We’re working both sides of the street today and delving into the concepts of SOFT and HARD. We’ll write either into a poem. But to compound things further, you are to come up with a compound word highlighting either extreme. We’ll be doing a few of these exercises with different opposing ideas so this is just the beginning.
You ask, “What does Walt mean compound words!” Think of these few examples: Soft Cell, Feather Soft, Hard Sell, Hard Times, soft opening, hard headed… You get the picture. Write softly and carry a hard problem to an easy solution!
MARIE’S SOFT WORDS:
softly screaming
She never fingered
soft, supple, pretty petals
for fear of thorn’s prick.
Gently moonlit clouds
went unnoticed, for stark-glared
terror of tripping.
Her lips never sought
a tender kiss. Her heart slammed
shut, expecting ache.
She clashed with herself.
Subtly soft-spoken. Screaming
unyielding unease.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
WALT’S HARD SOLUTION:
THE SOFT PARADE
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2021
Great poems Walt and Marie!
Thank you, sir! Good morning!
Morning to ya!
Thanks Benjamin. A great start again!
👍
Totally agree!
THE HARD TRUTH
There’s no denying it.
There’s no disavowal from
the rising eye of the sun.
There’s no turning back.
There’s no refusal—
witness the coming of the dawn.
There’s no opposition—
competition, when her eye awakens,
from the depths of slumber.
There’s no rejecting—
or neglecting, the irrefutable brilliance,
of the blazing iris of the sun.
There’s no renouncing.
The ceasing of night—
the sparkling smile of day has begun.
Benjamin Thomas
Excellent. I am especially taken by the “blazing iris of the sun.”
Gotta love the sun!
For me, this piece has much the same effect as Walt’s. So absorbing.
Love this and really like and envious that I didn’t think of this line “when her eye awakens,” Love the image it creates
Thanks Mary. ☀️👁
Ben this is an awesome awakening poem, and me feel the soft and gentle stir of mind, body, light.
Thanks Damon!
You do turn a phrase, Mr. Thomas!
Thanks Walt!
I like the thought of the sun as sleeping…and “when her eye awakens, from the depths of slumber.” Lovely!!
Thanks! Like most poets, I always enjoy writing about the sun.
Love, “the blazing iris of the sun”. Beautifully written, Benjamin!
Thanks Sara.
Walt, Soft Parade has me mesmerized this morning. Such a different (and drawing) title concept that begins in a manner that surprises me (given that title). What a creative mind you have! BEAUTIFULLY penned.
Yes. I agree. I even love the title.
Thanks, Bejamin!
You bet.
“Mesmerizing” is the right word. The piece combines imagery and cadence beautifully; draws me in.
I seem to have cast a spell on you all. I have you in my power! Thank Bill.
I agree. It took in and enchanted the heart. Perfectly done, Walt.
You’re too kind, Damon. Thank you!
Thanks Pard. I come up with good ones every once in a while.
“Every once in a while.” Goofball. 😀
SOFT SPOKEN
Sometimes the soft spoken
are a byproduct of circumstance.
When their will is stripped away.
When neglect is the norm, and no one
bears them a second glance.
When they go unheard—
because, no one is listening.
When their voice is squandered,
squashed, chained, and brow-beaten.
They don’t even know, understand,
nor can find—their own voice.
Because they were never given
the choice—to speak for themselves.
It is why, and then—
they become soft spoken.
Benjamin Thomas
Ouch. I can’t say I’ve ever really thought of it this way. Well written, as always.
Thanks.
Agreed!
Hmmmm…. spot on.
Thanks.
This is so true.. most don’t realize how certain things take the voice of someone not to the point of silence but it can do that also, but many times down to whisper especially in those who are gentle in their heart.
Yep. I know this all too well.
I bet you do, “gentle giant.” ❤
😉
Sad, too true.
I’ve long contemplated whether I was an introvert and that helped me cope through life…or whether it was life that pushed me into the role. Well captured.
Same here. I discovered much later in life that I’m an ambi-vert, which is a combination of both introvert and extrovert. I do believe a large part of my introversion came from circumstances.
Ambi-Vert! Perhaps i lean that way as well. 🙂
Ah, we must be related!
Thought-provoking point of view.
👍
KILLING ME SOFTLY
She’s killing me,
softly.
Her wicked eyes
despise—
my resistance.
Her penetrating gaze,
is killing me—
softly.
The mantra of her lips,
slowly strips—away
battle tested armor.
She’s killing me,
softly…
Benjamin Thomas
… and speaking of “ouch.” Wow.
The title has brought the beautiful and great Roberta Flack in mind.
Indeed
yes, that song came to mind…
👌 It’s a great song.
Subconsciously, her song inspired this poem! I just didn’t know her by name. It was intended to convey a sense of romance. ☺️
You must be too young to remember her by name. 😉 One of my favorites, back in the day.
Ah, yes, and that one person can trap in a trap we don’t want to escape.
Thanks. This poem must have an interesting effect. I originally intended to convey a sense of romance, but I suppose it could be interpreted otherwise!
Yes. I didn’t pick that up until you mentioned it. On re-reading it, I see it. Well done!
👌
Ben, a perspective on the song that’s fresh, new. Great.
Thank you sir!
The Roberta Flack connection came through for me as well. But the poem stood apart on its own. Well done, Benjamin.
I love that song. Thanks.
EMULATING THE POLITICIAN
Hucksters
hie to harness
the heartfelt wholesomeness
and hubris of hard-headed Hal’s
soft soap.
Hah, truth
Love the alliteration, and the word hucksters!
Ruh roh. 😀 This one gave me a chuckle. Had to look up “hie.”
You hit the nail on the head, William.
You’re an Alliterative master, William. Love this.
Great words in this too-true poem.
Marie, your piece sets up tension from the title onward. Wonderful.
Thank you, sir.
