Sometimes presumed errors or perceived wrong decisions surprisingly work to our advantage. We cover our tracks by proclaiming, ”I meant to do that!”
But was it something you were meant to do? What was it that you were meant to do, or would have liked to have done?
Turn your self-search into a poem and let us know where it might have taken you.
MARIE’S EXAMPLE:
TOO LATE (a waltmarie) I ignored your advances. I made you beg my pardon, while you strained to gain my affection … but I couldn’t encourage candor. No, not when you meant to lead me to altars and vows, and expected to hear me say I do, while my panic clearly cried I don’t love you. © Marie Elena Good, 2022 Inner poem reads: pardon, but I meant to say I love you (Disclaimer: While most of my poems are based on my life and thoughts, this one is completely fabricated. 😉 )
WALT’S POEM:
THE POEM I MEANT TO WRITE The poem I meant to write lived in my soul since I knew I was meant to write a poem or two. Or nine hundred. The one blunder of my existence was my resistance to refrain from writing rhyme. So now poetry flows through me, it knew me long before I was born. For from that morn on, this gift has lifted my heart, in part to touch other souls with no control over this muse of mine. I refuse to rest until that one best poem is written. The one that has me smitten. The poem I meant to write. THE one. © Walter J Wojtanik - 2022
ABSENT WORDS
I assumed guilt in sackcloth and ashes
when I drank the milk of your wrath.
I should’ve spoken…
“Mommy please, don’t hurt me.”
Yet the swift hands of fire and brimstone
came reigning down repeatedly smiting—
and smiting….
Until the merciless judgement had completed
its work.
I was left alone, smoldering and friable.
Abandoned by the only safe person I knew.
Choked was the feeble confidence I once had.
The innocence and strength of a voice was seized.
The rug was yanked from beneath my feet.
Stability fled and I could no longer stand.
I wish I could’ve spoken words to assuage your
anger. Words that could still your wrath, cause you to cherish me, and you become my anchor.
But that ship had already sailed.
I was already lost at sea as a young naive boy.
Tossed about, and turned by the familiar
waves of violent storms.
Shipwrecked and weary.
Hungry for love and affection.
Still seeking stable ground.
© Benjamin Thomas
Ben, that ‘turn’ of perspective on that familiar phrase ‘ship had already sailed’ was perfectly placed for the powerful self awareness that follows. Well written.
Indeed so
In absolute agreement with Damon. Well done, Benjamin!
… and how are you feeling?
Much better. Thanks!
That’s great news! ❤
😊
Thanks Damon.
Excellent writing, Benjamin!
Thanks Sara. 👍
Marie, Walt… this is a challenging prompt for me, and you both have written such perfect responses!
Marie, the forlorn regret of your waltmarie form is so well embedded in your poem.
Walt, I loved the restraint transformed to surrender to relief in your story!
I will give this a try.
Thank you for your kind comment, Damon!
MEG, I have read this one many times, each reading revealing something new to me. A little near rhyme, a lot of closet soul, some lines refrigerator magnets. Marvelous.
WW, I am happy that you are such a perfectionist because it means that you will continue to write and write and write in search of that perfection, while your appreciative readers get to see all of what you give us, perfect to you or not.
Thank you sooo much, Daniel!
Meanwhile, been trying to get this posted on my site for 2 weeks… not related to this prompt, but on our camping trip, one early morning up a mountainside hike. https://wp.me/p29VQl-ja
Thank you for sharing this here, Damon. I commented on site. ❤
🙂
Independence 17’s
Failure to forgive
keeps me from knowing the truth.
Forgiveness frees me.
Having great power,
I can be a force for good,
wisely and with faith.
When I’m too revved up,
it helps to take deep, slow breaths,
knowing all is well.
It’s a useful tool,
the simple act of pausing,
calms what happens next.
If hurt comes today,
I will pause, take a breath and
share the best of me.
Being forgiving
releases me from my most
negative thinking.
My light brightens lives,
invites others to share theirs.
I’m a Lightworker.
I’m worthy of love,
not too quick to blame myself.
I’m gentle with me.
A worthy companion to St. Francis, that, in my opinion.
Your 17s all year long have been a calming balm that leave me sighing. So thankful for you, my friend.
Lovely 17s, Daniel!
That Time
I did not cry as far that time,
that time I left, in driving rain,
regrets in torrents and in tears.
