Poetry - Arlene Bice

I find myself calling on a word

that I love to say as it rolls around my tongue,

tingles in my ear and bursts out 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 but using the same old, same old words

as 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 diner

foreign words slipped into our language

may need practice but once you learn them, say them often

and 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

paranormal, Poetry

Mystical Avebury (publ. Life & Labyrinth)

December 6, 2012 Arlene

The heavy mist is all around.

Unknown if it comes

down from the sky

or up from the ground.

It fills the landscape.

Everything matches the gray

of the circle of tall stones;

the grass, trees, sky and the body

of a long, gray cloak gliding across

the open park towards me.

I stand with my back leaning

into the massive, upright boulder

feeling my secrets melting into

and blending with the secrets of the rock

kept quiet for centuries.

Vibrations emanate into my bones.

I feel sorrow, mystery.

Low moaning turns into a searing cry

cutting the late afternoon down the middle,

silencing the birds, sending chills up my spine.

As the form slowly moves closer

my body tenses, expectant.

My fingertips vibrate against the stone

warmth flows through me alerting my soul.

The long, gray cloak passes through me

leaving me behind.

Poetry, women

Malala Yousafzai, A Leader For Our Time

December 5, 2012 Arlene

In all nations brave women and girls,

through the ages have shown courage

during battles and long wars. They have fed the warriors,

carried messages, fought off the enemy, suffered rape, disfigurement,

and healed the wounds of others.

As the world progresses in time

as we inch toward respect;

understanding cultures and ways of countries different,

the feminine teach, nurture, carry the burden and the waving banner

toward freedom of education.

Timid maiden, traditional matron

carry on the fight for their rights

of speech, of choice, of life productive, of developing

their talents and gifts varied from the masculine in their families,

special in their own footsteps.

Malala, leader of your time,

of your place, may you continue

without violence against you. Know you are a leader,

an international symbol admired by many for your determined beliefs;

willing to stand up for them.

general, Poetry

my world from a bit of frost

November 30, 2012 Arlene

Snowfall of 2011-my treeline... — after frost come the snow falls (2011-my treeline)

lots of frost lined my morning window

as the sun touched it, a dewdrop formed

reflecting from the crystal hanging inside

the frost that turned into a dewdrop

is now sparkling with colors of the rainbow

this opened me, placing thoughts of my life

how certain people have touched me

turning me into a rainbow of compassion,

understanding, love, and welcome

to others of different heritage, color and language

it begins with respect and grows from there

into compassion for the struggle of another,

understanding their battle from my own wars,

loving them for meeting the challenge

as I welcome them into my world as compatriots

from that point on, bonds of friendship are formed

as I learn more of a world unknown to me

impossible for me to imagine without the history

to feel as any other, to sense what they know naturally

Cats, paranormal, Poetry, Uncategorized

Now that my rescued Manx cat, Lady Jane, has been diagnosed with diabetes and I know I will be facing a day in the not-far-off-future when she passes away, I’m thinking about seeing her in the afterlife. Over the years several people have told me they have seen a cat or dog in spirit form race past them in a blur. I have too, in the first year that I lived in my new home in North Carolina. Fortunately for me, it didn’t step on the paint can lid while I was putting some fresh color on my walls.

My girls (Lady Jane & Mz Lizzie) did not seem to mind this other pet running through the house. But then they were playful with the Native American Brave that wandered through, also. He even stopped to rub their bellies. The Brave left after that first year, along with the animal. It could have been his companion. My eldest brother moved in with me during the second year. I wondered if that had something to do with changing the tone in the household even though he was an animal lover.

I’ve read where some religions state that animals do not have souls because they do not have free will or an immortal soul or a conscience, so no afterlife for them. It runs through my mind about cats traveling hundreds of miles to get to the home they love and are familiar with, after they have jumped out of a car and become lost. Or a dog that leaps into swirling waters to save the life of a family member. Or protects a child from a snake biting, or goes for assistance to help their owner. You get the idea. Instinct? Don’t think so. Trained to do so? Nope. Souless? I think it is all about love. Love can bind a person to a place after they pass away; staying as a spirit or a ghost. Why not the love of an animal?

Two Cats

(Read horizontally or/and vertically.)

Two cats Lizzie and Jane,

playful, joyful, full of life

romping thru the house like two kids

one leading the other upstairs, downstairs

all over boisterous

a calico, a manx black, white and gold

different breeds different markings

same mother same heart.

Poetry

sevenling poetry

October 22, 2012 Arlene

Sevenlings came to me from Jyoti Wind who got them via Writers Market, posted by Robert…… formed by Roddy Lumsden as part of a teaching exercise, who originally read a structured poem by the late Anna Akhmatova. I hope I have that all right. J.P. Dancing Bear figures in there somewhere. When I Googled his name I came up with a whole new (to me) poet to read, explore, absorb, learn.

Two of My Poetry Sevenlings-

A Sevenling (He loved going)

He loved going to
The horse races, dog track
And the casino.

He hated reading,
The theatre
And libraries.

He married a writer.

A Sevenling (He changed my cooking)

He changed my cooking to Italian
Using good garlic, fresh yellowy lemons,
Extra virgin olive oil.

Then he took me out to
The Bierhaus, the Peking Palace
And Paula Deen’s.

His Italian taste buds disappeared.

These are the rules as I understand them. Correct any of this if it needs doing. A seven line poem split into three stanzas.

The first stanza consists of three lines; need three elements connected somehow, can be contrasting.

The second stanza is also three lines with the same rules as the first stanza.

The third stanza is one line kind of like a punch-line, a touch of irony perhaps.

No title needed but if used, should include the leading line words.

The overall poem is to encourage the reader to think and respond.

Category: Poetry

words, words, words (after thoughts of my 2006 blog posting)

Mystical Avebury (publ. Life & Labyrinth)

Malala Yousafzai, A Leader For Our Time

my world from a bit of frost

Cat & Dog Ghosts

sevenling poetry