Soft Morning
A walk across my old neighborhood
stirs images in a haze.
The soft morning brings back
stories once told, good enough
to be told again. A dog barks,
but it’s not mine. A glance
at back yards shows a valley
secrets kept out of view of passing
cars. Walking here, I live two lives,
memories fresh and a new day
seeking its light. A street ends
at a place that used to be a field
where I walked, corn stubble
waiting for a new growth to rise.
A leafless tree stands alone
at the edge of a yard bearing
its years, yet refusing to die.
Two mourning doves dressed
in gray perch on wire watch
and rise into mist, as if a dream.
An old song plays in my mind
a heartfelt refrain- my mind
hard wired for memories.
For me, this piece has the feel of morning gloaming. Wonderful.
I can hear that old song… maybe not yours, but I can hear mine.
Mike, your words really placed us into the mindset of this poem. Excellent.
You never broke stride, beginning to end. You placed me there, complete with mood. Wonderful, this!
Mike, you paint such an awesome, pensive picture here. I can see the hazy strokes of memory.
A leafless tree stands alone
at the edge of a yard bearing
its years, yet refusing to die. //I don’t think I’ll look at a “dead” tree the same way again! wonderful– as is the backyards/valleys with secrets…
Took a walk in my old neighborhood this afternoon, Mike. This touched a chord. memories are great inspirations. Superbly done.
…hard-wired for memories…
I’d contemplated “hard wired” and didn’t connect it to any other words to offer to this prompt. I like how you used it.
I love your use of hard and soft in this dreamlike poem. Great ending as well.
A Prayer for a Softened Heart
(An Alliterisen)
Lord, make my heart moldable.
Please, slowly soften it in Your hands.
Yes, make my will Your own.
Help me be not so hard-headed.
But lovingly led by You.
Lord, let it be silky soft.
smile…
Connie, your poem’s sentiment was what first came to my mind when I read Walt’s prompt. I love the way you express it here. I’ll just add my humble amen.
Perfect prayer, Connie.
Oh, I so need your prayer! I’m stubborn in so many languages!!
Great use of form and execution, Connie. Your message always enlightening.
Never heard of that form; thanks for the well-wrought introduction.
https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2012/05/30/in-form-poet-the-alliterisen/
I’ll add my “amen” to the others. Let it be so.
Yes. Ditto this kind of prayer. Love that last line!
A HARD LOOK AT REALITY
Is it difficult?
Or were we taught,
it would be?
Perhaps it was only the fear,
Reality would be so,
A concept we bought into
Setting our mind on the hard task
Maybe we looked past,
The ease we could go,
With the flow of reality,
Take it in our stride,
Pride in our natural abilities,
Blending it with the softness of life, too,
Seeking the balance of both,
Where nothing is that hard,
Where we are not too soft,
Where we stand open to both,
Stepping forward in each,
As needed,
When needed,
For as long as it is needed,
Facing the true reality,
That all parts
Make us all whole,
Make us complete,
Make us able to take on,
Whatever challenging tasks may come,
Like hard, unyielding clay,
Worked over with soft hands,
Creating a work of art,
A pot for tea,
Suitable for making sweet hot liquid,
Serving any who care to stop and have some,
Softening their day,
With refreshment,
Including a touch of honey
Until the hard times,
Sip and slip away,
Into a rest assured,
Softer night.
(c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021
there is a building in the poem like taking that hard clay making it into something useful… so true of life.
Unfortunately, reality shouldn’t always be hard. It should be real. And you’ve had your share of the hard. The tunnel is long, but the bright light at the end of it draws us to its brilliance showing the way. May you days be bright and your nights too. With all those stars you’ll never be alone!
Such a soft and giving heart you have, able to see beauty in the midst of dark clouds. This is beautiful, Janet.
“Is it difficult? Or were we taught it would be?”
A friend of mine and I have had this conversation more than once. ❤
Those first two lines are so powerful…..and then I marry them up with your /touch of honey/ and there is so much truth there… this world, at least in my belief, is not all…
Almost a chiaroscuro feel to this piece. Magical.
You’re waxing poetic here Janet.
Like the way you soften a day, Janet.
THROUGH SOFTER EYES
I see you so clearly now,
Gazing at you through my heart
You speak of a gentleness,
True compassion
An understanding
You convey a connection,
Bringing love to its fullest
And beyond
(c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2021
truth, and in the hardest times sometimes we become our better self.
Soft eye see the tender side of our being, as if seeing beauty at every turn. We yearn for its gaze; it makes your day more dazzling. Shine on, Janet!
Beautiful.
This piece just oozes tenderness.
Love the sentiment. I think a lot of us can relate to appreciating soft eyes!
Marie, a powerful poem about how fears keep us silent…
Thank you, Mary! That is far too often the case.
OMG, you’ve painted an outstanding piece of poetry, Marie. Silence can be debilitating in a sense. I had been there long ago.
Thank you, Walt! That means a great deal to me, coming from you.
Walt, your love poems are simply magical….
Aren’t they though???
I have you under my spell too, huh? Thanks Marie!
HA! As if you didn’t know. 😀
They’re not poems so much as they’re incantations, Mary. Thank you for noticing.
well they are beyond lovely…
This morning in church the preacher spoke on Ezekiel’s Bones, and it brought to memory I wrote nearly 40 years ago… I will post the first one in a comment…
Ezekiel’s Bones Revisited
Forty years have passed,
Since that day
I was heart-betrayed,
Left in a heap of dry bones,
Like road kill on the side of the road-
Picked away by vultures of what was once me,
Leaving yellow bones
Scattered and stripped and shattered.
Forty years of rebuilding me,
Of letting go, and finding hope,
Clinging to faith, and accepting love.
This was a hard road,
Up a rocky and cliff ridden climb,
Traveled by few, but a journey I had to make.
