The Gift of the Crumpled Flower #poetry #photography

 

lone daisy

“a flower was offered to me…” *

crumpled, once wild and free

the little one that gave it

an orphan was he

I looked in his eyes

a clear blooming love

I gathered some stars

and joy from above

 brief mere moments

were all that we had

but flowers are like that

petals in our hands

***

Memories like flowers

spring fragrance on winter’s winds

petals on a page

 

framed hand with flower

Some poems write themselves. This came as I remembered a precious orphan who gave me a flower because I had smiled and spoke to him (in very poor Russian). This    week’s prompt from Poets United – begin our poem with ” A flower was offered me”

(* William Blake)

Lost on the Train #Ukraine #poetry

 

Uneven are the clickity clack

as the wheels slide along rails

It’s hard not to echo silent  words

that I heard on that Crimean train

the subtle all but lost

except in the shudder of the cars

the steel sparking off the tracks

Clickity clack they gossip

“she was thrown from the train – here

they meant to kill her

but the people without faces knew

she was alive”

I caress the worn boards

wanting to hear and see

splinters had achieved their goal

men’s hearts pierced

women and children sent away

my eye captures what would have been a tear stain

had they not cut it out

tossed it after the woman

hoping all the time that society would forget

how to love life

and man would graze with the cattle

women would bray like the ass

children would not feel  freedom

of grass tickles their bare feet

All I Have Are Ashes #Akhmatova #poet #societalcancer

 winter scene

I’ve cried for seventeen long months,
I’ve called you for your home,
I fell at hangmen’ feet – not once,
My womb and hell you’re from.
All has been mixed up for all times,
And now I can’t define
Who is a beast or man, at last, 
And when they’ll kill my son.
There’re left just flowers under dust,
The censer’s squall, the traces, cast
Into the empty mar…
And looks strait into my red eyes
And threads with death, that’s coming fast,
The immense blazing star.

~above is an excerpt from “Requiem ” by Anna Akhmatova*

Tears mingle in the dirt
whose ashes are these?
they look familiar
momentarily my tears sparkle in the mud
“oh yes that was my first love
he died at the hand of Lenin
my son is still awaiting my tears”
the ashes have worked their way
into the fabric of one shoe
clinging to memory
“please God  give my frailty a purpose”
this shoe I ask that they not take 
I must cling to it for warmth

when the winter breezes dry my once fresh skin
kiss my cheek with remnants of him…
~mdw

(my echo of a poem to this Russian woman who knew such pain)

Anna Akhmatova is known as one of Russia’s finest female poets. She lived during a time when freedom of artistic expression was unwelcome. Her losses were many…

This is being shared with Poets’ United Midweek Motif the topic Cancer.

This recent poem Winter’s Accusation deals with cancer the disease. I write occasionally about it but I usually try to stay clear of those doors.

“Red” is in this Season #prose #socialism #photography

red head

“You look good in red,” all the store clerks said as they gathered round admiring their work.

I shook my head and pointed, “I like that one!”

It was the same coat just in a rich royal blue.

“No, that was last season’s coat. It is not for you.”

I pulled the coat up next to my skin. My blue eyes became more vibrant.

“Yes. I like the blue.” My eight- year- old spirit was not going to be railroaded.

“We could not possibly sell this coat to you,”  the clerk shook his head firmly at my mama.

“Then I will have none,” I stomped out of the store.

It was that way all over town. It was as if everyone had swallowed the same bitter pill.

“This season’s color is red,” she pointed at a red dress.

“This season’s color is red,” he pointed at a red chapeau.

“I want blue!” I pointed at a blue cap on a mannequin in a dusty corner.

In walked a little girl the same age as myself. She carried herself like a soldier at eight.

“There it is,” she smiled like a snake at the last blue hat in the store.

The store clerk gladly pulled the hat off the mannequin.

“It needs red.”

The girl looked at me from the corner of her eye, as she pulled out an emblem of red to be sewn on her hat.

“Do it quickly,” the girl clapped her hands in a practiced motion.

A clerk rushed to the back to have the emblem sewn on.

I walked out of the store. “So this is how it is.”

The general’s daughter could have whatever she wanted: drives in fancy cars, ice cream at the confectioner’s shop, and a blue coat and hat.

I went back to the first shop.

“I would like three of those red coats, please.”

At the next shop: ” I would like four of those red dresses, please.”

“Yes, five red chapeaux s’il vous plait. No need for an emblem. It will wear one soon enough.”

I will hate the color red. I will dye the underneath of each garment a different color. I will never have the cold heart of a militant marionette. Not even when I turn nine.

“My blood underneath will still run blue,” I smiled.

 

 

 

Eyes of Child #photography #poetry #world

 

 

It matters not the place

US, Africa, Crimea, Mexico..

a smile you can always trace

on the winsome and open face

of a child

 

This week’s prompt for the Dp photo challenge is Humanity. Sadly when I travel outside of the country (to work),  I don’t usually take a camera unless its a throw away type.

Follow the Leader #pipeline #Ukraine #poetry

earth

Politicize

if you may

the value of children

who are out to play

call them back before it’s too late

life is cheap

at the pipeline grate

***

Ukraine it seems

is in a vise again

always in the middle

of stronger men

goose step then

tank track now

raise your arm

don’t take a vow

***

protect the children

of the world

solemn salute

the flag unfurled

we’ve lost the vision

the value of life

we love our money

“all hail the pipe”

***

Have you ever played “Follow the Leader”?

It is a game that I played often with the children I taught in Crimea.

Funny thing they like to play the same games as children all over our world.

Yet, they don’t seem to have the same right to enjoy the freedom to romp as Ukrainians.

The world’s politico is too busy playing their own form of “Follow the Leader” to care.

Under Glass #crimea #Ukraine #photography #poetry

under glass

Like a science project

something to be analyzed

we never touch you

we only observe

write the data

pen the findings

draw a conclusion

You in the world’s fishbowl

swimming against a red tide

only to find

all of your school is missing

though the report

“only a few are dead”

Brilliant you fighting fish

swimming in cadence

parading about in colorful costume

destroying the inhabitants

watery souls

face down in the sea

****

I can find nothing about friends who reside in Crimea.

Ukrainians who love their country are threatened with each step .

My friends where have you gone???