26 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades, Uncategorized

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Photo by John Richards

Photo by John Richards

I read
Obituaries.
Why?
They tell me the mysteries of lives,
Ways others found to cope with the unfathomable
Travails of being.
My angst is nothing when set against theirs,
It pales in comparison
As do my triumphs.

Others build bridges
Scale mountains
Write operas
Build empires
Open  vistas
Find cures
Right wrongs
Bred dogs
Bake cakes
Explore the skies
Reach for the stars
On and on and on.

And I,

Sip my tepid tea,

And,

I,

I read
Obituaries.

My Little Piece of God

23 Saturday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades, Uncategorized

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Photo by John Richards

Photo by John Richards

Is a red, terrycloth wash rag
Clasped tightly in my hand as I sleep.
The Spirit, within, grants me peace
Till sleep comes on, if and when it can.

I lost it once, so substituted a blue one
For the night.
It wasn’t the same.
Dreams were hurting my brain
As if the forces of nature were.
Out of joint.

My God expects little,
Offers less.
If I’m true to It,
I will be secure.

Repeating a litany of good wishes for others,
In hopes that neglecting my own desires
Will prove selfless generosity, turning over into
Blessings, earned by not asking,
I conjure up childhood prayers, “Now I Lay Me(s)”
In the voice of one who’s three.

But that’s not all.

God comes along with a side-kick.
“Navy Blue,” the cowboy bandana
Kept on my pillow, at the ready for an allergic sneeze.
Not a spirit, we carefully plot
Our territory,
Guarding against contact too close for comfort,
Necessary, though unwanted, he spends the night
As well.

So, the three of us, unlikely bedfellows,
Meet the dark,
Hear the distant coyote calls,
Keep the goblins away,
Clutching the last rays of day,
Till diaphanous Slumber
Can make her way to our bed.

An Orchid

23 Saturday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades, Uncategorized

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Photo by John Richards

Photo by John Richards

An Orchid
Past its prime
Is not a sad flower.
It is wane, emptied of color
And without structural strength,
Yet something there, a juicy vagueness
Catches your eye,
Secures it to be watched.

An entire day may pass
And you will barely change your stance.
Mealtimes move on through
Yet you are there
Transfixed by the luminance.
Thinner and thinner it continues to be,
As water replaces fiber.
Still sustaining,
Living on, because it must,
Because you will.

Iron Gate

23 Saturday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades, Uncategorized

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Photo by John Richards

Photo by John Richards

Oh, the glories of Victoriana !
What are we to believe, that they were all hearts and nosegays
Scattered, sprinkling on their history’s hour.
Or pikes and pickets in remembrance of the need to slaughter.
We don’t, can’t know them now.
All we can see is their residue, iron fencing, dried blossoms,
Hide-bound morals that secreted sin behind each bush.
Up close the flatness of each face, the paleness of each smile
Let’s us know, it’s not the time or place to live.
Chose  instead any era, any combination of times and dates
As preferred.
Barring dystopia, I’ll take that first.

The Irish in Her

18 Monday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades

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Photo by John Richards

A Beauty, She, of eyes and ears,
The classic dress of shamrock,
Tresses, copper, laced with gold.

Always happy,
Loved and loving.

Her kitchen tumbles with sweets,
Joyful morsels fall from her touch,
Taste tingles with delicosity,
Her permission to munch and mange’
To your heart’s content.

And, is that a banjo
To add with sounds the glory of her sights
And touch?

The Baker at heart plucks out a tune.

Sadness never parks at her door,
Or if it does, flees when she peeks outside.
One flash of that smile and troubles
Melt away
Like chocolate on a sunny day.

Fairy Tale

13 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades

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fairytaleHe knocked at the door of the tiny cottage in the shire,
And with good manners,
Waited until it was opened, not doing it himself.

Only then did he enter.

He carried a sack of frozen veggies, a pack of Marlboros,
And bouquet of wildflower filched from a neighboring yard
Tied with a purple string.
“For your injured eye, your vice, and your perfection.”
Boyishly shy, unsure of whether this was proper etiquette,
He handed them to the damsel he wanted to love.

A command performance, meeting the beauty’s
Guardian, showing his respect without presumption or haste,
While aching to hold her, kiss her, carry her away
With all the romance he had never learned
In ivied halls.

Her freckles, hers alone, and Cinderella feet,
Meant to be caressed, made joyful after too
Much work for so small a maiden.
If only he could, in that moment break all ties,
Have a steed to mount and a castle of his own to which
To fly.

He would do it.

Instead he retreated.

She too much a Muse for him
Could only smile, hope, and wish
Someday they would recall
Frozen green beans, cigarettes,
and purloined posies, together.

The Krazy Kat (Poem 1, July 29, 2014)

05 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by Char in Poetical Escapades

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Tags

Poetry

Photo manipulated by John Richards

Photo manipulated by John Richards

Before my morning ablutions
And the end of small screen, personal news search,
I choose at random, by chance, or serenity,
(depending on your vocabularic level)
A sampler of John’s photos.

As the first, I don’t expect much
In the way of profundity,
Merely a few words to excite,
No insights here.

Don’t scorn my attempts, yes you
Holding tight to this piece of paper
Waiting for the poem to begin,
Answering my call for attention.

If criticism wants to be leveled
Fault me for the stupidity of resting my
Tooth brush near my hair brush
And now grappling with a stray silver filament
In the space between my two lower front teeth

By now you are asking, why did she feel it necessary
To share this.  Simply because the photo has not
As yet,
Registered a rhyme to my brain

Oh clever, yes, the cat decked out in renaissance finery
Staring cat-like, as they always do,
Excusing you for looking on into their private world
This one bejeweled has more reason to preen
More answers to it’s own questions.
“I am Cat, hear me roar” too trite, for royalty, so,

“Bring Me My scepter, Jeeves, you should have read my mind”
“you are to intuit, remember, intuit for your Majesty,
Before she has her morning milk, or the poet’s grasp
Of the day takes hold.

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