The stones, and rocks, and crevices
Stumbled me, stone-bruised my feet,
And gave me strength.
There were soft places of rest,
An amble through a meadow
Buzzing of bees, and butterflies flitting,
And the smell of flowers blooming.
There was a saunter along a beach at sunrise,
With a stride into the night to hear the waves
Soothing and restful before a night of rest.
Gazing across these forty years,
I was laid in the valley of the dry bones,
And thought life had ended, and
There was nothing left for me-
I am thankful for that shattering of me,
And all those hard stones
I have traveled over…
Stones that built the foundation
Of whom I am now…
I am proud of those stones I have crossed…
I would not go back to that day,
Before the betrayal of my heart.
I do not want to be that woman.
I want to be the woman,
Who understands the power of grace, and
Knows that faith that is tested-
Is more powerful than one that is not.
That woman, whom I once was, was a girl,
Believing in fairytales, and dreams,
Is gone.
Before you is the woman, who knows
Love is a gift that makes you whole,
Dressed not in divine dresses, but
Made of cotton in a simple everyday style.
I once lay in the valley of dry bones.
I once lost who I was, but
Because of that one dark hard day,
I was brought to a new life in the light,
Filled with hope.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 23, 2021
The Day I wrote this poem — I was recovering from a huge blow to my life in which I was also publicly humiliated, and I had a huge all day hearing ahead of me… and so I fasted for three days, and went for one week every night to my church where I prayed by myself… I wrung out my grief, my anger, until I collapsed and then I began to rebuild…bone by bone… muscle by muscle until I breathed new air…. then came the day for court… I had let go of my desires for the outcome of this hearing, and knew I was only an instrument of God, when I walked into that courtroom… I was a warrior… I wrote this poem in the process of those seven days…
Ezekiel’s bones
In the valley of dry bones, I lay,
Each bone separate, and long dead.
All broken and shattered.
I lay in death waiting for death.
I was nothing.
Each bone cried for unity, and
Together they were commanded-
To rejoin each until the bones a skeleton made.
Flesh covered the bones,
But still I lay in death waiting for death.
Life breathed on me;
Blood flowed thru me.
My lungs hurt from the air,
But still…
I lay in death waiting for death.
Then my Spirit breathed
Air much purer than earth’s,
And thru me flowed light
And…
I walked in life waiting for life.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
August 25, 1981 and revised September 12, 2012.
Every big hearing after this, I repeated the prayers and the fasting, and though I was known to have won all but one court hearing, I know in my heart that every hearing was won by God for I was only an instrument used by Him.
outstanding writing, Mary.
Thank you Walt…
Beautiful. Great images. I love that passage about the dry bones!
Thank you and I do also
Oh, Mary … this has my heart pounding. The poems, and the life that inspired them. Wow.
WOW …
Thank you so much…I have been blessed by my life…
Sometimes I think there should be a movie made of your life.
thank you and others have said that…I am just living it…
Mary,
Today in our church we celebrate the Holy Spirit–and I can truly say, that like you, after each placement and parent meeting with all the liaison SPED teams, I knew it wasn’t me speaking, but Him. Each was a win, not for me,, but for that child and hopefully, their parents! I have so much empathy for what you write with it being so close to my own work.
Amen and there were times I knew that he was protecting me…and blessings on you for your work also…
“forty years of rebuilding me”
It can take that long to become the person you truly are. Stunning, Mary!
thank you and it did take me that long to rebuild me.
The best thing is that you were able to keep going.
Wowzers! Marie & Walt you both outdid yourselves. I’ve read & re-read…each time, both just pull me in. So perfectly titled, both. I feel the angst of soft screaming…and the dreaminess of the parade. Just wow!
Thanks Paula, that title came to me the night before I wrote the prompt. Unlike a plain ol’ parade, the Soft Parade had a sensuality to it. The March is sublime and the cadence has a rhythm all its own. Every one should get to March, but not all get the chance! Appreciate you giving it the twice over.
Oh wow. Thank you SO much, Paula! You are generous and kind!
The Hard and the Soft…
There are few things in this life-
That are absolute.
Most of life is like water,
Fluid, foggy, and frozen…
Depending on the temperature.
People are like that also…
Changeable beings
With some predictability
Thrown in with the ability
To be variable like the weather.
One thing I have found to be absolute,
And that is when hoeing,
It is much easier to hoe soft soil,
Than hard dirt,
Especially if it is red clay.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 23, 2021
Smiling at “fluid, foggy, and frozen.”
Much wisdom flowing through this piece, Mary.
P.S. Our clay here in Maumee, Ohio isn’t red, but it is clay nonetheless. Like cement. Ugh. I feel you! (Excellent analogy, too.)
Thank you and clay is clay no matter the color… but our red stains things… and no matter how often you watch it is still a light orange.
Yes, especially in dry times.
and the heat baking it…
Wonderful.
thank you
In Sand Dunes, Softly
For three days I’ve watched
the Atlantic lapping Kiawah Island
off the coast of South Carolina
blue ocean laving dunes and men
golfing their proscribed eighteen holes
in rainy mists; balls arcing into fourteen knot
wind or sailing heedlessly with it past
flapping yellow flags, tiny holes
I imagine dunes’ softness where I’d crouch
in white sand, my toes powdered
by quartz glittering with diamonds sifted
through fingers seining for a bit of sea glass
as I wander island flora finding friends
among the lemony Evening Primrose and white
Morning Glory, bunches of pale Russian Thistle
feel the coolness of trailing Virginia Creeper
snaking between spiny pads of Prickly Pear and Devil-joint
as if wrapped in the softest cashmere shawl
I am surely at home in my own garden for here
is the soft lavender of Pasque Flower and Bee-balm
clusters of muscadine and spiking Yucca
tiny blue Day Flowers and Pennywort, the
shy Marsh Pink. Hidden by sliding sand
heaped anew by ocean wind I’m safe
almost able to forget that but a few
feet away are acres of manicured greens
with their velveteen grass and crowds
cheering a ball hit sent from a sand trap
into the hole for a hard won birdie
the whole of it fading into white noise
beneath the cries of real birds: egret and heron
cormorant and kite dipping and rising
above ocean swells while I sit screened
by Sea Oats, sketching Sea Rocket, Seashore Elder,
a Silverleaf Croton, wiggling my toes to
slowly disappear beneath a billion grains.
