Could I But Find...

Could I but find clarity within my soul and mind
that lets the strife of indecision pass away,
for adventures beyond my head I would not pine,
but find contentment in the day-to-day.
          --Isadora

I wish you knew...

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]

I wish you knew that the endless analysis:

who?  what?  when?  where?

and--most important--why?

is not idle over-thinking.

I wish you knew that the look on my face

which you describe

is not distrust or disapproval or anger.

It’s fear.

I wish you understood that I love you

plain and simple.

All the rest is not an attempt

to control

but to feel safe. 

            --Agatha

Letting Go

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]

Letting go.

Moving backwards.

Upstream,

against the tide.

Being moved.

Ignoring the beat,

the count,

the sound of the music.

Letting go.

Moving out of sync

Into someone else’s

rhythm and time.

Moving backwards,

blind to the others,

the dangers,

the obstacles.

Letting go.

Moving without thought

into someone else’s

rhythm and time.

            --Sappho

Are We in Control?

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]


As babies, we are told when to sleep and eat,

when to be quiet. Behave or get a swat on the seat.

When in school, more regulations and rules

and lots of untrue facts to make us fools.

The history we were told was a crock to be sold.

Thanks to Howard Zinn, the truth will be told.

It’s scary living now in a military police state,

where flag-carrying patriots don’t care about their fate.

We are losing all our freedoms, hard and fast,

and the life we know will be a thing of the past.

George Orwell would turn over in his grave

if he could see the home of the free and the brave.

If we live long enough for assisted care,

we’ll be in a nursing home where treatment isn’t fair.

As everything goes full circle around,

being fed, in a diaper and to a chair be bound.

Might as well pull off a heist, steal a few cars,

rob a bank or Wells Fargo van and end up behind bars.

            --Gypsy

Mistress of All I Survey

[Sometimes, we write in response to a prompting word or phrase. This poem came from the prompt "control."]


I have control over my kingdom.

I’m the mistress of all I survey:

like the dust on the dining room table

and the weeds in my garden that play.

In my youth I was more autocratic,

issuing edicts for others to heed,

but I’ve given up advising the masses.

Now, I put my feet up and I read.

            --Zazu

An Inner Light

Is there an inner light inside of me?

I wish I could look inside to see,

Is there, inside, a special glow?

I really, really want to know.

What kind of light might be inside of me?

Will it guide me to the right, provide a key?

Is there, deep inside, an inner glow?

I’d like to know.

Would it shine out of my eyes

so brightly as to light dark skies?

Or, will it warm the secret part

of my lonely, tired heart?

Is there an inner light for all to see

that could be the soul of me?

            --Xena

Mah Jongg Maven

(For Marie Davis)

She's the Mah Jongg Maven,

leading the way,

bringing friends together,

so they can learn to play.

Her name is Marie,

and she is quite a sight.

She's quick, and she's lively,

and she moves like a sprite.

When she comes into the room,

doing high kicks,

it's hard to believe

that she's almost ninety-six.

Her fingers are long

and so is her hair.

She's got a beautiful smile

and joy to spare.

I'm glad I got to meet her.

I learned a lot today:

in Mah Jongg and in life,

you'll have fun if you just play.

            --Sappho

Traveling Poem 1: Then there were nine...

[A traveling poem is begun by one woman, then passed on to the next, and so forth, until each has written a stanza. This traveling poem was begun by Agatha.]

9 women writing

a poem to relate.

One went dancing ‘round the world

and then there were 8.

8 women writing

(none of them named Kevin).

One blogged her silly self to sleep

and then there were 7.

7 women writing

getting more than their share of kicks.

One was overcome by paint

and then there were 6.

6 women writing

happy to be alive.

One fell down and broke her crown

and then there were 5.

5 women writing

out on the moor.

One tripped on a bit of gorse

and then there were 4.

4 women writing

on every subject they agree,

‘till one joined the Tea Party

and then there were 3.

3 women writing

friends, old and new.

One took off in wintertime

and then there were 2.

2 women writing

just because it's fun.

One set off for Mexico

and then there was 1.

1 woman writing

(a cowboy poet is her hero).

It’s a long drive from McCammon, 

so now there are 0.

0 women writing?

(the very thought makes me pine).

We’d better send out postcards*

and start again with 9.


*Each week, Ars Poetica members receive a postcard reminding them of the meeting place (which varies) and the writing "prompt" for that week.