Monday Musings - Ted E. Bear

TED E. BEAR

The first day I saw him,
smiling at me from the shelf,
I knew he could be mine,
Ted E. Bear,
that cute little charmer
with brown fur and eyes.
I knew I was a grown woman,
long too old for childish toys,
but Ted E. was different
and I longed to hold him tight.
And once in my possession
I knew he was the right fit,
but little did I know that Ted E. had a mission.
As if by magic,
I was smiling and laughing again
and I felt like a child once more;
and I owe it all to a teddy bear my hubby bought,
Mr. Ted E. Bear, my friend.

Monday Musings - My Angel

My Angel

On windy days, my angel visits me
Blowing a breeze through the silver wind chimes
Reminding me to live my life freely
And not hide away from the rest of the world

On windy days, my angel visits me
Bringing me serenity with each gentle sway
Reminding to live in the present
And keep the past in the past

On windy days, my angel visits me
Whispering secrets with each little chime
Reminding me she is always near
Even though far from my sight she'll be

Bright Future

BRIGHT FUTURE

Out of the fallen dusk
night draws near,
and a stranger, who is not a stranger,
approaches with a soul shaped by remembrance and loneliness.
The persistent strain of moans and groans,
don't rule out the possibilities.
The shapes of the stories and descriptions
handed down from roots and blood and soul;
form their own destiny.
Indulging in fanciful attitudes
will only lead to sadness from the past.
So return to live the life you never got to live,
the uneasy days,
the invasion of privacy,
the great mystery is finally over.
The future awaits, and it is a bright future indeed.

Wake up and live

WAKE UP AND LIVE

I can't see my way around
the dark veil of depression
increasingly squeezing in on my life.
Even medications are not enough to control the suffocating blackness.
Occasionally, tiny specks of happiness are sprinkled through my life,
like bits of candy canes in peppermint ice cream -
sharp, but sweet, lessening the edge of torment.
I've live half my life, so why don't I feel better about myself?
Why does this torture continue,
causing nothing by hopelessness and pain?
Life is too short to live in misery and despair.
I've got to wake up and smell the fresh,
tantalizing fragrance of my family,
my life -
I must wake up and live.

Mysteries

(This photo is copyright of Dan Felstead. Although it doesn't exactly match the tone of the poem, the color are breathtaking. The "...great estate of an enormous heart..." could be the Church - use your own interpretation.)

MYSTERIES

Night clouds hang over the fast approaching dawn,
still holding the dark captive, under the light of the moon.
Twin evils revel a danger with the largest house,
the great estate of an enormous heart,
feeling trapped, a prisoner,
like a women from the dead, come to life,
but seeking the warmth and life from the living.
The light from the moon continues to gleam in the night mist
and it is here an imaginable paranoia intrudes;
time for the woman to follow a new destiny.
It is a strange and disturbing time,
trapped, chained,
unable to follow the different fates or
to what will happen from one life to the other.
Her secrets are now in danger,
no longer able to penetrate the disguise,
unaware of the dangers.
The night continues toward lighter hours,
ancient knowledge,
multiple mysteries,
warping the bands of time to cross the plain,
leaving behind the troubled curse weighing heavy on her mind.
The sun rises blood red at dawn
hanging almost frightful over the countryside.
And even as the dark passes, the mysteries remain
the web has been spun with terror and mystery
as the fissures continue to expand into ever-deepening whispers.

Time

TIME

I want time to blow the fluff from a dandelion.
I want time to blow a bubble that sparkles like a rainbow
as it bounces on the breeze.
I need the time to see how many licks it takes
to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.
Give me time to smell the roses and lilacs, the herbs and wildflowers.
Give me time to taste a fresh, juicy peach, the perfect tomato from the vine -
Rocky Road ice cream.
Time to feel my lovers arms around me;
time to nuzzle with my precious Grandchildren;
time to tell my girls "I love you."
I want to hear the serenade of frogs on a hot summer night,
time to hear the red-tailed hawk calling to his mate.
I need time to see the beauty of nature,
be it God, Goddess or Spirit - thank you.
Thank you for the time you've given me on this earth;
and if it is in your power, allow me to remain just a little longer.

The Night Has Ended

(This is another poem inspired by a photo by Dan Felstead)

THE NIGHT HAS ENDED

Frightening sight, an apparition from the past,

even by day can be immensely dangerous place,

with many unsolved mysteries and grave danger.

Determined to seek out the truth,

a secret from the past

which can force things once thought long gone,

thus could make things happen even though we have

difficult decision to decide our path of existence.

Streaks of red, the color of blood, mix with rain the color of the sky

Chase away the sunset, bringing forth the dawn,

but it is like the day would end up with a horrible death

even though the shimmering reflection offers the peace of day,

the sunset usually offers

a raging night could end with a horrible death.

Dragonfly Ballet

DRAGONFLY BALLET

Dragonfly chasing a butterfly -
swooping above the scorching parking lot.
A delicate ballet - rapid fire of blue translucent wings
and the chunky, slowness of yellow ones.

