Worth Telling

Magic
In a tiny
Cardboard disc
Cutout windows
Evenly spaced
Around its edges
Each one holding
Transparent film
Unclear images
Until said disc
Is carefully placed
In the slot on top
Of the viewfinder-
Eyes glued
To the lenses
Held up to the light
And a whole new
Word emerges
Click the side button
To continue the journey
Image after image
Sharing a story
Worth telling-
We all have a story
Worth telling
Our very own
Cardboard disc
Filled with
Windows
To the soul

Sharing another poetry circle poem. Thankful for opportunities and connections. ❤️

Simply Sunday

45 rpm

Seven-inch
Vinyl disc
Placed on
A circle
Within
A magic box
Turn the knob
Watch it spin
Forty-five
Rotations
Per minute
Place the needle
Listen as it
Moves across
The ridges
Releasing
Its power
Releasing
The music

I saw the movie Elvis yesterday with my friend, Marina. I grew up listening to Elvis. Watched his concerts on television. Remember the breaking news on the day he died.

I also remember dancing around a record player with my cousins at grandma’s house. Hound Dog and Don’t Be Cruel were our choice of 45s. We all loved Elvis.

Elvis had a style all his own, and it was controversial. People either loved him or hated him. But his roots were honest and truthful. And his contributions to our nation’s musical heritage are of great value. I am thankful his 45s were part of my childhood.

Self-Check Lane

Decided to give http://lindaghill.com/ weekly SoCS writing prompt a go! This week’s prompt was bagged. Fun!

He bagged groceries most of his life. Found satisfaction in the routine.

It was like a new puzzle with each order. Everything had its place. Heavy cans were double bagged. Bread and eggs are always on top.

The smiles were nice, too. Most people seemed to appreciate the care taken with their chosen items. After all, these were the things intended to provide sustenance, and energy needed to fulfill their specific jobs.

Yes, their jobs may have been seen as more important than bagging groceries. That didn’t matter, not to him. He took pride in those bagged groceries.

Only one thing made him sad. That was the day the owner installed their first self-check lane…

Closer to Clouds

Not sure which
Took my breath
Away first…
Beauty
Or elevation
A 360 degree
Perspective
No formations
Blocking my view
I could see
Where I was going
And where I’d been
All of it
Storms ahead
Storms behind
Cool breezes
And sunlight
In between
Clarity of lessons
Learned quickly
As well as those
Requiring repetition
Each one
Revealing purpose
In passing landscapes
No wish
To speed ahead
No wish
To slow down
Only the desire to be
Only the desire to live

I love spending time in Colorado. One specific area holds many memories. Family vacations with parents, kids, grandparents, grandchildren, and great-grandparents. Honeymoons and holidays, hiking, and fishing. Feeding the chipmunks. And, of course, beautiful scenery.

Gart and I are traveling to this spot with our three grown kids and daughter-in-law. What a treat! This sentimental mom can’t help looking back and looking forward. But mostly, I’m just enjoying all of us being together.

Cushioned Steps

Each careful step
Across the floor
Cushioned by
Layers of history
What was once alive
Now protects as it
Deteriorates
Feeding the earth
Lying underneath
How many have
Come and gone
Taken these same steps
Across lines of
Time and space-
Did they notice
The Luna moth
Drying her wings
In frilly foliage
Of gentle ferns
Or the bright orange
Mushrooms
Peeking out from
Underneath
The fern leaves
Were their steps cushioned as well?
Steps that allowed
Time for pause
Time for soaking up
All the forest
Has to say
About the past
The present
And the future

Simply Sunday

Do We Truly See?

Today feels
Anything
But simple
It feels torn
I feel torn
Sunshine skies
In front of me
Clear and blue
A stark contrast
To the images
Of gray skies
Streets filled with
Ash and rubble
Seen on the news-
My mind knows
And history tells us
Not all people
Are free or safe
From the exploits
Of evil men
Yet, my heart
Is unable
To reconcile-
An image of
A Ukrainian mom
Her only thought
Protecting her family
From surrounding
Destruction and death…
I cannot know
The heaviness
Of her heart
Yet, I must not look away
Watching
Praying
For a glimmer of hope
A family reunited
While never
Forgetting
Images snapped
By cameras-
Images of death
And innocence stolen
For all the world to see-
Do we truly see?

Morning News

I sit quietly
In my house
This morning
Drinking hot tea
Watching the morning news
Never having experienced the kind of fear
That would cause me to flee my home
Searching for a place of safety
A shelter under the ground
Where explosions above
That will destroy my home
And those of my friends and family
Cannot reach my children
I don’t know that kind of fear
Not fear of natural disasters
Unavoidable depending on location
But fear of weapons
Created by man
Neighbor against neighbor
Strong overtaking weak
Seeking what?
Power and greed
Seem the most common answers-
I sit quietly
In my house
This morning
Unable to erase the image
Of a precious little girl
On the morning news
Her big eyes filled with tears
Hiding underground
Unable to block
The sounds of bombs
Exploding on the surface
Perhaps I should not try
To erase her image
Instead, let it sear into my memory
Reminding me to pray for light
To find her in that dark place

Freeze Frame

Pictures holding
History stored
In memory banks
Called to the surface
In a single snap
Of my fingers
Leaving me
Wondering
Why that?
Why now?
Why then?
Times I would
Like either
To forever
Forget or
Always
Remember
Each frame
Projecting
Enough
Power to
Push me into
A time-warp
Of emotions
Unless…
I slow down
Pay attention
Freeze
Each
Frame
Long enough
To grasp
This truth-
The past
Enriches
The present
Either by
Making me
Thankful
For changes
Grateful
For growth
Or content
With constants

Visit to a Cemetery

I stood
At the foot
Of a grave
Shaded by
Lovely birch
On a rolling
Green slope
Overseen by
A church
Painted white
Filled with
History on
Both sides
Of glass panes-
I stood
At the foot
Of a grave
Cradling remains
Of those gone
From this earth
Centuries ago
Memories
Carved
In marble
Beloved
Daughter, wife, mother
Honored
Son, husband, father
I stood
At the grave
Of a poet
My heart touched
By remembrances
Of persons
I have never met

Simply Sunday

Days

Enjoying
Art and
Nature
Exploring
Lessons
Offered
By history-
Our own
Others-
Reminiscing
Our combined
Years of living
In only seven
Of these
Precious
Allotments
Of time
Each holding
The same
Number
Of hours
Each passing
Too quickly