(My Biggest) Fault

 

Even so

My left hand rushes to finish

What my right hand has not completed

And my knees hold

What my hands cannot

Impatience.

©K Annie Powell

Mine

 

Thinking back

…I behold once more

the day

the hour

the time

My beloved’s twisted hands held me

close

as I sat perched

upon the long thick gnarled tree

Its limb a bench

a home

a niche of quiet

solitude

A place of rest

Leg’s dangling-

10 or so

 

It was any hour

It was

my hour

 

50 years later

I go there in my mind

to stop

and to ponder

what lies ahead

I examine dreams that are

now behind

me on the limb

I hold fast to

the quiet

 

                                                                                                   Happy Birthday Dad; April 8, 2021 

©K Annie Powell

 

 

Revisiting

No More

 

Don’t want to hang ’round these ghosts no more

as they moan and wander and pace this ol’ floor.

Don’t want to hang ’round the spirits of past, as

they linger and promise things that don’t last.

 

They slink through the hollow,

they hang at the door

their faces so sullen

that they lie on the floor.

They tempt me with wine and pastries

but hand over spoilt food and mush

Then coax me to stay

sitting 'lone on my tush

not lifting a pen

nor writing a stroke

and behind my back

they chide me, “Slow-poke.”

“L-a-z-y,” they say…

“She won’t make the cut.”

“Let’s hang ‘round until

she’s stuck deep in this rut.”

They mutter and clamor and they raise such a stink,

telling me “Consider our feelings...”

that I must “Stay put,” or “They’re leaving!”

 

Won’t listen to their chastisements—no, not even one

as they dangle carrots that vanish; that leave me undone.  

"You could have been 'this…'” or “You’re over the hill.”

“Look over there--” “Now, try, if you will…”

“You won’t maaaake it!” “You haven’t come far,”

“You’ve frittered your chances and fallen short of the bar.” 

 

Their obvious content at my possible demise

should cause me to act out with an upheaval--

to shake them right off like the weevils they are!

 

These spirits that plague me are never content

’cept to harp on my obvious faults and my failings

leaving me on the ropes and the railings.

They weigh me down with concern for my plight,

yet they secretly cheer when I’m drifting…

poking holes in my sails all the time when

my spirit is lifting.  

©K Annie Powell

 

 

 

 

 

My Patriotic Poem

One Time Journey      

Mountain beyond mountain-
all places we must go
Mountain beyond the one I'm climbing
preparing me, you know…
Mountain after mountain
each journey worth the climb
Mountain peak and mountain view
each one special, each one new
Horizon after horizon-
all calling me to push
venturing beyond what is safe
with limit after limit breached
and all upon this dusty foot…
Sunset after sunset
with color that never pales
Until I reach my resting place
pressing, I will prevail.
Mountain after mountain peak
and singing all the way
What I see from the valley fair
is calling out to me.
Mountains, limitless mountains
all standing in a row
Like soldiers they remind me of
places I have yet to go.
Glory upon glory
and wonders all around
I stand and gaze on mountain peaks
for this is hallowed ground.
Mountain after mountain peak
and pressing all the way
with story upon story to tell
I must be leaving-on my way.
Fair mountain you are a friend to me
I tuck you near my heart
Calling out to travelers everywhere
to up and run, to leave...depart!
Shake off the dust of yesteryear
And breath in something new
Fair mountain with one hid behind
is calling out to you...

So pack then, lightly friend-
brave travelers alike
And we will feast on mountain airs
on this, our lofty hike.
Soldier on, yes soldier on
and we will greet the day
Standing where our ancestry stood
stalwart, come what may.
Mountain fair, O Mountain friend
to you we rise and sing
all gathered 'round
as children clad
receive this-our offering.
Mountain looming, mountain next
to you we must away
and stand where our tomorrow shines
brighter than our yesterday.
Fair mountain on horizon, towering
you beckon and you call...
I will conquer and upon you stand
for you are fairest of them all!

Arise, O slumbering nations!
Enter into your rest...
Banishing strife and your warring cease
to receive this-our Maker's very best...
For we each are gentle warriors
on this, our Earthly home;
each precious day a gift on display
to unwrap, to discover and to humbly hold.

And treat this one time journey
just like a loving child...

held so sweetly to your breast

never left soiled, tired--undressed
And with a lightness in your step

run free, run brave, and run wild.  


© K. Annie Powell

Garden of the One Thousand (a Tribute)

Garden of the One Thousand

There are one thousand little voices...in the water they fall

and within those one thousand children's voices there is an echo that rings out as they call...