Pat, the visuals you paint come with mood and lighting. They make me sigh, and feel your sense of beauty and home. WONDERFUL, as always! ❤
If I heard a reading of this wonderful piece, I’d have a very clear picture in my head, Pat! So descriptive and precise.
The coast of South Carolina is wonderous…I have been to Kiawah Island, and you describe it beautifully… Most of my family likes either Edisto or Fripp Island. BUt this poem is perfection…
The imagery fairly sparkles in this poem. Superb.
Great visuals Pat!
You capture the visuals of movement through flowers perfectly. I always feel like I am somewhere
in your poems.
Marie & Walt,
Such great paens to this prompt. Marie– I hate to be cliche but so could’ve sat beside you while you wrote that! So Powerful! and Walt, there is such gentle progression throughout your poem the rhyming the all of it both subtle and yet strongly possessive in the best way.
Thank you so very much for your kind words.
I couldn’t agree more with your assessment of Walt’s piece.
Thank you both!
Okay, vacation time is over. Back to the prompts for me. I’ve missed y’all.
Life Sucks
From the very first minute
When I got my butt smacked
Just so the doctor could hear me cry
Life has sucked
All the childhood nonsense
Measles, mumps, and whooping cough
Then those pesky German measles and
The burst appendix that almost did me in
Life has sucked
But I made it through all of that
Just to end up a young adult
Having to fend for myself every day
Working, sweating, and working some more
And life still sucked
No jobs in my neck of the Northern woods
So off to the Air Force I flew with dreams
Of becoming a pilot or an astronaut
Instead I ended up becoming a plumber
Talk about life sucking
But at least I got to see the world and
I soon realized that the whole world sucked
No matter the language or situation
So I learned to live with it just as it was
The sucking life thing, that is
And then a strange thing happened
Into my life walked God’s greatest gift
And my entire outlook on life changed
Strange how true love corrects your vision
Of course, that was a long time ago
And we’re still adding the years together
I have since retired, twice, and she once
And my vision is clearer now than ever before
You see, as I look back, all the way back
I realize that life didn’t really suck at all
Well, at least not all of it
HA! Good one, Earl! AND YOU WERE MISSED! Good to have you back!
love it
Such a satisfying poem.
LOVE this! 🙂
LOL. I just picked up my new glasses about an hour ago, so the lines about correcting vision hit home!!!
Love it Earl. You came back tanned, rested and ready to poem. Love this, a lot.
Sleep Number
She sleeps in a valley
Disappears every night
I sleep on dreamy firmness
My number’s just right
If I roll onto her side
I sink to the deep
Then I roll out her side
‘Cause the climb is too steep
She likes her side soft
While hard I prefer
I think that a 30
Is perfect for her
My setting is 60
I sleep like the dead
And if I start snoring
She raises my head
Oh, I forgot to mention
The very best part
It’s fully adjustable
It even monitors your heart
We love our Sleep Number
It suits us the best
No matter our feelings
We can always adjust
Cute, with a clever ending!
Keith and I just ordered a new bed/mattress. Ours was just too old, and we’re tired of back problems. We didn’t order a sleep number, but it seems like it will suit us both. Also, the head and legs can be raised. The only thing is, it is all one unit. So whatever one of us needs, the other will have to deal with that night. 😉
This is our third Sleep Number, but our first King adjustable. It was necessary because of the changes made to my body and sleep needs after the surgery-gone-wrong of 2016. Split King, fully adjustable individually. A God send in sleep. Hope your new bed works out as well as ours have for us. And glad to be back.
This is exactly what I am trying to sell my husband on buying.
smile…
Immersifying, this. Love it.
LOL – i love this! And …”The climb is too steep”! We’ve been dealing with a memory foam that creates peaks and valleys as well. I can relate! 🙂
Steel and Silk
He was a hard-boiled
detective. She was
soft silk stockings
that swished as
she walked. Talked
about the hard times
besetting her. He knew
he would do anything
to avoid upsetting her.
His steel blue eyes met
her liquid brown pools
like melted chocolate.
She was being harassed
by a hard-core stalker.
He walked her home to check
things out, see her safe.
After a couple of bourbons
on the rocks, he told her
he would take her case. What
else could a hard-boiled
detective do?
What a fun take on the prompt, Sara! Clever, creative, engaging full story. Nice work!
Thanks, Marie!
love it m and there is a mystery here… and I am a sucker for mysteries
Mysteries are my favorite books. Thanks, Mary!
my favorite books are by these writers Peter Robinson, Donna Leon, and Walter Mosley.
Delightful!
Thanks, William!
This is awesome! I love the take on this.
Thanks, Benjamin. Glad you enjoyed it.
Film noir Meets poetry. I could see this in a late night black and white movie! Fabulous work, Sara.
Had me a first two lines!!
Thanks, Pat!
I love those movies. Thanks so much, Walt!
My hand trying at writing a blues song… One day I will get it right…
The Hard Life Blues…
Six in the morning,
And I would like to rest.
Six in the morning,
They tell me that I am blessed…
But it is six in the morning,
And I have got to get dressed.
Oh, Lord, it is a hard life,
I have my worries;
I have my strife,
Oh, Lord, can’t you hear me.
Ten in the morning
And I get no break.
Ten in the morning,
My bones aching, my muscles ache.
But it is ten in the morning,
And money I have to make.
