Poet: Susan Budig

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Susan Budig (in her own words): “I am not a full-time writer, but I work freelance in writing as much as I want. I am a full-time primary care parent. I still have three kids at home and in school.My business card identifies me as writer, poet, teacher, coach, but I am working on so much more. I am transcribing interviews for Larry Long with a goal of a book or series of books.”

My website: http://www.mindfulpoetry.com
My blogs: http://susanbudig.blogspot.com
and http://susanbudigs-poetry.blogspot.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MindfulPoet
Gather: http://slb2.gather.com

 

One Child

There was one child left
that day I walked by the playground,
sitting on a see-saw, watching.
I looked in the same direction,
but nothing else caught my eye.

I remembered a game as a youth.
There was one child left
standing, proclaimed the winner!
It was never me.
Like a sentinel, I said nothing.

I continued down the block,
but cast a glance over my shoulder.
There was one child left
on the teeter-totter, but looking lost.
This stops me.

I finger my still-warm pretzel, shoved
in my pocket for when I reach the office.
The child keeps staring at nothing.
There was one child left
on the bench while all the other children

jumped like bunnies around the man
with a generous clutch of balloons
at my son’s birthday party in the park.
That was years ago and we all went home, but no…
there was one child left.

 

 

Please leave a response in the comment section. Thanks!

Poet: Stephen Berwaldt

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Stephen Berwaldt (in his own words): “I live in Massachusetts.I am currently semi-employed…that sounds better than unemployed…but I am by occupation, a remodeling contractor…a very good one, I might add…so would my mother, if she could speak from wherever she is… 🙂 I have only been writing for two years, so no blogs…I can be found on Gather.

 

“Vestiges”

 

It might be a tilt of head

or

a stranger’s smile –

an inadvertent passing-by of a favorite place

she loved to visit when time allowed –

 

perhaps

her dried-rose bookmark left

in her favorite book

you took up to read again

just to imagine her voice

reading every word –

 

a snapshot found

while searching for scissors

to snip that loose thread off the cuff of your shirt –

a picture of her smiling just for you

eyes ablaze with love

 

or

riding down the road listening to

Nat King Cole crooning

“Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire”

on the radio

in his rich, sultry voice

that always made tears well up

and flow gently down her cheeks

 

it’s the innocuous things –

the small details that

no one else noticed but you –

that bring sweet flood of memories to your heart

a misting in your eyes –

a lump in your throat

the ache as fresh as if bereaved just yesterday

 

O,

how we miss the ones

we’ve loved and lost

and love still

 

Daily Response: Please post your favorite line(s) in the comments.

Poet: Robert Burnham

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Born and raised in Maine, Robert Burnham learned to enjoy the outdoors in any season.  He has camped out in the spring rains, the summer heat, under the autumn colors and yes, even nestled within the snow. He started writing poetry and essays at the age of seven and began a serious life-long love affair with photography at the age of eleven. Currently, Robert is a geography student studying Environmental Science at the University of North Carolina. Read more of Robert’s poetry on his Gather profile.

 

UKRAINE EXILE

©2011 Robert Burnham

Today I was in Kiev

Sifting through melancholy

Scarves,

With you on my mind

But I have no flair for

Fashion, nor is style

In my artist’s repertoire

So I left the scarves

And walked past

Orange Dahlias and

Bright Bellis Perennis;

Ukrainian reminders

Of walks in the park –

You and I almost took

I knew you wouldn’t

Follow me here, to

The other side of the world

But the sonorous backdrop

Of your voice

Lingers through the breeze

And windmills

And all is well

Because

You still call me friend

 

Daily Response: Please include your favorite line in the comment section.

Poetry in the Bible: Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

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ECCLESIASTES 3

A Time for Everything

 1 There is a time for everything,
       and a season for every activity under heaven:

 2 a time to be born and a time to die,
       a time to plant and a time to uproot,

 3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
       a time to tear down and a time to build,

 4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
       a time to mourn and a time to dance,

 5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
       a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

 6 a time to search and a time to give up,
       a time to keep and a time to throw away,

 7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
       a time to be silent and a time to speak,

 8 a time to love and a time to hate,
       a time for war and a time for peace.

Daily Response: What is your favorite line from this passage?

Favorite Poem: “The Death of a Ball Turret Gunner”

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An exceptional poem leaves an imprint on the reader. My college professor read this poem to the class, and after many years, I still remember it—vividly.

