PRINTS (Sophie's Sonnet)

A woman knows instinctively, it seems,

Which moments will leave prints upon her soul.

Her future life weaves fabric through her dreams

And writes upon her heart, as though a scroll.

A woman thinks she knows what to expect

From pioneering moments in her world -

Anticipation of events’ effects,

And how her heart will feel as they’re unfurled.

Yet, there was I, as wholly unprepared

As if I’d never given you a thought.

My heart and hub were all-at-once ensnared –

I would convey in words, yet I cannot.

Sophia Rose: a gift from God above –

New life. New breath. New gift. New print. New love.

Marie Elena (Nonna Marie)
 

Photo by Marie Elena Good

SOPHIA ROSE MAVIS

Sometimes, there just aren't any words.

Photo by Keith R. Good

MARIA ELENA (by Jerry Vale, Marty Robbins and others)

Much to share in answer to every prayer,
an ability to touch a heart in a caring
manner, hiding her banner
contrary to her ability, a verbal agility
that floors me; it never bores me.
A beacon bright shedding her blessed light
on every soul she encounters.
Each mounting day says much
to an inner beauty and charm,
arm-in-arm with the men who carry her:
He who made her and the lucky one to marry her.
A miracle of mirth and motherhood,
a "Good" and decent woman. No man
could be luckier to befriend her,
a pillar of loving grace on her end of
a lake, Great and eerie. Dearie,
you make my day. I'm proud to say
and you can bet, the best friend
I STILL haven't met!

Walt

POETRY MAN (by Phoebe Snow)

It's in my head, I can't escape it,
for within it lies my truth.
These thoughts and words become my song,
a melodic twist of poetic justice.
Every step of every day becomes
a lively dance; a prance through
the obstacles we all face. But,
in its place is a rhyme that fuels me;
it won't refuse me when I call.
Its all in a well turned phrase.
It makes my days fly by with a glint
in my eye and emotion to express my soul.
I'm in control. I'm the Poetry Man.

Walt

HERE ALL ALONE

Here all alone,
writing; inciting.
Loudly, expressively, proudly,
with verses and rhymes to hone.
The only one to know what my heart is thinking,
dispatching those thoughts without me even blinking.
I revel in the silence; my sanctuary,
comforting and not scary.
Projected, protected.
Defined, refined.
Writing; inciting
loudly. Expressively, proudly
with verses and rhymes to hone,
here all alone.


*** The poetic form is called "Fabrique", reminiscent of the French forms with their repetition which is woven throughout the "fabric" of the poem. Devised by Walt Wojtanik for the Poetic Asides Poetry Forms Challenge.


Walt

SAIL

Unfurled, my canvas tightens,
taut and rigid in the strength
of a gale force wind. Beginning
and ending with the gusts
prevailing, sailing into the waters,
uncharted and unsure. It is purely
the epitome of self-sufficiency;
this proficiency so star-guided
provides me with the direction I crave.
In it, I am saved, a navigator of
life's currents. Wave after wave,
I am coaxed toward shore, for sure
more open waters await me.
My sole journey continues undeterred

 

 

Walt

WAVING TO A MADMAN

There once was a madman ‘cross Erie,
Who, throughout the madness, was cheery.
And while I’m assessing:
His work is a blessing.
At least, that’s this blog partner’s theory. ;)

Marie Elena

MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER

Just a crazy old guy,
collecting poems as if they were cats.
Stumbling, sometimes mumbling to himself.
"Moon, June, bafoon...", this lyrical loon
searches for the right word. The way
he plays with nomenclature, they're all right.
Off to his outpost, with a host of other
rhyming things, he sings words to a song
he had once written, smitten with a lovely.
Above him a placard bearing quotations,
and random notations; nuggets to ponder.
Yonder is a file box, stocked with pages:
rants and rages, laments and upstages.
A poetic pariah, lost in a world
in which every street leads to the
center of his worded thunder.
It's no wonder others of his ilk
seek distance, with some resistance
to be sure. Purely speaking, they are seeking
his persistence and reticence. He pens in perfect
solitude, an attitude he's acquired
to be all he's desired; full throttle ahead.
Damn the torpedoes. Across the lake
he takes his stand. Just a crazy old guy.

Walt

NO MAN IS AN ISLAND

Set adrift.
Surrounded on all sides,
a man stands, aloof,
proof of his arrogance.
There is an ignorance
that precedes him,
An apathy that defines him.
Lost in a sea of self-import,
he'll resort to anything
to make his point. Annointed
in his mind, he will soon find
a need. Lessons of a life,
rife with pitfall and valleys,
he'll someday rally. Treading water.
Clutching to the life preserver called hope.
Survival awaits, as long as he stays afloat.

Walt

BETWEEN IRAQ AND A HARD PLACE

Misery in the company of strangers,
brothers in arms and for a cause.
Silence interrupted, a brief pause
and the raucous resumes. Plumes of smoke
and the resonance of ordinance,
repetitive and resounding; pounding
the pavement and every ramshackled
residence in sight. The plight is the same.
Loved ones yearning, discerning the emptiness
from the heartache. Another quake
and shrapnel flies. Shutting his eyes
he clutches a hand to his chest, pressing
her photograph closer to his pulsing heart.
Another Valentine's Day in absentia.

Walt

IMPATIENCE

Intensely mind-controlling, pulsating, all-consuming thoughts!  Impetuously eager, nerve-wrackingly cognizant excitement!

Eagerly waiting "Nonna Marie"

WASTED TIME

Seconds tick.
The tympany of lost moments
left to linger in the anteroom of thought.
In the expanse of eternal existance,
we offer resistance to the passing of days,
hoping to delay their demise; returning with
each new rise of the sun. But, when we are done,
will we be remembered for all we strived to be?
Or will we be forgotten in the unmarked grave
of obscurity? Our procrastination is telling.
Time's a wasting. There's no tasting success
until we kick up our heels and initiate.
Tick, tick, tick,...



**For micro poetry's prompt, "AND I QUOTE..." - "If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin." ~ Ivan Turgenev


Walt

MUSIC HATH CHARMS

Melodic memories, triggered by random turns

of phrase, a new page in your book of dreams.

It surely seems that a mind can be shaken or stirred

into a whirr of activity. You possess a proclivity for

drawing upon the past long enough gone

to notate upon the staff of your life;

it is a song composed with ethos and verve.

Steeling your nerve, thrown caution becomes windblown

and all are shown the power of your voice.

A flash-back to a day when music was an ally

to rely upon, a trigger for thoughts nurtured

in the womb of your fertile mind. Gestation,

born of elation for all your songs relate;

it is never too late to write your score.

The more you remember, more tender the melody.

Walt

CELEBRATING A MENTOR

With penchant for the written rhyme,
He’s now in his poetic prime.
The years have only added days
To wheedle words, or turn a phrase;
To woo a reader, pierce a vein --

And it is here that he’ll remain.

Marie Elena

Happy birthday to the best mentor a girl could ever ask for. Here’s to future decades of sweet-talking your muse into dancing ‘til the sun comes up.