Oh, Lord, it is a hard life,
I have my worries;
I have my strife,
Oh, Lord, can’t you hear me.
It is six in the evening
And I am going out on the town.
It is six in the evening,
Gonna find me a honey uptown.
But yes, it is six in the evening,
And I am gonna dance until they close down.
Oh, Lord, it is a good life,
I have my revelries,
But I ain’t no one’s wife,
Oh, Lord, do you hear me.
As I fall into bed,
Oh, Lord, six o’clock is coming.
As I fall into bed,
I think it is terrible to have no loving.
And as I fall into bed,
I did look stunning…
It is a good life, Lord,
It is a good life.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 24, 2021
How clever and fun is this! Can totally see this set to a catchy tune.
thanks and I have a tune running thru my head as I write one of these..
Dig those twelve bars!
thanks
Wonderful. I could hear this playing out in my head.
Thanks and that is what I hoped…
SOFT STARS
Soft stars,
cosmic compilations
of gas and dust;
Must burn,
to illuminate the dark
recesses of empty space.
Soft stars,
must burn—
to illuminate the dark
recesses of heart and mind.
They beautify
what they find;
like celestial ornaments
Set in the midst
of open space,
to grace the cosmos
With flowing streams—
of light, seeking
the eye of the beholder.
Benjamin Thomas
Lovely!
Thanks Marie.
lovely
😊
The title alone offers up a variety of vistas.
Thank you kind sir. 👍
Dream-filled poem. Love it!
Glad you enjoyed.
To see your eyes
I want to see your eyes soften
When you look at me.
I want to see them dance
When you tease me.
I remember those eyes from long ago,
I love the conversations we have,
But I want to see your eyes…
But I am thankful for this time
For I know you better now
Than I did then….
I should have flirted more,
When we were both young,
But I can be shy back then.
I can still be shy,
But I do know how to flirt.
I want to see your eyes,
And I hope you see this soul of mine
And that it will bring you joy.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 24, 2021
Adorable!
thank you,,,
Impressive body of work on this prompt, Mary. Between you and Benjamin, we have much to mull over! Well done.
Thank you Walt…
This brings a warm smile
thank you
Very sweet!
ah… and I don’t always do sweet well…
Kindling
Sparks of fire
grow from embers’ glow ~
their midnight
encounter
moves from soft nudge to being
hard pressed and breathless.
Oh, I like this one very much, Paula! From spark to full glow. The counter point between soft nudge and hard pressed. You nailed this one for sure!
EXCELLENT, Paula! As Walt says, you nailed it! Also, I was compelled to read this out loud. It reads so beautifully. *sigh*
Certainly would be something to hear read out loud!
Nice. This leaves a lot of room for contemplation!
To say the least
Wow and just powerful
Perfect depiction of hard and soft.
Pingback: Kindling | echoes from the silence
Song to the Night
Some speak of the night
As if she is a harsh mistress…
Others speak of how cold and hard
The night is when you are alone,
But I see the night as soft…
In the shadows I do not see foreboding,
But patterns of dark on a moonlit night.
The trees are black lace against the dark velvet sky,
Reminding me of the black laced slip
I once wore, and sometimes
Gave a glimpse of that lace,
But never too much.
The milky way throws its rhinestone stars
Across the galaxy in a display
Beyond our grasp.
And on the nights the stars dance,
I am there gazing waiting to say
OOOH how lovely…
As it blazes in its last dance.
I think that is how I want to be
Going out dancing at least
In my heart, with a bit of fireworks,
For I want my life to be celebrated.
In my youth, I wandered up to my hill,
Just as the stars came out,
And laid upon a beach towel,
To watch the stars.
I often fell asleep with dreams
As soft as a kiss of hello
Or one of goodbye
With the promise of something more.
When my days filled me with fear,
It was the night that wrapped me
In a soft blanket of comfort,
And shielded me from dark dreams.
To the night I sing my song
Of how delicate and fragile
Those hours are, for the least bit of light
Makes it retreat. It is not the night,
That we fear, it is those that use the night,
Who fear the light,
And cause us pain.
I sing to the night in the deep low softness
My voice can sing, raspy and warm
For I don’t know how else to convey
How those hours are a bequest to me.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 24, 2021
So movong.
Er….. moving
thank you…
Very lovely. Well captured sentiments here.
thank you and I have to ongoing love affairs… one is with the night and the other is with trees…
Mary, this is simply gorgeous. I envision a low voice of slow cadence, laden with pause.
thank you… in my youth I took voice lessons and had a four octave range… I wanted to sing opera but my big voice my teacher was suited for singing in musicals… I can’t hit f above high f any more… lack of practice but I found I can sing low and my voice is still big…
4 octaves?! WOW!
yep I am down to three
This is beautiful, Mary. I love the night hours.
Thank you and I love the night…
HARD FREEZE
Why is it
whenever I want
a soft serve
cone, the darn
machine seems to be broken?
An ice cream headache!
Maybe if you worked there……..
hah and that is the truth
Gotta watch that soft serve. If its too cold that brain freeze will go straight to tour toes! Cute poem, Paula!
😁😁
HA! Clever! 😀 Keep trying, Paula!
Pingback: Hard Freeze | echoes from the silence
Soft-clothed
words break vainly
on hard-headed souls like
gentle rainwater splattered on
pavement
– Erin Kay, 2021
Wow. I don’t think Adelaide herself could’ve written the form any better.
Oh hey Erin. Somehow I missed this one….Wonderful impact of imagery here.
those few words are powerful
*sigh*
A “wish I’d written this.” Your talent blows me away.
So much power in this brief poem.
FALLING HARD
He’d fallen hard
—for her.
She was a feast for the eyes,
as a mahogany nut
Calla lily.
She was dressed
in sheer elegance,
and she wore it well.
Her elaborate design,
could only sell—
soft supple petals.
