[Yesterday’s poem never got posted, but I had double the enjoyment – in both the writing of it and in the doing of the topic.]

Egyptian licorice tea
Anticipation begins the pleasure

Fill the electric kettle

While the water comes to boil
Open the cupboard
Take the teabag from the colorful box

Turn to the open shelves
For the favorite mug
The one from Bonnieux

Bonnieux
“Our” hanging village
In the Provençal Luberon mountains
Hills really
Above lavender fields
Villages built on heights for defense
Cascaded down the sides
Over the years, centuries
Bonnieux almost reaching down to the Pons Julien
Built for tramping Roman legions
Now no stranger to cars

The water is boiling
Just a little in the cup
Cradled in my hands as I swish the water
Around and around, warming cup and hands

Dump the warming water
Put the teabag in the cup
Wrap the string once around the handle
Pour in the boiling water
The aroma soothes and revives
Long before the tea is ready to drink

Egyptian licorice tea
Memories of France
Equally comforting

The road twists and turns
Through sharps and flats
Like the notes of a familiar tune

Winter trees with bare limbs twined
Rise to either side
Screen the setting sun

The road flows in westward arpeggios
So I need my sunglasses on
Although day is fast yielding to dusk

The striated sky does not blaze today
But fades to light blue
With dusky pink clouds hugging the horizon

A single small streak of brighter pink
Slices through, just above the earth-air border
Glistens against the calmer shades

I tip my sunglasses up
While careful to keep my attention mostly
On the curves and dips of the musical road

Even without my polarized glasses
I can see that single pink streak
Brightens one spot in the dusky sky

Just one bright spot
That I can look at only fleetingly
As I drive the road carefully

Just one bright spot
But it is enough

[Today’s prompt included the instruction not to overthink it, which I certainly honored in this bit of stream of consciousness trivia.]

Acetaminophen sounds more like an enchanted nymph
turned into a tree toad by jealous Hera
because Zeus laid with her in the elf ring
of mushrooms, which resemble not at all
the ones moldering in my refrigerator’s spoiler drawer,
but which just might have been planted by Edmund’s Fairie Queen
sometime before 1590 when she was captured by the poet
though she hid under the hay with the rats nibbling her fairy toes
already sore from dancing en pointe as La Sylphide,
the doomed dream lover for whom James deserted his bride,
than a simple OTC remedy for my aching head.

[Today’s prompt challenged me to write in a way and style different than my usual.]

Through the wooden panelled window I watch the woodwind ballet:
Stage center, front, the still-leaved Japanese maple prima ballerina, not meant for these climes,
clings to frozen sunset leaves that quiver to the wind’s allegro beat.
Behind her, a proud Leland cypress danseur noble lifts high his green needles
not caring that he is an unnatural hybrid –
not the familiar cross between two species, but a wilder cross between two genera –
like crossing a dog and cat, my horticultural husband tells me.
I shrug, only somewhat interested in horticultural facts but fascinated by the forest dance.
Japanese maple and Leland cypress sway together as if ready for a pas de deux grand lift.
Further back, a bare limbed taller oak extends graceful empty arms towards the strangely partnered principals:
the Japanese maple with its clinging leaves and the Leland cypress with its proud needles –
the transplant and the hybrid who claim center stage in my picture pane ballet.
The mighty oak, a true character artist, dances on its own
while derrière ,the young corps de ballet, slim, loose limbed oaks and maples,
execute their flawless port de bras, eschew bravura, awaiting their years as principals,
growing into their strength, their rhythm, their aplomb
as the musical wind continues to chime through the winter day
while I, cozy in my center stage seat, sip my tea and enjoy the virtuoso performance.

[I have to admit that I did not try to do much with today’s prompt.]

Life when long lived
Educates us to see
Seasons repeating in endless flow
Flowers bloom and fade, leaves fall
Fallacious thought sees only ends
Enduring life has only paused
Seeds must be buried, lie dormant
Mantled by the cooling earth
Author of all life, acceptor of all death
Atheists forfeit this sure knowledge
Generations are but one eternal day
Daylight becomes divinity

[Another day, another prompt, another poem.]

