lifetimes

 lifetimes

come in, come in!

such a pleasant surprise, this

sunshine at my doorstep!

excuse the dust, the clutter

we must …

but first, coffee? tea?

please, sit

 

YOU are here

you ARE here

you are HERE

 

remember when?

what happened to?

did you ever?

 

cascading thoughts

overlapping sentences

avalanche of words

babel, but not

 

laughing through tears

healing through scars

lives re-lived

 

echoes

from a lifetime of yesterdays

converge in the now

 

this moment,

the two of us

sitting at a kitchen table

with memories etched on its surface,

holding court

to a lifetime of tomorrows

 

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

purple balloon

                   i spy with my little eye                  

a purple balloon

in the sky

playfully bobbing

whooshing, twirling

the wind’s whim

 

purple balloon in the sky

were you set free

with farewell wishes?

set afloat with hope?

or an escapee

from a tiny hand

clutched until not

a toddler’s whim?

                                      

i spy with my little eye

a purple balloon

in the sky

helplessly dodging

snagged, clutched

a tree’s embrace

loving, until it hurts

 

purple balloon in the sky

was it worth it

the fleeting freedom?

there, then not?

love and loss

inhale, exhale

in a single breath?

 

i spy with my little eye

no purple balloon

in the sky

but

hope feathers

and heart flutters

a soul’s whim

Story Leaves

a tree dances

twigs tap

leaves twirl

limbs sway

words in the wind

whispering

once upon a time

long, long ago

 

a story of childhood

dragons fought

treasures found

kings and queens

dungeons and castles

rooted in the soul

 

experienced, remembered

 

earth burrowed

heaven reached

Father Time

keeping time

one with the story

leaves in a book

 

a tree bends

 

twigs crack

leaves wilt

limbs snap

words borne

on a gentle breeze

whispering

the end

 

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Pedestal

paused

in the park

to ponder

a perfect sea

of colorful petals

praised

the playful

plucky

imperfect

one

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

night thoughts

last night I had a dream

but ... 

night thoughts

ephemeral

cannot be something one has

Or had

 

so I lived a dream

a brief moment

as an artist

swirling colors on canvas

with bold strokes

and feathery ones

 

in my dream

with paint on my hands

I saw what I created

and could touch, smell, believe

the night thoughts

until …

 

where did what I had, go?

 

the swirling colors

bold strokes

and feathery ones

in the morning light

stick figures

on college rule

in the morning i faced the day

in the morning i faced the day

buoyed with a quest

to find poetry

in the ordinary

and extraordinary

to embrace wonderment

face-to-face

mesmerized in the now

chocolate swirls in a puddle

and rain plip-plopping on a roof

rainbow wings on a fly

caterpillar eyebrows

graffiti street art

and plants in terracotta pots

the cuddle of a crying baby

or the cry of rusty door hinges

slides that go down, down, down

and balloons that float away

a snoring dog and a purring kitten

croissant flakes and coffee dregs

wordless poetry

highlighting and celebrating

observing and shadowing

thought seeds planted

for later reflection

life poetry, lived

savored

at night i fell asleep

on pillow clouds of

poetry swirling in my dreams

and in the morning …

a poem in my notebook

-from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Ode to the Storytellers

once upon a time

long, long ago

holding court around a fire

a story was told

what is this? they asked

what does it mean? they cried

but they listened

to the fantastical and improbable

ridiculous and laughable

and found magic in ordinary days

 

once upon a time

long, long ago

a told story traveled

to faraway lands

what is this? they asked

how wonderful! they cried

so they took the story

cupped it in their hands

planted it in their hearts

and made it their own

 

with music and dance

poetry and prose

the story became more

thank you! they said

for legends, poems

tall tales and fairy tales

for once upon a time

and long, long ago.

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

blooming bushes and budding greens

dawn tiptoes along the sky

whispering promises

of new starts

again beginnings

of blooming bushes

and budding greens

 

once upon a time

awaiting the story

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

a great day

 i ate dinner for lunch

breakfast for dinner

and to make it more confusing

no breakfast at all

 

i turned left instead of right

then right, until

i was good and truly lost

but okay with not being found

 

i sang the words all wrong

to a radio song

wrote a poem that did not rhyme

except perhaps these last four lines

 

i hoped for rain when it was sunny

forgot my sunglasses on a walk

watched the news then wished i had not

answered the phone and wished the same

 

i hemmed when i should have hawed

went to instead of fro

but tried to make my topsy turvy day

a turvy topsy one

i switched wonky for the fantastical

and even stood on my head

to turn an upside-down smile

right-side up again

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

"Laughing Sally" can be found in downtown Little Rock, Arkansas

life story

 a tree dances

 

twigs tap

leaves twirl

limbs sway

words in the wind

whispering

once upon a time

 

long, long ago

 

a story of childhood

dragons fought

treasures found

kings and queens

dungeons and castles

rooted in the soul

 

experienced, remembered

 

earth burrowed

heaven reached

Father Time

keeping time

one with the story

leaves in a book

 

a tree bends

 

twigs crack

leaves wilt

limbs snap

words borne

on a gentle breeze

whispering

 