By exit seventeen I dried my face,
turned up the wipers to full speed,
and set my destination,
tentative, of course,
upon some place I didn’t really want to go.
The next time I did not cry, leaving then,
no tears at all,
just a long and somber sigh.
Now miles and miles and miles
from my departures I
regret that I did not say
I’m sorry,
for the things I know now, farther down this road
than I ever really wanted me to go.
The things I know now
I wish I didn’t know.
And so,
I will cry farther now,
as I now leave,
again,
so sorry for the times
I did not cry.
© Damon Dean, 2022
Good try, that.
Such depth of heart frayed, displayed, layered and laid open. So few words say so very much. Expertly penned, Damon.
Thanks… many regrets. I think we all write better from the deepest parts of our hearts.
So true, my friend. Hugs …
Emotionally charged, Damon!
Thanks Sara, regrets are tough sometimes, but guilt sorrow are harder. I’ve left those behind long ago.
I have a story to tell…
This was not the life I meant to have….
I had planned
To go to Boston…
To be a chaplain…
And work with the dying.
Ma’s one rule got in the way.
Growing up we could do anything
As long as family and friends
Knew nothing about our antics.
Since we lived far away from relatives
That was easy until I the last at home
Was plopped down in the midst of relatives.
Ma’s sisters told her I was going to hell
If I became a minister.
I fought this
Until I lost my faith…
Being a chaplain
Was a mirage
Floating out there
But when I got there
It was gone.
I am a warrior born.
I had to have a purpose.
But I didn’t and I floundered
Like those fish
That washed up at night
On the coast of Mississippi.
I devised a plan…
As I did odd jobs,
Like cake decorating,
And hiked, and
Went to festivals
For those that played dulcimers.
I told no one.
I took a test
For grad school…
I was going to Montana.
I was not coming back…
Maybe to visit,
But I thought I would
Eventually open a bar
With pool tables,
And know cowboys
Who wrote poetry…
In the style that cowboys write.
It was what I thought
My last summer in South Carolina.
Then I got the call.
I had an interview
To work with foster children.
I dressed nice…
And when I was asked
By the director,
“Why do you think
You did not get the job
With the other interviews?”
I smiled and knew
I had nothing to lose…
For I was going to Montana.
Sweetly I said, “I don’t have any pull
To get one here.”
The director looked like a cat smiling…
And as the supervisor came into the room,
He said, “Meet your new worker. I just hired her.”
Shock is too mild a word for how I felt.
Montana the mirage
Evaporated before my eyes.
He called my friends and asked
A really stupid question if you knew me…
“Is she capable of independent thinking?”
One said she almost laughed
When she heard the question…
One said that I was,
Another dear friend
Decided not to tell how independent
I could be for she wanted me to get the job.
One very honest one said,
“Oh, she can be that and more.”
At home they were excited,
But I was sad…
The adventure of Montana
Was behind me…
The job I loved
Was never in my planning meant to be,
And that independent thinking
Made me a pioneer
Creating treatment plans
And asking for child support
From men and women
Before the agency ever did.
By the way asking for women
To pay child support seemed
Normal to me…
For equality meant
They had to pay for their child.
You would have thought
I said they had to walk
Around town pulling a red wagon,
But I got it ordered anyway.
It was in the end
What I was meant to do.
And just so you know this,
I did not confess this
Until after I retired.
I remember the shock
On my mother’s face
When I told her
What my plans had really been.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
July 3, 2022
Sounds to me like a well-told odyssey of the soul.
Odessey is a good word for it. Thanks…
Another compelling life-story, Mary. Well done!
Thank you, and my life has some interesting things that I did not mean to do
Oh, the journeys our minds take.
Wow, what a kick-in-the-head poem, Marie. Wonderful.
Well, I can say with all certainty that no poem of mine has ever been described as a kick in the head. Thank you, Bill!
Walt, your piece could be titled, “The Poet’s Work Ethic.” Dan hit it on the nose: you won’t rest till you write THE poem, which, unless I miss my guess, you’ll always be striving for. All to readers’ benefit, of course.
NO MEANS
I meant to leave you laughing when I left,
but I forgot.
I meant to say, “You shouldn’t feel bereft,”
but I forgot.
I meant to leave you with a parting kiss,
but I forgot.
I meant to sound more elegant than this,
but I forgot.
I meant to do all this in May
and not December,
but I forgot
to remember.
I meant to not forget to smile and now you have helped me do so
Smiling along with Daniel. The simplicity of this piece effectively tells your predicament. EXCELLENT.
