Poetry, Warren Artists' Market, women's stories, wormen writing

Theatre Excitement Abounds!!!

I’m so excited! I’ve been invited to present a poetry piece at the Lakeland Cultural Arts Center! On stage! Joining my longtime pals from First Friday Poetry Night, we’ll be reunited on Friday-that’s the Fourth Friday-of January – the 26th from 6 to 8 pm. Littleton (NC), home of LCAC, has changed in the last several of years since I’ve moved from Warren County to Virginia. All for the better. I’m also excited to see all my poetry loving writers, readers and listeners. Sometimes I don’t know how much I miss certain friends until I am about to be with them again. How funny that is, not in laughter, in curiosity.
Lakeland Arts has also been updated, refreshed, renewed, etc. In addition to plays, they offer a wide range of live entertainment; some shows are already sold out. It’s an impressive line-up. I am eager to see the new LCAC since I often enjoyed the Lakeland of years ago. Live plays are so superior, in these days of our entertainments coming from home screens.
Now, what am I going to wear? Which poem? Excuse me, it’s time to spray my throat and walk around the apartment and practice my ah-h-h-h-s!

Poetry, women

From: What it is to be a Woman- Women Marching

Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com

women marching© arlene s bice

i watched the huge masses of women

gathered together

around the world

they protested the usurpation of their rights

fending off the danger of a new administration

ignoring the constitution that supports

our country and progress

women kicked to a lower rung on the ladder

by leaders fed off their powerful positions

voted in by many of these very same women

arrived by car, train, or plane

walkers filled streets, sidewalks, and mall

shoulder to shoulder, politeness reigned

with silent power of consideration

each overflowed with peace and energy.

*January 2017 there were 675 marches worldwide,

over 4 million marchers according to the Women’s

March on Washington official website.

Poetry

From: What it is to be a Woman anthology- Gardner poem

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Never Underestimate a Woman ©LaVerne Carlo Gardner

life as a female

growing up in the south

was not always easy

was not always fun

there were many roles

there were many duties

from child to woman much too soon

from adolescent to caregiver much too young

must take care of family

little time to be a teenager

little time to date or socialize

there was one way out

education

become self-sufficient

independent

there were happy times

family gatherings

weddings

birth of children and grandchildren

social events

there were sad times

death of childhood

death of parents

death of marriages

death of friends

death of lovers

death of a child

but through it all I prevailed

the strength of a woman

should never be underestimated

Poetry

I Came Upon …From Simply Put,  a collection of poems

I CAME UPON THIS DOOR© -arlene s bice

When roaming a medieval town

I came upon this door

by accident, I thought                                                      

tucked into

a hidden lane

a short distance away

it summoned me

come closer, enter after knocking

I remembered it, but how?

I have never been here before

The lamp bid me as welcome

as a candle in a window

it felt familiar

as I paused

letting my senses

respond

to warn or

to comfort, I did not know

But I felt I had been here before

a long, long time ago

The knocker beckoned

my hand to grasp 

let it fall

send echoes

down the hall

of stone

cold

secretive, empty

with stories to tell of times

amidst this forgotten pall

As memories came to mind

visions of men, women

revealed to me

I wondered

what string or crumbs

brought me here

to revive

those stories of long ago

of folks, kindred who must not be left, thoughtlessly, behind   

Memoir, Poetry, reflection

Maps, a poem from Simply Put, a collection

Image by ???? Mabel Amber, who will one day from Pixabay 

MAPS AS PROOF-arlene s bice©

Every now and then

I’ll sit on the floor after dragging down

the pile of maps folded on my bookshelf.

These are the rainy-afternoons-do-you-remember-when-maps.

I don’t buy souvenirs

but I save my maps, some worn others not

emoting moments, some seeking a thing not found

others of finding surprises-quite-unexpected-but-joyfully-held.

Maps are my proof.

I’ve stepped out of the mold, leaving behind

my mother’s daughter; creating my own  true self

becoming a-woman-who-loves-and-saves-her-maps.

And I’ll continue

to travel on roads new to me, soaking in

the atmosphere of another’s world, seeing it differently

then I will be making a deposit-in-the-bank-of-memories-for-a-rainy-day.

Poetry, reflection, travel

A Poem I Wrote Many Years Ago About Italy

Image by Peter H from Pixabay 

(Inspired by Dun Aengus by David Whyte)

(Publ. in Life & Labyrinth and Simply Put)

ITALY –© arlene s bice

And when you go,

try to go before the season

when tourists fill every place.

They take the soul of place away.

See Italy as its people have,

from centuries ago to the present.