When I started teaching, I had language arts/history blocks. I used poetry to supplement the American history text, loving how we could learn about the past through a poet’s perspective.

 

“The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”

by Randall Jarrell

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

 

Jarrell wrote, “A ball turret was a plexiglass sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24 bomber and inhabited by two .50 caliber machine-guns and one man, a short, small man. When this gunner tracked with his machine-guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he revolved the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked like the foetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed with canon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose.”

 

Daily Response: Is there a poem from school that you still remember vividly? If so, please share it in your comments.

Poet: A.F. Stewart

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A.F. Stewart is from Nova Scotia, Canada. She works part time as a writer, hoping for full time, and pays the bills with various other jobs. She is a very prolific and talented writer. Find out more about her and her books on the following sites.

Website:

http://afallon.bravehost.com/

Two blogs:
http://afstewartpromotion.blogspot.com/
http://afstewartblog.blogspot.com/

Gather profile:

http://scribe77.gather.com/

Cosmos

 

Tendrils of matter

winding around light.

A galactic splash

of bursting colour.

Spiralling outward,

onward in the heavens.

 

Vivid paint

on the universe.

 

 

 Daily Response: Please write a note to A.F. in the comment section.

Poet: Marianne

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Today I’m featuring Marianne, my friend from across the Pacific. She is a wonderful lady, and you can enjoy more of her poetry here.

 

Forever mine

forever yours ~

breath upon breath

silent whispers

heart-shaped drops

of crimson flow

fill the cavern of my mind

as I lean into your presence

inhaling the miracle of our love

rivers rushing to the sea

mountains reaching to the sky

stopping time as we embrace

kisses held inside I love you

hands caressing fevered thoughts

brushing hair against long sighs

movements of love

moments of us

divinely appointed

Daily Response: Please leave a comment for Marianne.

Poet: Kimberly Blackadar

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My bio 🙂

 

“The Element of Surprise”

by Kimberly Blackadar

 

spring sits silently

under suffocating snow

waiting to…to jump

 

Photo taken by Diane Huizenga

 

Today’s Response: My little haiku reflects a Minnesotan’s anticipation for the arrival of spring. Are signs of spring evident around you, or like me, are you still waiting…?

Poet: David Wainland

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David Wainland lives in South Florida, but was born and raised in the Bronx. He is a part-time published writer and fully retired. His was a professional artist and welded metal for over thirty years. David is working on a novel and posts his writings on his Gather profile.

 

A LEGACY OF BLANK PAGES 

 

© 2011 BY David Wainland

 

Originaly titled My Legacy   

 © 2009

 

I leave the pages blank

for you to fill my son

In trust to you my words

Now my work is done

~

When I was ten

and not before

My father knocked

upon my door

~

In his hand

he held for me

A dog-eared book

of poetry

~

The spine was weak

the jacket rent

Most pages had

their corners bent

~

Read these my son

and you will learn

Free men read books

that others burn

~

When I was twelve

and not before

My father knocked

upon my door

~

Then turned a leaf

that caught my sight

Kipling wrote of

men that fight

~

Poe told tales

filled with gloom

Barrett’s love

entranced the room

~

Longfellow’s rhymes

captured dreams

While Alfred Noyse

sought moonlight beams

~

The Highwayman

and Gunga Din

The Raven knows

where I have been

~

My father always

did me proud

He often read

these poems aloud

~

If not for him

I know not when

My words would fall

from out my pen

~

He set my stride

upon the trail

Twas not for him

these rhymes would fail

~

When I was fifty

and not before

He rapped again

upon my door

~

The books are yours

my life is through

This my son

I leave for you

~

Eternal lies

my father now

This poem fulfils

a silent vow

~

When they were ten

and not before

My children heard me

at their door

 

Daily Response: For this week, the response will stay the same. In the comment section, please leave a message for the poet.

Poet: E.J. (my son)

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E.J., my homeschooled seond grader, penned his first poems this week. Like his mom, he is taking a hiatus from fiction and trying his hand at verse. E.J. loves sports and reading and is starting to appreciate poetry more.

“My Lord, Jesus”

by E.J.

 

As I walk on the path

of the birds

and other things

I think of

my Lord Jesus

and the peace

He brings

 

Daily Response: For this week, the response will stay the same. In the comment section, please leave a message for the poet.