Gusts of wind send a discarded bottle cap on a
jaunt across the black asphalt,
catching and dropping into each cervice and dip.

Hot, warm breeze on a mid-August day -
how sweet it is.

Old Memories

(Photo by Dan Felstead)


OLD MEMORIES

Ancient in years, but still holding onto

the special charm making it beautiful.

Windows need replacing and probably casings, too,

but the bricks and stone continue to hold

the mortar used to make this antique house

stand on firm ground.

And although most people do not like the green moss

making its home on the stone steps and up to the porch.

Number one, green is my favorite color, and two, the

moss is furry and soft

makes a natural pillow to give a decent night's sleep.

I've no idea who owns this home, but I can take it on

faith that no one lives here,

unless it is someone like me.

Grocery Store

Grocery Store


Cars pull in the lot
parking willy nilly;
people of all gender and race
size and color, too.

The breeze picks up
pulling the heat
from the oil-stained asphalt
between the yellow lines.

Two gallons of milk;
paper, plastic or cloth,
environmentally conscious
or people caring less.

We are the way,
the how, the where,
the why, the when,
the what the fuck.

Power makes the world go ‘round
Power is what gets ahold of you
and never lets you go.

Rain Clouds

Photo copyright Keith Rightmyer

Rain Clouds

Clouds are bubbling up
although a sliver of sun still shines;
will the rain come again,
or will the clouds blow away?

Unexpected

Today is my momma's birthday and I miss her so much. I wrote this three years ago and I am reprinting it in her remembrance.

I picked up the phone today to call my Momma,
before I realized there was no way to talk with her.
Why do I do things like this?
Why do I hear the wind chimes and
feel like my sister is right outside the door?

Grief and despair are sliding in again
like the slug of mud rolling down
the scalped mountains of Appalachia.

Will this pain never end? Or am
I left with these holes in my heart
never to be healed again? I know
time is supposed to heal all wounds,
but these wounds still gape and weep.

Occasionally, a ray of sunshine and
will enter, blowing cool hope and
wetting your mouth like an orange creamsicle.

Then like the tinkle of the wind chimes
or the rippling of a cool forest stream,
the feelings slowly ooze away, only
leaving hints of an unexpected return.

Autumn is in the air

Autumn Again

All the year I wait for this,
The autum air and chill;
A joyful time I hate to miss,
The fall just fits my bill.

Pumpkins, squash and gourds abound,
With fodder shocks and pears;
And apple cider to go around,
For anyone who cares.

A pot of chili, a crackling fire,
The harvest moon hangs low;
The damp rainy days can make you tire,
With thoughts and dreams of snow.

It only last a very short time,
I cherish each passing day;
Through leaves and other garden grime,
Wishing it would stay.

THE SYCAMORE TREE

(Photo copyright Dan Felstead)

The Sycamore protects the house
with long, lean limbs of white;
so old with age, it’s hard to say
how much longer she will be around.

The Sycamore looms not in the horizon,
but in the side yard of the house;
sheltering the house in summer
but leaving anxiety with the cold wind.

The Sycamore tree, a friend a foe,
stands tall above the land;
how long will she last, is it her time to go
or will she reign as Queen of them all?

TRAIN GRAFFITI

looping letters
swirling the entire box car

vivid colors
seeming to be 3-D

exquisite examples

of unknown artists

On a Hot Summer Night

ON A HOT SUMMER NIGHT

crying
Sarah, answer your phone

clang, clang of the see-saws

squeak of the swings

watch both ways

siren from fire truck

kids squealing

kids laughing

the ice cream truck bell

leaves rustling

birds crying

wind blowing

words forming

Cornfield

(Photo copyright Dan Felstead)

The cornfield, slowing starting to yellow,
neglected in the darkening sky
as grass and storm clouds move in

or maybe the yellowing corn
is near the outer fields
as the storm has passed away.

.

Clandestine gloom

 

 

 

SHAMBLES

A summer storm has subsided
and all is quiet,
but there are continued hints of clandestine gloom.
Everything is now in ruins
and an ever growing mystery
is leading to a new event,
drawing us closer to catastrophe.





(Photo by Dan Felstead of Wood and Pixels Narratives)

If I were a flower

If I were a flower, I'd be a daisy, white and fluffy with a happy yellow face. I'd be growing on the garden fringes, away from the fancy hybrids with their unusual growing habits and prized blooms. I'm not one for large crowds or loud excitement, so being a wallflower, the plain little daisy would be just my speed.

Hardy growth requiring minimal care, this also describes me to a tee. I'm not one for fashion or makeup or hairdo, preferring instead to enjoy life's little pleasures. Low maintenance - that is me and the daisies.

Childish games from yester-year occupy a summer day. Daisy chains adorn my head and the gentle singing of "He loves me, he loves me not" fills the air. You can always find me out in the garden, passing the time with my friends. Goldenrod and Black-eye Susans will always be pretty, but nothing holds my heart like the quaint eccentric daisy.