Quicksilver runs fast in the waterfall--along with it some liquid gold

and there is life-giving joy in the water that brings a comfort to one’s very own soul

There is sunlight streaming in the waterfall; much like one thousand glittering gems

and there are twigs and leaves in the waterfall, adorning one thousand twinkling hems

of children’s garments who play in the waterfall, 
as they jump and they dive and they sing

Their hearts beat out wildly in the waterfall--and get me to wondering...

Above, there are one thousand windswept glories, across an ageless and pink summer sky--

and one thousand pulsating stars out at night that shimmer on their course as they pass on by 

And up above it all there is a hollow, with one thousand bubbling streams

that join together to make the waterfall, impractical as it may seem

At the top--there is a tree with one thousand roots that travel on down and then down...

with every twist and turn that they make, they make this--much hallowed ground.

And the dreams of most all are stored up there, and now and again, down they fall--

right from the heavenly altar of the tree through the little waterfall.

© KAnniePowell

Liquid Gold

It hurts to miss
my babies
on sad-eyed days it's
as if
I have an aching sob trapped up
in between
my belly and my ragged eyes...

I find myself wanting
Today I am missing
my grown up (for the most part) dear children.
Where are they, my babies?
My dear 'first born' chief of a boy
with endless satire and wit
(he needed me-I needed him, too...)
and my dear second born sweet girl with beauty
I never thought was possible to find
in this day
in this life
She is smart
pretty
and so discerning
She is still a wonder to me
This woman-girl
now turned 21

The years rolled by
I walked through the days
as Mother
of the Marvelous
to my sweet bright beautiful and fearless
children.
They were bounding through life.
My 'constant companions...' (as I lovingly named them)
were mostly
side by my side.
And we had our  strong 'Dada-'
the man of the house;
a man whose soul
is so immense that it fills the big planet
with peace, hope,
joy
and with love.
We were lucky 

in this regard.

I spent my days watching them grow.
And we daily 'dreamed up' things we could do....
(We had our fun!)
We walked on the beach
We read our stories
We stared at animals

Played with our food
Oh the years of plastic animals! 

Horses, cows, and dogs standing solemn 

in a line

all about the living room floor. 

Those friends!

Legos shaped projects

Star Wars

in buckets and piles

assembled to stand

as a tribute...

All the many projects

in preparation

for the great unknown

that waits ahead.

I served them by driving them some and sitting with them
and tending to their many needs...
these were all (in their own way) indescribably precious times
stacked up to complete
the person I was
I was becoming
they were becoming
we became
we saw
we went

The young man
and woman on the verge
have grown up now
for the most part
and they don't need me like they used to
at 26
and now (just)
21...

One is away-
while
the other
is
away a lot 

but she is here?

Our times-
our seasons
that were filled with love and flavor
are not unlike the misty mountain vapor
that is
bound to rise
and reassemble
over the next mountain ridge.



© Karen Powell

(Jagged Edges)

                                                                                                                                       (The) Quiet Place

                                                      Jagged Edges

                                                      In this place

                                                      Your hands work the jagged edge

                                                      to a smooth and rounded curve

                                                      turning every point and spike

                                                      and then
                                                      you call it
                                                      good


                                                      © Karen Powell

lg

My Patriotic Poem...:-) Happy, Blessed 4th of July to my 'U.S.er' friends...

(0n) Journeying Well       

Mountain beyond mountain-
all places we must go
Mountain beyond the one I'm climbing
preparing me, you know…
Mountain after mountain
each journey worth the climb
Mountain peak and mountain view
each one special, each one new
Horizon after horizon-
all calling me to push
venturing beyond what is safe
with limit after limit breached
and all upon this dusty foot…
Sunset after sunset
with color that never pales
Until I reach my resting place
pressing, I will prevail.
Mountain after mountain peak
and singing all the way
What I see from the valley fair
is calling out to me.
Mountains, limitless mountains
all standing in a row
Like soldiers they remind me of
places I have yet to go.
Glory upon glory
and wonders all around
I stand and gaze on mountain peaks
for this is hallowed ground.
Mountain after mountain peak
and pressing all the way
with story upon story to tell
I must be leaving-on my way.
Fair mountain you are a friend to me
I tuck you near my heart
Calling out to travelers everywhere
to up and run, to leave...depart!
Shake off the dust of yesteryear
And breath in something new
Fair mountain with one hid behind
is calling out to you...

So pack then, lightly friend-
brave travelers alike
And we will feast on mountain airs
on this, our lofty hike.
Soldier on, yes soldier on
and we will greet the day
Standing where our ancestry stood
stalwart, come what may.
Mountain fair, O Mountain friend
to you we rise and sing
all gathered 'round
as children clad
receive this-our offering.
Mountain looming, mountain next
to you we must away
and stand where our tomorrow shines
brighter than our yesterday.
Fair mountain on horizon, towering
you beckon to me and call...
I will conquer and upon you stand
for you are fairest of them all!

