The Older I Get

The older I get

The more I think about

my journey

on that one way road

I count the seeds I should have sown

and all the dreams

I abandoned on the crossroads

Sometimes my brain just wants to explode

There are so many mysteries

yet to decode

and memories begin to erode.

I think about time all the time.

Days fly by

minutes and hour seem shorter

And after all is said and done

All I want to do is make good

of the time

write a poem everyday

and on occasion make it rhyme.

 

 

 

The Landscapes of My Mind

Sometimes I go to my favorite place;

silently and all alone.

no fancy name given

no signs to direct me there

no houses, no people

simply a natural space

in which to roam.

 

If ever you should need to go there

I will gladly show you the way

but there is one thing I must say

all you really need is to close your eyes

take three deep breaths

and wish yourself away.

 

* I often have dreams where I am just walking through beautiful and peaceful landscapes. The painting is one that depicts my latest dream.

 

 

 

Check It Out!

I am happy to announce I am now a Goodreads Author. So please for those of you who have been so kind to buy my books and for those who buy them in the future, I will appreciate a review of my books.

Haiku Moments is available at barnesandnoble.com

The Secret Life of Mandalas

 

Available at barnesandnoble.com and Amazon.com

“You Only Live Once Kiddo”

My brother passed away 21 years ago to the day and just two days before his passing we had a very long telephone conversation. I did not know it then but he was saying goodbye. We talked about everything. The one thing that still resonates is what he said a few minutes before we finished our long talk, “You only live once kiddo.”

I am reminded every day that life is too short and that we must live the present, the now,  mindful of what matters the most to us. We must make time to look at the view and relish the beauty right smack in front of you. Learn to shut-off the electronics for a while and use the time devoted to keeping up with your Facebook posts to actually talk with you family members. We post the most attractive messages to share with friends but how often do we say those sentiments face to face. Out loud?

I painted the following and called it happiness. Take a deep breath, and be happy. Don’t wait until tomorrow because “you only live once kiddo” and life is too darn short. Peace!

 

What Shapes Us

“The same law that shapes the earth-star shapes the snow-star. As surely as the petals of a flower are fixed, each of these countless snow-stars comes whirling to earth…these glorious spangles, the sweeping of heaven’s floor.”                       
                                                                                                 – Thoreau
What Shapes Us
This law I believe applies to all things live.
Can we all be glorious spangles?
Perhaps not. Perhaps yes.
I hope yes!
Are we capable of seeing the connection?
Can we try harder?
Can we open our eyes a little wider?
I hope yes.
The same law shaped our hearts.
When tragedy hits, we feel the hurt of others.
What shapes us is not a mystery;
It is divine.
It is intentional.
You, me,
all of us
shaped in the same way.
Can you dig it?

The Bugle Call

The Bugle Call

 

It is a melancholy,

yet a comforting sound,

a sobering Call

that announces the fall

of a gentle warrior:

a brave soul,

perhaps too young,

to know how finite,

the summons will be.

 

I hear that song again

repeating an inquisitive lyric

“War, what is good for?”

My response is always the same.

“Who knows?”

 

I wonder about him

all the time

that Unknown soldier

and the one I knew well too

who chose to be remembered

the next to last day in May,

waiting to be lifted

alone,

thinking,

hoping,

his last wish comes true.

In Memory of my nephew Ivan.

 

 

 

 

Coming to America

I re-blogged this poem in honor of my mother. I can’t imagine what she would say about all that is happening right now. I hope she is not too worried.

Melba Christie at Poemattic

PHOTOS FOR KEEPS 465

Coming to America

She was only 18 years old

Her heart raced in her chest

like galloping stallions on the finca

they left on the island of emerald-green.

Soon their ship would pass by Lady Liberty;

All decks were packed with passengers

Some would salute proudly,

others knelt thankfully

as if at church,

but she simply held her breath

like when you get ready to

blow-up a balloon at a birthday party.

Her dreams danced in her head

like her favorite dancers Fred Astaire

and Ginger Rodgers.

She envisioned herself looking out

her bay window framed with lace curtains

as her two young girls jumped rope.

She imagined her Cape Cod home

surrounded by a three-foot white picket fence,

daffodils and daisies leaning comfortably against it.

That was her American Dream.

Yellow and red flowers growing along a white picket fence in traditional garden Stock Photo - 13865383

She knew there was hard work ahead

No one said it would be easy

her heart reminded her everyday

View original post 115 more words

Remembered

After I wrote The Role of a Poet, I found this post that relates to the premise.

Melba Christie at Poemattic

Remembered

How do you want to be remembered?  asked the poet

There were three poets, one doctor and two teachers present to respond to the poet’s question.

Finally after a long silence and obvious pondering the doctor says, “I want to be remembered  as someone who took my oath seriously.

One poet said, ” I want to be remembered as a poet who wanted to promote peace.”

The other poet said, “I will be remembered as the king of the couplet.”

The remaining poet said, ” I hope people will remember me as the simple poet.”

Then the two teachers looked at each other politely and gestured one another to speak first.

After a few seconds one teacher speaks. “I want to be remembered for my patience,” she said.

The other teacher remains pensive for a few more seconds. She says, “I hope that the students I was not able…

View original post 174 more words

The Role of a Poet

I often ask myself what is the role or job of the poet? Each time the response depends on what is happening in the world and in my personal life. I ask other poets the same question. Sometimes I wish I could ask my favorite poets, especially those who became well-known after they passed. I could imagine their reaction when they learn in their after life that people finally get and appreciate the poems they wrote.

As I pondered the question I went back to my collection of poetry books and looked for some insights.  Inspired by poet’s biographies and other readings, I wrote a poem that hopefully answers the question. I mean if you have ever asked yourself what is the role of the poet.

 

The Role of the Poet

I believe the world needs a poet more today

It needed one yesterday as well

because a poet is one to tells

truths we may not want to hear

a poet brings to light what is most dear

and helps us to face fear

 

A poet brings you back into your own life

and teaches you how to breathe in and out

in stillness and in meditation

while you listen carefully to your breath and heart beat

and to the divine explanation of why we are all here.

 

A poet is a little god

who soothes your soul

and lets you peek into life’s crystal ball

to see yourself for the very first time

 

A poet sings the songs that make the world go round

and says what matters in free verse or rhyme

a poet knows how to expertly use every utterance and sound

in alliteration or onomatopoeia or assonance

and when it comes to choosing

the right meter

who else can we possibly trust

 

It does not matter what form a poem takes

A poet must not mistake

an epic, a limerick or an ode

As long as a poet can bring back the spring

in the middle of winter.

 

A poet can make you sing

and help you see the purpose of a fly

and you can either believe every word

or decide to defy

its relevance or ambiguity

but we must admit the poet’s acuity

for words and how to use them in a soliloquy.

 

Being a poet is not an easy job

a poet can make you smile

or make your heart throb

 

A poet can also make you think

about so many things that need thinking

and when you don’t understand

the message it can really stink

 

but as for me

I still hope to be

a poet someday.