This is wonderful, William, especially the ending!
Rearview
In high school,
teachers and friends
insisted I go to college,
but I had no idea
what I wanted to do.
An interest test revealed
I should be a physical therapist.
I did my first year of college,
but I actually had no idea
what physical therapists did.
I quit after the first year
and spent another year
at a job I hated
working at McDonald’s
to pay off the college loan.
Then I went through a series
of unfun low-paying jobs,
got married and raised kids,
and then hosted four people
with developmental disabilities.
Hubby had two strokes
and I saw firsthand
the amazing things
physical therapists did.
And I thought,
I should have been
a physical therapist.
But on the other hand,
I probably wouldn’t have
become a writer.
I can feel the pinch of this in your words. I must say, it is never too late to become a physical therapist. Also, it certainly wouldn’t have to keep you from writing. ❤
This is such a quietly powerful piece, in my opinion.
Trying times in life, really make you look at all the possibilities. Love this, Connie.
Not sure if this right but it was on my heart so I wrote it
Life is funny that way….
I wrote a poem years ago…
No one has seen it but me.
I tucked it away in a journal,
And it was a sad story
Of if Love had come to me.
For it didn’t come really…
There was one that tried to change me,
But one thing I know
Is who I am…
I never had to search for me…
I was just grounded in me.
When he told me he found another…
It was relief I felt for I was free.
The next one healed my broken heart.
It was just a season for us.
I remember him fondly,
And I hope sometimes
He thinks of me.
The self-absorbed thief
Took my heart and broke it.
I decided then
That love for me
Was not meant to be.
It was a monsoon of tears
I cried as I locked my heart away.
It was a different kind of brokenness.
I was like a piece of pottery
Glued together but no longer serviceable,
But looked nice on the shelf.
The job I loved was behind me,
And my family was gone…
Do I live these years
Alone on a shelf
Only dusted
Whenever some one
Decided to clean it?
I content in my sadness.
But within me
I remember that poem
I wrote decades ago
When I closed the book of love,
And continued to live my life.
I decided to break
The pottery that was me,
And make it useable again.
I stripped the glue
By facing the past…
Clean the surface of the wounds…
On the edges of the broken vessel
That was me, and piece by piece
I took the molten gold of forgiveness
And forged that piece of pottery
Back piece by piece
Until it was whole…
I stepped back
And looked upon my art,
And thought of the Japanese art-
Kintsugi it is called…
And I became what I was meant to be.
Someday I want to create such a bowl
To represent me as what I was meant to me,
And not the broken one on the shelf
Who was forgotten and left behind.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
July 3, 2022
7th verse should start “I seemed content….
Contemplation-in-poetry. I especially am drawn to:
“Do I live these years
Alone on a shelf
Only dusted
Whenever some one
Decided to clean it?”
thank you and I do contemplative prayer from time to time
I am drawn to the same passage.
thanks and maybe one day I will take it and make another poem
Wonderful works all, it’s what I’ve been needin’
The challenge was prize, the responses exceedin’
I should have contributed; my own thoughts distributed,
but today is a day for just thinkin’ and readin’.
Awww! I love this, Kevin! ❤ ❤ ❤
Her heart intended to mend
To ignore lies
To no longer allow her ear to bend
To give no credence to accusations of the past
That part of herself she hates, condemns
She hopes, prays
Is dead at last
Oh my sweet friend. I’m hoping and praying with you. This poem hits my heart big time. I love you so much … there is sooo much to love. ❤
Powerful poem, Shelly!
Never Meant To
take back anguish
never meant to be tough to raise
my parents suffered
Perhaps they understood.
I’ll never know.
Wow. Sara, this is a lot to unpack in very few words. I suspect Bill is right.
Don’t be hard on yourself. ❤
Thanks, Marie.
An excellent waltmarie, Marie!
Walt, I think many of your poems were The One, this one included.
Too late
On Judgment Day
The day we meet Jesus
“I meant to do that” won’t go well
Better get-r-done today
Sobering truth.
Colorado tempted me
With her peaks dotted white on summer’s hottest nights
Swimming icy waters of Horseshoe Lake
Cheerleading in Boulder’s town square
Hiking snow capped rocks of Pike’s Peak
Horseback riding through the foothills
Teaching little people God’s Word.
Until New Jersey invited me
To make my home a block from her shore.