the end

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

something, nothing at all

i can sing a silly song

of sixpence

or croon a lullaby

ignoring high notes

or really low ones

half mindful of sharps and flats

 

i can dance a dance

of two-step or four-square

with someone

or no one at all

twirling and twisting to a rhythm

or the drumming of my heart

 

i can draw a drawing

with ink on parchment

or do a pencil sketch

color curlicues of flowers

or starry starry nights

with crayola crayons

 

i can weave a tapestry of words

long sentence-threads

climbing and looping

into paragraphs and pages

essays and stories

this poem

 

i can do many things

but no thing well

 

i’m a songbird in my mind

a ballerina in my head

caravaggio stirs my soul

and shakespeare my thoughts

a jill of all trades

master of none

June 2020

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

The Open Window

sitting by an open window

words written in raindrops

and poetry whispered in the wind

outside, a river of books

of quixotic quests

crumbling castles

loves lost and friendships found

the exotic 

and exceedingly ordinary

Once Upon a Time and The End

sitting by an open window

wishing I were a raindrop

yearning to be the wind

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Pumpkin Guts

Speak to Me Sunday: words

i like words that

mean what they sound 

bamboozle, flummox, festoon

or sound what they mean 

chattanooga choo choo.

sometimes words

mean something mean 

devious, diabolical, machiavellian

or invoke a dream 

quixotic, visionary, idyllic.

you can laugh

at words that are funny 

cattywampus, discombobulate, wonky

or words that are funny to say 

worcestershire, hullabaloo, flibbertigibbet

there are words

for letting go 

ephemeral, evanescent, fleeting

or others for holding tight

grasp, clench, embrace.

some words

inspire change 

adventure, creativity, curiosity

or provide anchor 

gratitude, contentment, peace.

mostly though

i like words 

spoken and written

or, neither spoken nor written

but understood.

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Speak to Me Sunday: Now Moments

an early weekday morning ... whispers in the dark ... 

a quiet breakfast ... a quiet drive ... 

first day of school ... 

10th grade, when just yesterday it was kindergarten

~~~~~~~~~~

after dinner, still at the kitchen table ... a board game ... 

brother vs. brother ... mother vs. sons ... laughter ... 

mom loses ...

but nonetheless wins

~~~~~~~~~~

Sunday evening ... one phone call, then two ... 

one son, then the other ... voices deep, young men now ...  

checking in with mom ... 

calling home

~~~~~~~~~

cooking again ... dishes again ...

the repetition of chores ... but then, a husband holding a flower ...

and just like that ...

what chores?

~~~~~~~~~~

a cardinal in the sprinklers ... a blue jay on the fence ...

splashes of colors ... later, a rainstorm in the sun ... a rainbow in the gray

revelations...

things you see when you look

You must live in the present,

launch yourself on every wave,

find your eternity in each moment.

-Henry David Thoreau

something said

there’s something to be said

of the new, shiny,

young and bold,

things that sparkle

and covered in gold,

of adventures planned

and futures untold.

there’s something to be said

of the old, ramshackle,

bedraggled and rusty,

things faded

and a little musty,

of pathways traveled

and footpaths dusty.

anticipation of tomorrow

and reflection of yesterday.  

one seeks a story

to tell of future glory;

the other,

grasps at past glory

to tell a teaching story.

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

thoughts

thoughts

sometimes i have a thought

plucked out of the air

thin and wispy

which poof! disappears

where does it go,

this thought that was but no longer is?

sometimes i have a thought

a cloud-like puff which drifts

to my hands, my legs, my heart,

the words I speak –

propelling me to

create, help, console, dream.

sometimes a cloud thought

is dark, thunder-like
sunless

raining seeds of paralysis –

self-doubt, insecurity,

unworthiness, fear.

today i had a thought

i need a thought-weatherman

to herald clouds –  

the wispy, puffy, or thunderous

because sometimes

I can’t tell them apart.

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

By Any Other Name

It is said

a rose

by any other name

smells as sweet

but any other rose

by any other name

is not my rose

so I will give it one

to mark it

as one among many

that smells as sweet

but is mine.

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Leaving

Leaving

If only all partings

were as beautiful

as a leaving leaf.

A ballerina in the wind

falling, floating, finishing

à terre.

A leaf which has left.

~from the files of very bad poetry by bia

(A rainy day, autumn leaves wind-swept to a corner of our front walk, and the portrait mode of my iPhone. No filters.) (Quite proud of this one ... AND it inspired a very bad poem by bia.)

The Search (from the files of very bad poetry by bia)

The Search

Is there a jar

deep in the pantry

that I can pull down

open

and scoop out big

heaping

spoonfuls

of courage?

Or a drawer

where I can delve beyond

sweaters 

socks

and hidden things 

to pull out 

long, satin

folds of confidence?

Or maybe a book

high on a shelf

in a forgotten bookshop

where nestled within pages

dusty 

and musty

is an idea

to salvage?

I'm thinking that, yes,

they're all there

the courage

the confidence

the idea

wavering, waiting, 

fleeting, floating

within.

~from the files of very bad poetry by bia

artwork by Kim Yoon Hee