Arise, O slumbering nations!
and enter into rest...
Banishing strife and your warring cease
to receive this-our Maker's very best...
For we each are gentle warriors
on this, our Earthly home;
each precious day a gift on display
to unwrap, to discover and to humbly hold.

And treat this one time journey
just like a loving child...

held so sweetly to your breast

never left soiled, tired--undressed
And with a lightness in your step

run free, run brave, and run wild.  


© K. Annie Powell

Sweet petal of silk is my...

Front Yard Rose

Front yard rose
basking in the sun
Front yard rose
to see you is to come undone
Front yard rose
a bloom for passers-by
Front yard rose
sweet petal of silk is my
front yard rose.

Ode to a Wildflower Patch

Tiny purple patch
the smallest of wild flower
Tiny violet patch
quaking under the wind's power
Tiny blooming bunch
you rise to greet the day
Tiny cornflower stars of blue
you grace the first of May.

Luscious, precious petals,
four and a tiny face…
too small to gather in a bunch,
the mountain wood your vase.

Tiny violet bloom
alone up on the hill,
pressed in the pages of my heart
Remember you, I will.

(By K. Annie Powell)

On writing...

On Having a Poem

Having a poem is like having a child.

Although, there is indeed, less pain--

you don’t often know what you’re going to get.

It could be a temperamental child. 

You hope to God it’s not a child gone wild.

Like a child, an infant poem

you can caress, perhaps even digress to

pamper it and pull it around in a wagon, of sorts.

You can bandy it about.

You can comb its long hair.

You can dress it up

and you can take it everywhere.

Having a poem is like

diving into a waterfall--

you don’t exactly know where you will end up.

Having a poem is like

being lost at night.

“Blink-blink,” there is a light

somewhere off in the distance…

You hope you can

catch up to it

and make it out.

Having a poem is like having a shiny, new penny.

You can finger it

and turn it ’round and ’round in your hand, some.

Then you can (hopefully) turn it over to a friend.

A poem is like a token.

Slip it in the slot

and just get on the train!

It might be a fast track or a long, slow ride.

Having a poem

is like (and unlike) having a child…

When it becomes a toddler and it

wanders off, alone, on its shaky legs,

don’t worry...

you can just let go of its hand.

© Karen Powell

(My) Childhood Shoes

(My) Childhood Shoes

I fancied myself free

I danced a waltz tonight

I danced a polka 123-123

I spun on rose petals and pressed on bike pedals

I ran across the bridge cement and metal

bang-bang to my secret place where silver fishes lie waiting

and streetlights play games that are highlights

I skid across the inclined face of the moon

slippery like cheeses down to Natti’s Gap

I plodded along walls that wall in the strong cities

I shook the dust off myself after being made fun of

I had holes

ran a mile

and then I ran another

I felt the cool clay of the cavern-cave

and splashed through the shallow icy water slip-sliding

over rocks to get stuck deep in Lake Michigan’s mud

I kicked up my heels

kicked the cat

and then I jumped over the house.



© Karen Powell

Morning Prayer

Morning Prayer

Be in my fanciful meanderings

Be in my midnight glide on a silver moon beam carpet slide

up and up I slip across the black tree fingers of the very next pine lined ridge

Up and up I sail to my friend

the white hot crescent 
cool night moon

Be in the spine of my cat as I perch myself

upon the very tip of the last long black prick hair 
on his slow curling twitch-twitch tail 
and as I find myself in the dull glint

of his slow moving yellow eyes

open wide

and watching

Be in the hint of gleaming light as it peek-peeks

out from behind 

my five year companion the Looking Glass Tree branch 
as it plays its own game with me

yes my game an early morning game

trying as it would to cover up my (other) sweet friend

my white hot bright morning star

yes my morning

star of the east

my own yes my very own

rising up game 

that I play

Be in the ill-tempered Appalachian wind

as it rises and it builds
piling up full out on the ridges below

and then letting loose like a mini swarm of sometimes ill-intentioned

climbing well weighted down Mack trucks

They race-roar their engines

steady they go

up and up to reach the summit

of this my fair mountain—

causing the dog to turn her head

and me to brace my body

Be in the folds of his gray-white beard

that he strokes

softly

then slowly  

again as he lies pressed down

on his sickbed

where he waits patiently

for a touch from

dear 

sweet one Jesus

and the medication

Be with the man

my man

husband of more than 20 years

alone in the next shade

of an off white room 


© Karen Powell