Body surfing on the ocean’s waves
Selling carpet in a small department store,
Walking the boardwalk in sunshine
Watching fireworks explode over the Atlantic
Sharing the love of Jesus with the locals
Helping women escape men’s wrath.
But then Houston shouted my name
With her promise of a forever home
Teaching Spanish to seventh graders from Ecuador, Mexico, El Salvador
Or rather, they were teaching me
Growing me in not just Spanish,
but compassion, mercy, grace, love
Reminding me why teaching was my calling
and Houston was my home
But then a voice called me
That was not a place at all
This crazy man dares love me,
Promising me forever
Leading me back to the place I’d run from long ago,
But with him no matter where I live, I am finally home.
Adventure called me westward, eastward, southward
I followed…until she finally called me home
Mesmerizing
Love this. Love you. SO MUCH. ❤
New Year’s Eve, Softly Spoken (a walt marie form)
I was listening to the blues upstairs.
She was
downstairs dressed in white
a princess
someone left behind.
I happened to be back
in town.
A friend and I were celebrating the
new year.
Seven months ago when she and I met
she was getting
a divorce.
Then she introduced me to
her friends.
We talked about her art and her new
illustrator job.
I talked about how I wanted to
find myself.
Her son was back at home with
her mom
and this night she was more beautiful than any
time before.
She asked for a ride back home and snow fell as
I drove.
The town glistened like
a dream.
I took in moments of silence
and reverie.
We shared a kiss goodnight and said happy
new year.
I had to go to pick up
my friend.
Oh, how I wanted to stay
with her.
I can feel the ache in this.
Such a sense of longing in this, Mike.
Goodness, such depth of longing.
Though this is not a waltmarie, I love it, and love the form it took.
IF I HAD A CHOICE
If I had a choice,
I would have been a singer.
But not with this voice!
I carry a tune like I have
It in a wash pail full of holes.
I could write the music fine,
And the lyrics were purely mine.
I was meant to be full of song.
But don’t get me wrong,
My misdirection lead me to poetry.
My lyrical words are read
And not heard, unless I sing them.
But not with this voice!
(C) Walter J Wojtanik – 2022
I never wrote music, but I get this.
This makes me smile. And, I’ve heard your voice. I’d say “this voice” any day of the week.
She meant to do and yet she didn’t
This woman and I had
A long history…
Her children were under my watch.
She never gave me the right address
Of where she lived.
She refused to do anything,
But she wanted her children back,
And this I knew.
She would give me vacant lots, and
Abandoned houses for an address.
I would try to explain
Why I needed to see her house.
But she was determined to do nothing.
She came in unannounced
All the time. This time
I asked… are you still married
To your husband.
She said yes,
I don’t believe in divorced.
I laid the marriage license
To a different man…
She shook her head,
I didn’t mean to do that.
And I left it at that.
The day of the hearing
To take her children away…
She represented herself…
I wondered what she would ask
Would she ask about her putting roots on me?
Would she ask about the time
She kidnapped her children
And why she brought them back?
Would she asked about reading
The Bible to me and why she did it?
No, she did not…
Her first question of me
Was this—
“What did I tell you about
The treatment plan?”
I answered,
“You said that would not
Do anything on it
Until you got your children home?”
Her next question was
“Did I do what I said?”
I looked into her eyes
Knowing that she had sealed her fate
With those two questions,
And I wanted to cry
For this was going to break her…
I looked down and then
Into her eyes that locked with mine…
“You did exactly what you said you would do.
You did not do anything on the treatment plan.”
She nodded her head,
And I stepped down from the stand.
She explained in her remarks
That she felt we had no right to take her children.
It was why she meant to do nothing
I had asked her to do.
She said I tried to get her to do
Those things but why do them
If her children should have
Never been taken.
Her rationale made sense
From her perspective,
But sadly, it would cost
Her what she loved the most
And that was her children.
When the Judge terminated her rights
She began to wail and scream,
And the bailiff got between her and me.
It was days like this
That made me hate my job.
I went to my office,
And told the results…
Some of those celebrated…
I couldn’t.
I took a week off
To heal the wound in my heart.
If I had it to do over…
I would have not taken that job.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
July 4, 2022
So sad
she is one that haunts me
This one brought tears, Mary. I can’t even imagine.
This poem is a not true story, but I do love mysteries, so it is not really one but…. Hey I tried…
She meant to do that
She went to look for a car…
One that would work…
The salesman said,
“Want to take it for a ride?”
