Gone Astray . . .

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in a world of anonymous strangers

we surrender to the trendy lure

of being something we’re not

hoping integrity won’t seize our soul

and ruin our imperfect happiness

while blindly we sleepwalk like mindless zombies

crashing into this, tripping over that,

unable to rid ourselves of the

monotone voices that urge us

to touch, but not to feel,

to look, but not to see

our faceless selves

all going nowhere,

seeking nothing

We, as humans, are a mystery to me sometimes – for Ragtag Daily Prompt: Mystery 

Packing up Christmas/Foto Friday #23

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After weeks filled with hectic preparation

sadly, another Christmas has come and gone.

Anticipation of festive joy was riding high

as a propensity for Christmas magic

was all it took to keep my hope and dreams alive.

Now the holiday is over and the magic is gone –

packed away in plastic containers

amid shiny baubles and strings of lights.

Hope has become just hope again

and dreams have become just dreams

… until next year

when the magic is unpacked.

Tracks in the Snow

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A poem for my grandchildren:

This morning from my window I saw tracks in the snow.

“Look!” I said to Momma, “Can we see where they go?”

“It’s cold outside!” she answered, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“Oh, I do!” I said to Momma, “I’ll go get my coat and hat!”

So, I ran to the closet where we keep our winter clothes.

I pulled out boots and mittens plus a scarf to shield my nose.

With Momma bundled up like me, we stepped outside together.

So warmly we had dressed ourselves we didn’t mind the weather.

Tracks led us to the river, then up the rocky ridge,

through the brush and bramble and over the narrow bridge.

We heard a sound then turned to see a fawn and graceful doe

huddled close together under branches hanging low.

The baby deer lay on the ground curled up fast asleep

on a simple bed of crusty leaves where the snow was not as deep.

The doe leaped to attention watching every move we made,

but we were nice and quiet, so she wouldn’t be afraid.

I looked into her big brown eyes and softly said “Hello!”

“So, you’re the ones who left behind the tracks in the snow.”

As Momma took me by the hand, we slowly backed away

from the handsome gentle creatures who had surely made my day.

Across the bridge and through the brush, then up to the plateau,

we paused for just a moment to enjoy the view below.

So brightly the sun glistened that each snowflake was a jewel,

just like glitter on a picture that I had made at school.

Back home I shed my coat and hat. Somewhere I’d lost a mitten.

“Hot chocolate?” Momma asked me as she headed for the kitchen.

“Thanks”, I said to Momma when she handed me a cup.

It tasted great, but really, it’s her smile that warmed me up!

I sat down by the window just as I had done that morning

with thoughts of all we’d seen and done while we were out exploring.

I gazed down to the path where we had been not long ago.

“Look!” I said to Momma, “we made tracks in the snow!”

 

Always find joy in the little things, my dears!

with love,

Grammy

RDP: Bridge

Nancy Merrill Post a Day: The Things That Matter Most

Another Visit to Hannah’s Kitchen

I love how poetry is subject to interpretation. All writing is, to a certain degree, but poetry often means different things to different people and can stretch far beyond what the writer imagined. Take last year’s poem Thanksgiving in Hannah’s Kitchen, for instance. It met with mixed reviews: some liked it, some did not. Some saw it as funny and some found it sensual. Here’s how I see Hannah. She is the oldest, probably lonely, and least hospitable member of her family. She has prepared more Thanksgiving dinners than she cares to remember. She has the timing of every dish down to a science and prefers to do it herself over the drama and chaos that comes with “help”. Time alone finds her reminiscing, but there comes a point during her familiar routine when she grows impatient with the turkey… and maybe with herself. Here again is Thanksgiving in Hannah’s Kitchen:

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Aromas, spicy and strong,

emit themselves from the depths of Hannah’s kitchen

where she busies herself with tasks no one will notice:

potatoes peeled, cranberries washed

and flour swept from the floor after making pies.

Many in her family have offered to help

but Hannah finds them useless

like the cold, dead turkey she pats dry.

She fills the bird with stuffing and rubs him with oil,

massaging the skin as if it were a former lover.

She reflects on by-gone days and early escapades

into the promises and promiscuity of youth.

She glances around the kitchen,

embarrassed by the direction her mind has gone;

just one more reason she is glad to be alone.

She tends to the turkey once again,

preening him like a groom before his wedding.

It startles her when his legs become untucked,

as if wanting to stand up, one last time, in the shallow pan.

Meticulously she binds them—tighter this time

then shoves the whole damn turkey into the oven.

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate it!