When life is a question does anybody have an answer?

(When life is a question does anybody have an answer?)

What am I going to do with my life? he asks

Can you really answer that? she responds

Why can’t I just get on with my life?

What kind of a life do you want to get on with?

Can we take this in another direction?

What direction do you want to go?

Can I consider space?

Is space what you want to do with your life?

Can I be buried in space?

To be jettisoned into the universe?

Why not?

Do you want your body to expand twice its size?

That’s what would happen?

Can you see yourself frozen in space for millions of years?

What if I’m close to a star?

Do you want to burn to a crisp?

Why are you asking all these questions?

Do you really want an answer?

_________________

NaPoWriMo Day 28 prompt to write a poem of questions.

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When life is a question does anybody have an answer?

Family Name

I followed my family name

to Yorkshire cemetery

where those old family headstones

held the dates of birth and death

those old Anglo Saxon names

etched upright in native stone

surrounded old Roman church

//////////////////////////////////////////////////

bell tolled to gather us in

stone baptismal at the door

I drank from silver chalice

the vicar offered me

in the rite of communion

aware of ancestral lips

that had taken worship there

////////////////////////////////////////////////

I search Proctor family name

Old English word proketour

occupational surname

for those who worked as steward

from the Latin procurare

to manage spiritu cors

keeper of the key— that’s me

_____________

NaPoWriMo prompt to delve into your name

Family Name

Ode to Mismatched Socks

All mismatched socks go in a bag

(evidence that I have given up the task)

I wear the individuals until there are holes

then throw them away

occasionally

buried in the bag

is a pair

long departed from each other

and I rejoice

they are together again

_______________________

dVerse prompt on laundry. Here’s to the missing socks that went down the drain and didn’t get in this poem.

Ode to Mismatched Socks

Facebook Love

Facebook knows more about me

than I know about myself

it wants to embrace me

within its algorithms

show me my next vacation

what I should buy

based on my last search

who my friends really are

in a bombardment

of information and disinformation

___________________

dVerse quadrille prompt using the word embrace

honing down on my love/hate relationship with Facebook

Facebook Love

Is that an eagle?

In Anchorage there were lots of ravens but I did not see eagles. An osprey flew over Gazzam Lake with talons holding a fish. It looked cartoonish, its nest perched high. In southeastern Texas, a bird of prey circled and settled in a towering pine. “What is that bird?” I asked. It’s an eagle they said. Pretty sure that’s an eagle.

I have seen bald eagles, juveniles, goldens. This was no eagle. This was a smaller bird, darker, sleek and slender. There are still those who thought they saw an eagle. It was a Mississippi kite. It came again the next day and waited awhile on a wire.

now at Autumn Lake

this flock of cedar waxwings

flying north to Spring

_______________________

dVerse prompt to write a haibun concerning the eagle.

Is that an eagle?

Bound

“The clear vowels rise like balloons.” Sylvia Plath

Deeper are the diphthongs

So bound

Neither the o or the u can rise

In their own sound

———————-

dVerse prompt taking the end of a poem (in this case Plath’s last line of her poem Morning Song) and using it to make a beginning. My mind went to diphthongs and how the vowels no longer make their own sound. Sylvia Plath was such a great writer but so bound. This poem makes me want to cry.

Bound

Identity Crisis

Today

facial ID

doesn’t know me

I

even forgot

who

I

am

was this a fugue state

police state

or dream state

I

didn’t

even

want

to

know

____________

dVerse prompt choosing the “line” end and putting in more ends. Bringing out frustration when facial id won’t recognize me. Started with

Today facial ID doesn’t know me

I even forgot who I was

Was this a fugue state

Police state

Or a dream state

Identity Crisis

I Poet

I

I came out of the canal listening

for my own voice

with my first breath

I heard it as a cry

I found darkness in my eyes

til opened to the light

I was that baby you wanted to be boy

I was made girl

all parts of me to receive touch

to open

to flower

 

II

Listening for my own voice

it navigated out of my thoughts

my mind spoke a product of time

of culture of possibilities

of bouquets gathered in spring

it was good to be who I am

 

III

Now the voice knows its own cry

weeps into the light and dark

listens with belladonna ears

what hallucinations will arise

I Poet

Watching Ravens in Alaska

My daughter and I in Alaska

visit a raven sanctuary

many ravens are protected inside

a huge cage and outside

are many more ravens

who are not caged

free to come and go

to find their own food

 

A metaphor of raven

that day as mother and daughter

stood seeking a wildlife experience

in Anchorage after the snow had melted

watching ravens

their caw and sharp deep-throated

guttural sound

which one are you?

Watching Ravens in Alaska