Here we are in the early stages of October. We anticipate the fast-approaching holidays and the end of another year of life. And in the process, we invariably have to deal with the weather inherent with the autumnal times at hand. Right now, rain is the order of the day. Nuisance and heavier downpours fluctuate and we wait for it to end. It reminds me of the phrase, “save it for a rainy day.”
So, we’re saving something. But what and FOR what? We could be seeding a nest egg to buy something. We could be building good grace to save our souls. Scraps of fabric for a patchwork something or other? Tell us what it is and how you plan on disposing of it.
And if you’re feeling ambitious, give us a rainy day poem, or rain, or reign all over your page. Don’t save any words for the next poem. Use them now! (You’ll find more!)
MARIE’S SAVINGS:
SAVING SOUNDS
They’ve not been gone long.
Just a few month’s time.
Sometimes I hear her laugh.
His voice, singing,
“I don’t buy sugar —
Just touch my cup.”
Her coffeemaker’s sizzle.
His, “Go Bucks.”
Her, “I love you. —
You know that.”
His drums.
Her sigh.
I clutch these sounds —
Secure them to my heart,
And listen to its beat.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
WALTER’S REIGN:
SAVE YOUR WORDS, Walter J Wojtanik
Sir Edmund Hillary had it pegged. I scale my mountain of poetry because it is there. I write poetry because I can. I write poetry because I can’t sing or dance. I had given my voice a chance to entrance and entice others to emotion. I reach into my heart and write how it feels. It is as real as breathing. I am seething with the life force of words.
Who brought me to rhyme is a mystery. My history with words stemmed from a debilitating shyness in my youth. The truth is I would stammer and stutter, but my words seemed to flutter on the page. At that stage, it was my saving grace. I’d never lose face unless my words failed me. From romantic to farce to fantasy, I would fancy expressing my soul with words. Neruda thrilled me. Langston Hughes was my soul. McKuen and Lennon spoke in emotions I could only imagine. They were mentors all. I save my words for poetry’s call!
Sparrow whispers in sweet song
long after nightfall,
Mountain shadows slumbering
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THE SLASH OF RAIN, Walter J Wojtanik
The sun flashes in bright glimpses
between misted clouds
and tendrils of barren tree branches.
The slash of rain cuts deeply,
seeping into serenity’s slumber.
POETIC BLOOMINGS 