On Prayer

On Prayer – a Cento

“What can I bring to prayer?”
“Little soul, do you remember?”
It’s “Sad isn’t it (not a bit)”

“What was it like to listen to the angels?”
Or see “The writing in the air of swallowtails”,
“And all the beautiful things that lead our thoughts and give us reason”

“Modern times are too cautious.” Our
“God’s toes are buried deep in the earth”.
“Ignorance will carry me through to the last days”,

“And Reason’s self shall bow the knee”.

Lines from the following poems –
“Faith” by Michael Schmidt
“Wood. Salt. Tin.” by Jane Hishfield
“What Lights Up…?” by Keki Daruwalla
“An Altogether Different Language” by Anne Porter
“Swallowtails” by Allan Peterson
“A Time” by Allison Hedge Coke
“The White Campion” by Donald Revell
“The Present” by Jim Harrison
“Psalm to Be Read with Closed Eyes” by D. Nurkse
“The Indian Burying Ground” by Philip Freneau

Not a Morning Person

Not a Morning Person

Morning starts with the raucous music of birds,
like a choir with too many sopranos.
I rouse myself from sheets tangled as if
I survived a shipwreck during the night and
stumble awkwardly down stairs that seem to
descend into the center of the Earth.
Only the whistle of the tea kettle, like a siren
call to a sailor, keeps me on course to the
kitchen and your smiling face – a beacon
into the safe harbor of your arms.

Pondering My Fate

Pondering My Fate

I am the only one of the bunch left.
I sit alone on top of the refrigerator
waiting for someone to look up,

to see me here and think, “Oh
there’s still a banana!” Maybe
they will slice me and smother me

in ice cream and chocolate sauce.
Maybe they will cuddle me up between
two slices of bread slathered in peanut butter,

or lovingly slice me into a bowl of warm oatmeal.
Maybe someone will grab me on the way out
the door, on their way to yoga or soccer practice.

My freckles are just starting to show. I am the perfect
specimen, slightly curved, firm yellow skin, soft buttery
insides – just what the doctor ordered.

I know my days are numbered, here on the fridge.The longer
I go unnoticed, the more likely I have been forgotten and I will
slowly rot, until someone notices the smell. Then, I must join the

soggy tomatoes, the stinky potatoes, the furry grapes –
unfortunates destined for the compost pile.

At the Rim of the Canyon

At the Rim of the Canyon

The sky above is a canvas of blue, an unnamed
shade no artist can faithfully recreate.

Great Condors seem like dots above me, wings spread,
wheeling through the warm air, defying extinction.

I hear the hush of wind in the pinyon pines, as
if the Gods of many nations are breathing.

Ripped open before me is the history of this
planet, laid down in stripes of rock and mineral,

chiseled away by a restless river, relentlessly
eroding the chasm I stare into, eon by eon.

Before the vastness of this grand canyon, I
lay down my human hubris and weep.


An Everyday Kind of Love

An Everyday Kind of Love

Love is nothing like the movies –
it looks like laundry and dirty dishes.
Real love
happens in the school drop- off line and
hides in
the bleachers of soccer matches and band festivals,
ordinary times when a parent’s love fills all the empty

waltmarie poetic form

It Takes Two to Tango

It Takes Two to Tango

She was a walled flower with two left-over feet
No rhythm flowed or surged through her limp veins
Not beat to match her lonely heart moved her hips
But when the moon was full she shed her shoes and
tangoed alone in the lambent glow of night

Narcissus at the Laundromat

Narcissus at the Laundromat

I watched him, that handsome man.
He went from machine to machine,
stopping to peer through each little window.
I thought he must have forgotten

which dryer he had put his clothes into –
up and down the aisles, stopping in front of
every door and staring with a contented smile.
He was in front of the oversize load dryer, gazing

longingly at a bedspread tumbling around when I asked
if he’d found his laundry and, without turning to look at me,
he replied, “ I have no laundry.”

My attempt at Day 5 prompt at https://www.napowrimo.net/day-five-9/

And There is Beauty

And There is Beauty

Hug a lonely tree
Listen to its heartbeat
Weep for the fallen leaves
Gather them in bushels
Spread them on a blanket
Whisper to them of love
Press them against your heart
Hang them in a window so they can feel the sun
Tell them they are beautiful
Write them into a poem

The prompt over at napowrimo.net today is to write a “prompt poem”