April Poem: "8 arms to hold"

8 arms to hold

You rejected me, again.

Not like the first time, I remember

that.  I didn’t understand that

then.

How violent your words, how arrogant

your silence, your disappearance.

I know I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t post this poem for the world to see

and not understand, not get.

You disappeared, like an Octopus, leaving an inky

cyber trail behind.

I didn’t mean to startle you.

I wasn’t trying to catch you

when I threw out my net.

Like they say, there’s other fish in the sea.

© Anne Westlund

prompt:  write a violent or peaceful poem

April Poem: "More than a mirror."

I've been encouraged to continue with these poems.  So I am.

More than a mirror.

Who am I?

Your friend.  I know that

much.  I suppose I should care.

I don’t.  I’ve been too many people’s friends.

It’s a losing game.  I never win.

So yeah, I’m your friend.

But I’m my friend too and that

comes first.

So yeah, I’m your friend.

For now.

© Anne Westlund

prompt:  write a self-portrait poem

April Poem: "Tree"

Here's an extra poem, prompt from a journaling ebook called "Creating Spring."

Tree

My leaves change color

Others have noticed

In the winter

I have no leaves at all

Rocks surround my roots

I stand here in the driveway

Unnoticed, most of the time

The wind blows me

Gales assault me

Still, I grow

A little more every year

You don’t see me

But I’m here anyway

A lonely tree.

© Anne Westlund

prompt:  your tree’s story

Letter #49

Hi Dad.

I went to the doctor yesterday.  My jaw hurts when I yawn, chew or open my mouth wide.  Nice.  Apparently, I have problems with my TMJ, that's the bones and muscles on one side of my face, the jaw area.  Some people have problems for years.  I'm hoping it will go away soon.  My doctor gave me pain meds, so now I'm loopy and useless.  I think I'll take them only once or twice a day.  They help, but not that much.  The cause, probably stress and munching on that big bag of crunchy Tim's Salt & Vinegar chips.  I had something like this in college, lasted a couple of weeks.

On top of that, I have a UTI, so I'm taking antibiotics.  She also has me on probiotics.  I have a temperature too.  All in all a fun trip to the doctor's office.  I missed the meeting I was going to go to.  I feel bad about that.  Maybe next week. 

I'm kind of down.  Not seriously.  I'm just frustrated that I'll have to wait til the meds wear off to get anything done today.  I did make Super Bowl Chili and do some laundry today.  I made the chili this morning, before I took the pain meds.  It turned out really well.  That was the last of 18 recipes I made out of the Wooden Spoon soup book.  I made 10% of the recipes.  So I achieved my goal.  Yay!

We dropped J. off at the train station last Thursday.  I went into Joann's and bought patterns and 3 canvas art boards.  One of the boards is for a quilling project.  Here they are:

A couple of the patterns are beyond my skill level.  They discontinue patterns quite often so I grabbed them up anyway.  I really love the jacket pattern.  Well, that's it for today.  We're having chili for dinner. 

Love you.

Sleep well...

LOVE

Anne

April Poem: "Prayer Pillow"

Prayer Pillow

Candles lit.

We sit.

I write poems.

She paints.

We talk about family.

Linseed oil and turpentine.

Earlier, she reads the Torah.

Leviticus, still the same, admonishes

warnings and orders.

Her God is a mean one.

Used to be my God too.

It gets darker.

This Sabbath, we talk about the past.

Verbs and nouns, punctuation.

We don’t solve any problems.

Things get muddier, when before

they were clear.

She paints in green oils,

I wear a green cardigan.

Pot wafts on the air.

I drink water.

There are revelations,

but not from me.

Always the last to share.

© Anne Westlund

prompt:  write a night poem

April Poem: "Paradise"

Paradise

Total Wine & Spirits,

some alcoholic heaven,

not 99 virgins

and the direct blessings of Allah,

something better.

Diane, his friend

at Trader Joe’s—

sent us this direction,

one end of the Capital Mall.

Behold, shelf after shelf

of wine and beer and liquor

and mixer and nuts.

Yes, we are in a drinker’s paradise.

A hushed emotion covers all.

Acolytes, we take our cider and wine

to the cash register.

Carded, I’m 46, 47 next September.

We leave,

planning our return.

© Anne Westlund

prompt:  write a discovery poem