He hoped she would say yes
Because she was a redheaded stunner…
“No, I want to see the trunk.”
“Just the trunk?”
“Yes, that is all. I need it for a reason or
Maybe three.”
He opened the trunk and she measured it,
And said, “I think I get three bodies in there.”
He was shocked, and then she winked,
“I am just kiddin’”
She paid cash,
And off she drove.
Her boyfriend came over
And fussed at her
For she wouldn’t leave her husband.
She gave him a kiss and a drink…
And had the wheelbarrow handy…
When he was quite cold
She wheeled that barrow
Over to the edge of the porch and dumped
Into her new trunk.
Her husband came home and
Said, “Is it over?”
She smiled sweetly and said,
“Let’s go celebrate.”
After that little celebration,
She thought he needed a good send off,
And then decided to ride with him,
He did not notice her little ole gun
The one he had given to her
For her birthday.
It even had a diamond on it…
She helped to dump the body, and
Then gave her husband a kiss
Before she shot him.
He was a bit shocked at that,
And as he died…
She said,
“Didn’t you know
I always meant
To get rid of you.”
She left the car,
And walked to where
She hid her own…
She hated to throw away
Her little ole gun
But she drove to the dam
And saw no one was there
With one last kiss on the gun
Before she tossed it into the deepest water.
She drove home,
And at midnight
She called that her husband
Took her new car out for a drive,
And hadn’t come home.
She told them she was powerfully worried.
They came out to ask her questions…
She thought they would never find
The two men she had slaughtered.
She forgot about the vultures…
Those buzzards had a feast…
And a curious man found
What they were feasting on,
And called the sheriff.
The detectives added it up,
And told her what they had found…
She cried crocodile’s and
Nary tissue was wet…
“Well,” she started,
“I never meant…”
The young detective said,
“You never meant to kill them.”
She rolled her eyes and said,
“No, I meant to do that.
I just never meant for you to catch me.”
Mary Elizabeth Todd
July 4, 2022
Brava!
Thank you and it was great fun to write
I bet! You storyteller, you!
Oops
My favorite shirt
Covered in dirt
The laundry piled high
Oh, I meant to do that
Guests coming soon
No forks or spoons
The dishes piled high
Duh! I meant to do that
The trash truck came
And I’m to blame
Didn’t take it out
But I meant to do that
Got up too late
Boss couldn’t wait
Didn’t set the alarm
I meant to do that
Now I’ve no job
In line with Bob
We shoulda been on time
We meant to do that
Just meaning to do
Doesn’t get the job done
I’m tired of saying
I meant to do that
Chuckling merrily here
As usual, your rhyme and cadence are flawless, and your words make me smile!
I meant
To do just that
But for some odd reason
The train in my brain derailed and
It completely slipped my mind
😀
Midnight
It wakes me up
And I must write it down
But by the time the cobwebs clear
The thought runs straight out of mind
Oh, yes; understood.
Oh, I know this feeling well.
Every time, it seems! Ugh! 😉
Scuttled
Everything she came up with
seemed too pedestrian too cliché
she’d drawn one of those life-lines
her highs and lows climbing
the decades with predictability
and her number two pencil digging into
the thin paper of her life so that
she wished she had fat charcoal
to cut a wider swathe show how
it was so much more than that thin line
choices so much more considered
not merely accidents or serendipity:
that she’d been captain of her ship
(or was that how she’d vanished lost at sea
along with her stories her hand on the hull
upturned and varnished along with the truth)
when did she begin to believe
her own fictions clinging to them even
as she twisted in the wind that filled sails
and sent her skimming over dangerous water
so many tempests taking her apart but
still the line connected all of them like
a lengthy voyage lurching up and down the swells
across the page: timeline and ship
mooring knots frayed and curling away
from the palings, left behind though
she’d thought to tie up so securely
time and again only to find her hands
too weak too scarred too bloody
to bring in the boat against the pull
of the water and the frog chorus filling
her head even as she waits for moonrise
the crumpled sheet riding the current
its own tiny boat scuttled to drift ashore
on some shoal and puzzle the beaver
pedestrian the line but not her life
every fall her own but every rise held up
by a thousand tiny people too many
to draw and so she’d tossed it then
no way to explain why she failed
to hand in the exercise when she
went to class the next day.
Your brilliance never ceases to amaze me. Love the ending!
I get lost in every one of your poems. Several noteworthy phrases here.