The deep green vibrance
of leaves like sleeves.
The fragrance of purity,
an intoxicating aroma of beauty.
She stood, as an extraordinary
specimen in a crowded garden.
Her presence was warm,
but didn’t suffer any fool—
or a cold heart.
She played hard to get,
at the start—
but his heart was soft soil.
She was drawn to his depth.
His love for her was organic.
Providing everything
she needed.
Eventually she conceded,
what was true all along.
Seasons of song,
spring, summer, fall—
slumbering winter.
Nothing could stop them,
once they would enter—
That theme song
of love and grace.
He could be the face—
of the dawn.
He could be the light
in her sun-dipped petals.
Or a flowing gentle breeze,
affable, teasing blooms.
Or a particular kind of earth,
an affectionate soil,
with plenty of room.
She found herself
releasing root downward,
into his heart.
He felt the movement
of every part, inch,
of her rich growth.
He took great pleasure,
in their mystical-green union.
It was a match
made in heaven—
and earth.
That bore elegant fruit,
gave perennial birth—
to exotic gardens.
Benjamin Thomas
So sensual, this.
👍
I’m with William on this…wow! I was given a Calla Lily at work recently and it sits on my desk…not sure I’ll look at it without thinking of this poem. Nicely done!
Cool! Wish I had one. They’re such beautiful plants. Thanks.
Sensuous and beautiful and caressing of the soul…
Thanks. ☺️
A sensual feast of vision. Wow!
Thanks
Ooh, I love exotic gardens.
☺️ 👌
THE SOFT WHISPERS OF THE MOON
The soft whispers of the moon
speak of a day captured by night.
Of present memories taken too soon,
becoming the light of one’s past.
Testifying of all things pleasant or traumatic,
of things that don’t last.
Tis the soft whispers of the moon,
whose light renders some things cast.
The grey shadows of realities—
obscured by hymns of somber melody.
The soft whispers of memories,
become the aging light of remedy.
Like an evening of antiquated wines,
whose success favors with more time.
The soft whispers of a gentle moon,
whisper dreams in slumbering ears.
It re-tells the stories of the day,
soothes mind throughout the years.
It knits together—grey memories,
a comforting quilt, keeps us warm amidst the howling night.
Benjamin Thomas
This falls into the category of “I wish I’d written this.” The moon is a favorite muse.
Mine too. 😄
agreed and especially the first two lines…. because I wrote something similar,,, mine was “I was born of the mountains as the moon is born of the sun” I like yours better.
I agree, Paula. What is it about the moon?
Beautiful, Benjamin.
It must’ve been moonglow.
Nothing like the moon watching over us.
HARD BARGAIN
The grave drives
a hard bargain.
The wiles of death,
only accept one type
of transaction—
And the price,
is steep.
Benjamin Thomas
yes it is…. and it is unrelenting like this poem
👌
You amaze me. The vast array of subject matter that grows and flows from one prompt. You and Walt. Goodness…
Appreciate the comment, but Walt is in a category all by himself.
I think I will write more poems of that night, this is just the first one….
The Tall Giants Fell Hard….
The evening was quiet, and lovely.
I had taken a stroll in my forest,
The Rhododendron was blooming.
A thought crossed my mind,
That I needed to take a picture
Of it before it was gone,
But it was fleeting,
And I did not heed the warning.
I stood as I got close to my house,
To admire twin poplar trees
Towering warriors
That guarded their part of the forest.
The sound of the train
Racing towards my home
Froze me as I heard the crashing,
Of the giants falling like
A colossal game of pick-up-sticks
The others were safe in hiding,
I had stopped to grab my cat.
The power went out, and
We trembled hoping it was over.
In the night, I stepped outside,
The house was standing,
We were alive, but as I saw
The giant ancient trees felled
On my yard, and saw the fallen
Poplar warriors, the tears began to fall.
I climbed over a tree that shaded our house.
But after it was another tree, and
I feared the worse, and
In the flashlight beam
That rhododendron laid shattered
By a giant oak had fell upon
Those gentle flowers
Hard crushing its life into the earth.
We slept a troubled sleep, and
The next morning, I climbed
Over and under forty-one trees
To freedom from the rage of that storm.
The loss that happened in an instant
Thread bared my soul,
With the twirling mass of wind
That shattered more than trees.
A home should feel safe.
A forest should be a refuge,
For me that returned,
For my mother
It became a fear-
That did not relent.
Her words still haunt me
Of her saying in anger,
“You want the trees to fall on me,
And kill me.” Always took me-
Back to that night
When the giants fell hard in the storm.
I would not let the giants fall hard,
To release her from her fears.
I did not want her dead,
But I did not want them to die either.
I could not go back
To that night and blow
A gentle breeze to stop
A powerful train
Raging at us.
But I had protected her
From her other fears,
Of dead pine trees falling,
Of the dark, of thunder storms,
Of being in front of big trucks,
And of people breaking in on her.
I drove miles around so
She would not pass a dead pine.
I placed a light for her at night,
And when the thunder storms
Were booming, I would tell
Her it would be all right.
I drove behind many a big truck,
Rather than hear her cringe,
And grew up with her hiding axes
To keep us safe from intruders.
But-
I could not divert her from the fear,
Of the giant trees falling.
I listened instead of her accusations
That stung my soul
For I never wanted her killed
By one of those giants.
That morning after the storm,
I walked into the forest
And counted the damaged trees,
And the downed ones…
One hundred sixty-nine of those
I counted and not one was a hickory.
It has been over twenty years,
And I can tell the trees
Damaged by the storm,
They are beautiful and strong,
But the scars are there,
Like those placed on my mother
Until the day she died.
It took nearly twenty years for those tall giants to rot,
That told me more than the words be kind,
That our hard words
Made to others take a long time to rot-
A soul we scarred.
I wept that night for the trees we lost,
And thankful for those that suffered
The storms that night, and survived,
And like me became a victor.