Sky flames
As the day ends
Leaves flare
As the year ends
Pumpkins and apricots
Last fruits of summer
Then Halloween
Ghosts and ghouls
And all things dead
Salmon swim upriver
Spawn and die
Shimmer skins
Decaying in the rivers

What is the color of loss?
Black or gray seems a good choice
Who would say orange?
Bright, lively orange

You might never know it
Looking at most old humans
But nature at the end
Seems to love showy orange

One last burst
One big production
One I-dare-you-to-ignore-me flash
Before the end.

[I had no idea what I was going to write in response to today’s prompt. God, fate, the universe, serendipidiy, whatever provided.]

I unbind the small notebook, slide the pen from its holder, not sure what I will write, but wanting to write. The card slides out from the back of this long unused notebook, only recently refound. “Happiness,” the front of the flowery card proclaims, “must be grown in one’s own garden.” Inside, the handwritten greeting begins, “Happy holidays & new office warming.” A few sentences later the note ends, “Finally, I hope the caramel creams remind you of happy ‘treat stops’ at our old location. Happy 2013.”
The signature – one of my graduate students

The caramel creams didn’t last long.
The then-new location is itself closed now.
I am four years retired.
No new students challenge my knowledge and my patience.

I think of the few I keep in touch with:
The successful author and speaker – about near death experiences and paranormal healings!…
The mother of two preschoolers: waiting more or less patiently to resume her career…
The busy successful physician…
The somewhat dissatisfied academic…
The always energetic multitasking mom with a demanding career.

Like a sampler box of chocolates
Just small dessert bites from a repast,
Once filled and filling,
Now grown slightly stale.

This unexpected candy,
Though hardening at the edges,
Satisfies still when tasted gratefully.

A sweet treat stop
This almost holiday morning.

[I think my response to today’s poetry prompt is simply my mind escaping from the too serious busy-ness of the holidays.]

To breakfast on a roller coaster
Is quite absurd
Even more absurd
With candy cigarettes and pop

But, really, my dear,
What were you thinking?
A roller coaster party in winter
Early in the morning
Is not merely in bad taste
It is in no taste at all
Even with karaoke
Or perhaps I should say
Especially with karaoke

No, really, it simply won’t do
With not even a slim chance
Of being acceptable
Or memorable

I don’t care if you did buttonhole Casper
To run the coaster
A ghost to host the coaster
Just misses the mark for charming

Although I must admit
I did enjoy meeting the Kirbys
And Captain Gregg was such a treat
Though Mrs. Muir took quite a fright
As we gathered speed
On the downward plunge

As dreams go
It has this single virtue:
‘Twas no nightmare
But I would fain hope
For something somewhat classier
With a touch more savior faire, n’est pas,
Tomorrow night

[My bit of a poem in response to today’s prompt from Two Sylvias Press.]

Some days
I can almost taste
the memory of you.

Some nights
I can almost hear
the nearness of death.

Some wheres
I can almost see
the wonder of hope.

Some whens
I can almost smell
the absence of grief.

Some haves
I can almost feel
the glory of life.

Some nots
I can almost know
the realness of love.

Some nows
I can just believe
the manger of God.

[Today, I wrote to the prompt from Two Sylvias Press, more or less, but my mind was on its own somewhat undisciplined path, today.]

to see the sky
the hawk needs
only her own
mineral lens

to pound the keys
the woman needs
only her own
weed fingers

to work the land
the man needs
only his own
tree strength

NO

this vision is not
truth
never only but
knotted together
blind sight
written silence
strong weakness
black and white
one not evil
not through the universe
the other not good
not through the future

to live is need
to die is want
to see is dark
to write is silence
to work is rest
coming going
in out
up down

Can we encompass all?

more fits
than knots
thanks be for color hopes
flowers bloom through war
christ crosses rise on green grass

Christians claim Saturnalia
for their own
sing of stars, God’s grand design
though the dark planet
continues circled in crystal rings
pagan on parade ages old

Christians cry foul
when others celebrate
though light finds every crack
though dark cares not
for doctrine

prayers are the bits and pieces
that win wars
while money repairs plantations
of greed
in internet fantasy worlds
of good grades
and saddled dragons
slaying evil

At my desk I type my prayers
in my husband’s repair shop
watching TV
in front of our fireplace
I pray
for beating old swords
into new plowshares
for lions and lambs together
for Amish simplicity
for a son in Austin
a grandson in Summit
for children everywhere

for peace
for life
for truth
waiting to become
waiting to come
again
into the wholeness
of me