Join them with colorful pottery pitchers

of wine on each table alongside baskets of

bread yet warm, with the scent of hot oven-baking

still floating from the kitchen to your table to your nose

to whet your appetite.

Walk the narrow cobbled streets

where the clatter of horses’ hooves fill

your ears even though that time is a long way

passed. Throw open a casement window in your

castle bedroom to sweep your eyes over clay tiled

roofs to the mountains in the distance. Mountains that

pierce clouds as you do, driving down the mountain, the

road carrying you through the cloud slowly that it lays

on your shoulders, imbeds itself into your pores, mouth

and your brain.

Soak in sounds of the squeeze-box;

a strolling soprano sings with all his being

as you stroll along the canals of Venice holding

hands most sensuously not ignoring strangers, but

saving them for the trattoria, where everyone shares a

moment or announced event; they will cheer your good news.

Drink in the crisp, clear water

spouting out of the mountain, like

champagne surging from a wedding fountain.

Place a small offering in the roadside box with the

Madonna, even though you aren’t Catholic, never will

be & don’t believe that stuff. Do it anyway, be Italian

while you are here.

Drive along the Costera Azura

not falling off the mountain into the

azure blue water like you expect to do

at the next sharp turn where you meet a bus

coming the other way. Italians have been driving

this road for centuries and do fall off crashing onto the

rocks below, but you won’t. You have too much to take

home to hold onto when there are only memories to make

you smile with inner glow; you once lived with a joyful heart in Italy.  

Poetry

From a fun writing prompt: what do i see outside my window?

Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Me & Dr. Seuss© arlene s bice

After dozing over a book at 3 o’clock

I came awake with a sudden shock  

drums were pounding loud and clear

pulsing the air, it made me fear

what was going on this lovely day

I leapt to the window to see what may

be causing such a fracas, be causing disarray

my eyes flew wide, my mouth fell away

it was a king being carried high above

the crowd was calm, no push or shove

neatly they walked, the queen was aside

on her own seat of pomp and pride

but this I cannot believe at all

not thrones, but toilets is what I saw

yes, yes, the crowd carried them too

seats of their own, all white, not blue

ahah! I declared to myself, I know that load

of toilets from Goodes Ferry Road

that disappeared some time ago, remember

toilets that hung on the trees even in December

it seemed like a zillion sat on the ground

lay upright and sideways all year ‘round

so this group of royals won the fame

it will be added to that reigning name

they absconded with the funds

and showed everyone their buns!

PS: there really was a large collection of toilets in a small wood on Goodes Ferry Road

Poetry, reflection, writing

From Simply Put…a collection of poetry

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

arlene s bice ©

I find myself calling on a word that

is lovely to say as it rolls around my tongue

tingles in my ear and bursts into the universe

on paper it turns the page into a bit of happiness

that I share with others that they may enjoy it, too

but I wonder

do other ears tire of hearing

the same old, same old words expected from me

when I open my mouth to speak, to astonish another

with a new idea, using the same old, same old words

excited as I am that I cannot call upon a word unused

often by me

so many words that I love to say;

delighted, sensuous, passionate, positive, synchronicity

words of a musical bent that sing in my head in the kitchen

fettucine, proscuitto, zuppa inglese, freschi, funghi, castagne

words that sound more promising on the Italian menu than

at the cafe

foreign words slipped into our language

may need practice; yet once you learn, say them

they become fun to form in your mouth even for one

who prefers to write than to talk, to listen to the rhythm

in the voice of someone else, to hear if they are using their

same old, same old words.

books, Poetry

Just Add Books

Photo by M. Tpabnha at Unsplash

My Favorite Chair- arlene s bice(C)

Some may think a favorite chair

is one to sit in with comfort, where

perhaps you read a favorite book

nestled in a sunny, window nook

a chair in chintz, cheerily over-stuffed

with several pillows all plump and puffed

a chair passed down from great-grandmother

or maybe a relative of some kind or other

a chair all squeaky with groans as you sit at rest

wiggle your tush, to make a satisfying nest

ah, such a picture this all makes just for you

always ready to pick up a book, to start anew

but oh, no! that’s not what comes to mind for me

what I like, is a chair that suits me perfectly to a tee

it’s a chair piled high with wonderful books galore

waiting patiently for their turn to be read before

a new package of books appears at my open door.

Memoir, Poetry

Songs that linger in your mind. . .

photo by Ri Butov from Pixabay

Jerry Vale Songs- arlene s bice

There are so many songs

each one brings back a memory

a treasure that still shines

reawakens

warm scenes of tenderness

love, dancing

two bodies as one

a song sung softly in my ear

in a sensuous Italian

being held close

desired and full of desire

days of long ago

still kept, to relive

store away

relive again

and again.