I know I am like those trees
For I have survived many storms
In my life, and once I survived,
I took a step instead to be more,
And be a victor over them all…
I see old trees much like me,
Old warriors who stand guard.
We protect each other you see,
And even if I can’t stop the storms that come,
I can rejoice that I have conquered them.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 25, 2021
May 1, 1995, a tornado hit my forest. The damage was extensive, and three years ago, I had to cut down one of the trees damaged that night due to becoming a hazard. I know this poem was long, but I have never written anything really of the feelings of that night. One of our dogs until she died ate the house. I spent many a night holding Tessa still during a storm. Her sister Sooth we could not find that night, but saw her the next morning, had no fears of storms. Ma was strong that night, telling me and my nephew to stop crying that the Good Lord kept us safe, but as she aged, the fear of those trees became unreasonable. She also told her sisters and a cousin or two, that I was trying to kill her with those trees. It was difficult… For such a tower of strength it was her fears that took her reason. Thank you for reading.
Yay, I look forward to reading your poems about the night. Be back soon…
thanks
So much sadness in your telling.
“I could not go back
To that night and blow
A gentle breeze to stop
A powerful train
Raging at us.”
This alone speaks volumes.
Thank you….and sometimes in life we cannot stop what is going to happen.
I forgot to tell you this, but the title of this almost inspired me to write a short story.
SOFT GRASS GREEN AND SKY BLUE
You and I barefoot, on a soft meadow tract
emerald grass green as seen by eyes
azure blue as the skies. You, a breath of wind
to soothe me. My heart be still to find the thrill
unlike any seen, so true.
Soft grass green and sky blue; me and you.
Awww … soooooooooooo endearing, this!
this made my heart melt
Excellent! I got lost in this. 👏
Swooning away at this one, Walt!
another one on that night… it appears that I had to mull over that experience before I could write about it…
When Roots Fail….
I stood at the base of the upended tree…
The ball of roots stood taller than me…
Roots I had never seen,
Clay dripping off the veins, and arteries-
Of that tree hung like hair
Messed up when woken from their sleep.
Roots larger than a man’s thigh
Shredded and chopped by a dull
Powerful knife hammered and jerked
Them up from the tap root
That held them secure
Like a screw that entered the earth.
Hard clay when that seed sent its tap root…
Into the dark and deep earth, I have trodden…
That seed that dropped decades before I was born
Grew this once stately tree…
Now gone blown down by the wind…
That hard hitting wind
Unscrewed that tap root
Allowing that noble tree
To be lifted and tossed
Taking down the trees
Which crumbled at the weight
Of those roots that failed…
I thought of roots of a people…
Torn from them the land-
That once was theirs,
And how lost they were-
Disconnected from those roots…
It was the wind in the sails of ships,
That broke that tap root, and
Severed them forever-
From their past.
The weight of that loss of roots
Has caused many to fall,
Who came after…
Except within each of those that did
Is the seed of pristine roots,
That have cultivated people,
Who are strong.
Roots failed that tall tree,
But there were the seeds
It had planted, and shaded,
And now will mature
Into a tree just as strong.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 25, 2021
Your titled grabbed my heart, and carried it through to the strong ending. Well done.
Thank you Marie
Yes. Strong poem. I’ve seen firsthand how strong these roots can be, although nothing like what you say…We were digging up the root of a weed-tree, which we never got to the bottom of. It must’ve been at least 4 feet down before we decided just to chop of the top of it because it was so entrenched in the dirt. I can’t imagine how strong the roots are of an aged tree. I’m even more impressed by the powerful force of the wind that can knock these kind of trees down like they’re toys. Amazing! Beautiful poem.
thank you and that wind did all this damage in less than five minutes…Our house was not hurt… the huge oak at the end of our deck fell behind our two cars missing both and leaving not a scratch on them.. i wrote a funny poem about roots of a tree not budging years ago… Called “Don’t bury me but once” Ma wanted a tree moved and my father worked all day and that tree never budged and still is standing… and my father told Ma “Promise me you will bury me but once.”
SOFT RAINBOWS
Soft rainbows pay homage to angry clouds
—amassed amidst storms of a rainy day.
Splendid, resplendent, manifold color—
bounding, and rebounding, came out to play.
The tail end of a sailing river rainbow,
fearlessly dips into silver seas.
It sees its own rippled reflection,
as sweetness of candy apple red, buttercup blossom.
Royal green bells of Ireland, precious stalks of blue lupine, an orange Julia butterfly.
A tropical coat of a purple honeycreeper,
regarding its beauty as it flies.
Soft rainbows pay homage to angry clouds
—it fearlessly dips into silver seas….
Benjamin Thomas
There is no word to describe to loveliness of this poem…
Thanks Mary.
The idea of a soft rainbow is intriguing.
Thanks Sara. 😁
Simply lovely!
Owl’s Dream
Midnight sky
with full moon so bright.
Crickets chirp,
bullfrogs croak,
a soft wind rustles the leaves.
Who’s watching you? Me.
Love this and I often write about owls… they are a favorite of mine.
I love the scenery described here. 👌
I had this feeling somebody was watching me. Owl be darned, it’s you Paula! If you were talking about the moon last night, it was awesome, wasn’t it?
LOL 😂
Love the title, and any poem that begins with “midnight sky” is going to draw me right in. This is charming, and makes me smile!
A Hard Day of Work Needs a Soft Ending…
I heard people say, everyone has hard days of work…
They just didn’t get it… my good days
Were filled with long drives, interviewing people
Who denied the abuse, lied to me, and
Angry that I was between them and their children.
Rushing through paperwork, and getting bad news.
I can’t remember a day that didn’t have a bit of bad news.
My hard days were with a child telling me a dark secret,
Sometimes whispered into my ear, and
I had to steel myself not to let them know
How hard my heart wept for them.
My hard days were filled with bad news from doctors,
That the shaking that baby left him or her blind,
And their body rigid, and stiff, and
They would never walk or talk, or laugh.
My hard days was hearing news
That in a county not mine three workers like me
Where gunned down in their office…
And knowing it could have been us.
My hard days was hearing a foster home
Was being closed, and all the children had to be moved…
Abuse by someone we trusted,
Made us trust a little less.
But at the end of those days,
When I began to let go
On my ride home,
And I walked in my door,
To Ma smiling, and asking
How was my day, and
Sometimes I would cry on her shoulder
Wanting the images of photos and x-rays
Of abuse to leave my brain.
But most of the time,
I would say I was glad it was done.
It would be a soft ending,
As Ma told me her day,
Of her sisters and her cousins,
And what politics she had read that day.
We would eat supper, and laugh,
And for a few moments
My life was normal and
My hard day was like
Everyone else’s
Which was like my good day…
After Ma died,
I found that supper
Was the most difficult time
For me… I missed those conversations
That kept me going,
When I wanted to run away.
Those moments that once gave me solace
Now give me sorrow
And makes each day end hard
With no soft place to go.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 26, 2021
… and I am in tears…
Pingback: Owl’s Dream | echoes from the silence
THE SOFT OPTION
Live. Love. Laugh.
Live life vicariously,
as if through the eyes
of an acrobatic black-bellied hummingbird.
Sporting a velvet-black face mask,
powered by versatile, dynamic wings,
adjusting to what life brings—
forward or backward.
Love generously, without reservation.
Be an enchanting Foxglove inspiration
(Digitalis purpurea)
with ornamental purple tints.
Loaded with sugar-rich ready nectar.
Crowds coming to you for sweetness.
Laugh hilariously,
like a pack of f laughing hyenas;
on the prowl before they utterly consume their prey,
whose jaws are more powerful than any lion.
Benjamin Thomas
Big big smile here When I said good night on FB book I hoped that every one would get an unexpected smile… this poem gave me mine.
Glad I could be of service! 😁😁😁
This one grabs me, Benjamin! So much visual and emotional intrigue. Brilliantly creative!
THE HARD WOMEN IN MY LIFE
My mother was hard as nails.
She’d take a direct hit, and wouldn’t quit.
Trials, tribulations, would attempt
to drive her into the ground—
without success, to no avail.
My mother was hard as nails.
She might’ve been bent,
but never spent, never out of the fight.
She was forged on the battlefield
from the toughest steel.
My grandmother,
was tougher than an old leather boot.
You couldn’t boot her out of anything—
and you can ‘bet your boots’ she’d have your back.
Every time.
My grandmother,
was tougher than an old leather boot.
She simply didn’t understand “quit”
and most certainly, would die with her boots on.
My great grandmother, was a hard nut to crack.
If it rained cats and dogs, she’d bring a shovel.
If you were sitting on the fence, she’d tear the fence down.
If she was between the devil and the deep sea,
well, she’d take the devil by the horns and call up Moses.
My great grandmother, was a hard nut to crack.
If you were at daggers drawn, she’d disarm you.
If you were barking up the wrong tree, she’d cut the tree down.
If she cried for the moon, you’d better fetch it.
She’d stick to her guns, but also knew how to eat humble pie.
If someone put a spoke in your wheel, she’d put you at ease.
If you were at sea, she’d bring you back to bay.
If you were crying over spilled milk, she’d poor you a new glass.
But all through thick and thin, if you were struggling,
she was a bosom friend.
Benjamin Thomas
Hah and I came from generations of hard women… I so know this poem
Glad you can relate. 👌
Oh my word, this is GREAT! I especially love the part about your Great Grandma, and maybe (possibly) especially this:
“If you were sitting on the fence, she’d tear the fence down.
If she was between the devil and the deep sea,
well, she’d take the devil by the horns and call up Moses.”
Oh my goodness how you made me smile!
Thanks. I do miss them dearly. My grandmothers were like moms to me. I actually spent more time with them than my own mother.
A SOFT-HARD MAN
My grandfather,
was soft and light as a feather,
but certainly didn’t ruffle any.
Quiet as a mouse in contemplation,
you hardly knew or could detect,
that he was there.
But if he wanted
to make his presence known—
he was a Mack truck headed downhill,
without brakes. Make no mistake about it.
He could be soft, yielding,
and unprovoking like a kitten’s purr.
Soothing, exuding calm,
never quick to cause a stir.
But if he were hard,
he was nothing short
of an impervious brick wall.
Benjamin Thomas
My was was a gentle man like your grandfather….
I miss his calming influence!
I miss my father’s also…
Sounds like a winner to me. Getting to know your family helps me get to know you better. 🙂
That’s my gramps! Tearing up just thinking about him. We called him ‘Pop’
Woke up this morning….
I went to bed looking to the morning,
And woke up and my head
Screamed as I cranked my eyes open.
My head said close them go back to bed.
This morning has turned into this afternoon,
And the rocks on my house
Seem like a way to end my pain, but
I know that will be a slaughterhouse.
This afternoon my brain is pounding,
And closed eyes only makes me blind.
I just hope this will be a one-day affair,
And my head relents and is kind.
My mother called these sick headaches.
I don’t care what they are called,
I just want this one gone,
And for now, on my bed, I am sprawled.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
May 27, 2021
I Might should call this I hate migraines…
How anyone can write a poem (let alone a good one) in the midst of a migraine is surely one strong poet! I trust it subsided.
A Hard Time (hard and fast zen)
My dad’s fake Rolex
is frozen hard.
The hands don’t move.
There is only now.
Hah,,,, I found Da’s watch yesterday, and it is stopped and it made me smile….
Oh wow! This is a “pow,” Daniel. Hard and fast zen, indeed!
That’s awesome! 👏