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Found 36 results

  1. Tinker

    Shifting Sands

    Shifting SandsShifting can be subtle, at first unnoticed.Shifting from the freeze to the thaw, warming sun.Shifting from grey to golden, prisms of light.Shifting from barren limbs to cherry blossoms, poetry.Shifting from dying to new life, a miracle. Seasons shift, from one to another. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, come full circleshifting over and over and over, through centuries. I'm in my winter years, would that I could,shift to Spring and on . . . . . . ~~Judi Van Gorder Notes:
  2. Tinker

    Funny Man

    Funny Man I write with sadness of the demise of a funny man. In clubs, in concert, on the small screen, he warmed hearts and made us laugh. His humor sprung from common sense and fairness. He was a beacon for education and bettering oneself. His light shone brightly for millions across the globe. But everyone has a dark side, shadows created in secret, nourished by self doubt, selfishness, lust or greed. We can reject it, we can lock it away or we can indulge it. Fueled by adulation, fame and fortune, "America's Dad" unleashed his darkness and allowed it to snuff his brilliance. I abhor the destruction in its wake, I grieve the loss. ~~Judi Van Gorder Bill Cosby found guilty of 4 counts of sexual assault. Many more still in the wind.
  3. Tinker

    Time to Write a Poem

    April is National Poetry Month Many poetry sites are encouraging writing a poem a day. This thread is my daily poems for April. Comments are welcome Please join me in creating your own thread of daily poems, it is never too late to get writing. ~~Tink
  4. Tinker

    The Box

    The Box She blinked at him as if to say "all is OK". His numbers 120 over 81 lit up in red on her chest. Standing vigilant she continues to guard ready to ping if IV drip stops or his vitals change causing nurses to scurry. One called her "the box" as she was led in a dance around the hospital room. I think "Angel" fits her better. ~~Judi Van Gorder Exercise in personification.
  5. Lectio Divina - Meditation on Sunday Reading 3rd Sunday of Easter Cycle C Feed My Sheep John 21:15-16 "Feed my sheep" "Tend my flock" Peter charged to build His church, to feed and shelter. The directive simple without exclusion, nurture and protect. Christ creates a recipe with grains of love, hope, and faith to feed his flock. His blueprint for a strong shelter built on rock foundation of truth, compassion and justice. From earlier scripture "knock and it will be opened", deems His flock inclusive. without our judgment, that's His job.
  6. Frank E Gibbard

    "POEMS" (an acrostic)

    pensive offerings expressing my sensibilities
  7. Me, the Condensed Version Judi, Judi, Judi, enthusiastic, energetic, enduring. Kids, watermelon, horses and basketball top my list of likes and I can't give or get enough love. I have a streak of Jesus freak in me but it has mellowed over the decades. Cancer and snakes creep me out, I've had a personal encounter with the first, the second is just in my head. I still dream of adventure and romance and often forget this old body can't always keep up with my teenage brain. I call the Redwood Empire my home where I can be found working or playing. I have been known to tinker with words. ~~ Judi Van Gorder
  8. Thirty Days Thirty days I’ve sat at the keyboard attempting to put my voice on paper, to write something, anything, to be heard. My shout translates to a whimper and fingers become mute while letters form unintelligible words and nonsense dribbles from my digits. Still, I continue to strike at keys unwilling to relinquish my emancipation. ~~Judi Van Gorder
  9. Tinker

    The Path #27 Poem a Day

    The Path Discordant storms erupt. The path goes dark while whipping wind and smashing rain complain and push the day to night, the blackness stark. The force of creation collects its cost and all the universe joins the cyclical flow while plunged in gloom where rants an unseen show. The earth is purged, the putrid air is washed. From recalled shadows cast above and below disjointed thoughts intrude and wander lost. Perception stumbles, blinded, spun and tossed and latent dreams turn labored, gray and low. In darkness chaos tricks the shaded brain that strains to see the dawn of nature's spark illuminate the straightened path's domain. ~~Judi Van Gorder
  10. An Empty Moment A blank page glares back at me. Silence shatters the scene. Some days are just like that. ~~Judi Van Gorder
  11. Scab You itch like a crusty sore still new enough to stick and bleed beneath. I want to scratch at the scaly husk to rid myself of you but I know, to pick only stings and opens a slippery wound. I will clip my nails, ignore the prickle, and like any scab you eventually will fall away. ~~Judi Van Gorder
  12. Warning Oh, little squirrel, please don't run in front of me. I drive way too fast and you won't last a moment more, you see. ----- ~~Judi Van Gorder
  13. Frank E Gibbard

    Running Dog (R) (NPM 17)

    Running Dog massaged his tanned body stood tepee high looked at his wiry frame reflected in a glass, caressed the cheeks of a wholly proud plains bred Native arse. Young and athletic his muscularity honed and bronzed by the sun of Oregon. Sweet oils ran down his burnished thighs in yellow rivulets drips easing inside toes of mahogany brown and weariness of recently worked feet. Running Dog was a true brave you could say, without reservation, in the whitemens' badlands today had given his stack to the contact known as "ill-eagle" for his toke, now is time for R & R, high time to make smoke. When Running Dog was dog tired his solution: peace in communion with a pipe then hit town for buffalo wings mm.. (not ashamed he loved them) for the munchies. He towels his abs dry with little dabs, eyes the waiting stash, wonders what father Sitting Dog would think knowing how he spends his cash. He liked to think that Pop would not blink nor sniff at a little spliff, imagined him there in his favourite chair blowing marijuana all around as he exclaims that since I came it's the best shit I've found ever in the Gods' hunting ground. Floor walking in their casino then pumping iron, squat-thrusts fit to bust - how he maintained his toned native appearance front of house thrilling old ladies (ooh you look so Indian!) boy did he need a smoke and we are talking a mother lode of Nature's best. He gave utter respect into this habit, was like his tribe the first greens, and cool with the planet. Brave he was indeed he still had to watch out for palefaces in blue uniforms riding around after our hides. Ha! braves making smoke America's Finest seeking scalps in the name of a so-called freedom, he hoped his ancestors might see the joke. Signalling nothing ever changes in our history except the particular cause of a panic it rearranges those deck chairs on the SS Titanic.  
  14. Synergy The power of the western wind bends the phlegmatic pines, is this a contrived collaboration? Not flames on a lake but a common duet, a process of nature, remedy for stillness. --------- --Judi Van Gorder
  15. Mac Adoo's Wings The excited stutter of simulated flight creates an explosion of moult-dust, downy under-feathers and one long, strong, brilliantly green quill plucked in agitation. The staccato flapping causes the fall-out to drift cloaking her corner of the room to be captured later by my tired Dustbuster. ---Judi Van Gorder I'm cheating, this is an old one that I want to archive here. My poem for the day are the haikus below written after reading this old poem and remembering... she barks like a dog when a stranger approaches my watch parrot ~~jvg loud barking parrot standing sentry at the gate, dogs enjoy night off ~~jvg
  16. #18 Poem a Day Ball Player The Dodgers first to integrate, cross color lines with much debate. A black boy with the temperament to play through bigotted excrement with talent, poise and tolerance while white folk kept on hollerance. Jackie Robinson, number 42 known to steal a base or two made his point upon the field with steel that would not yield and a will they could not tame. All for the love of the game. ---------------- ---Judi Van Gorder
  17. Work Week Blast in a crowd leaves destruction meant to last. City brought to halt for manhunt without pity Taut work week ends with one suspect dead, one caught. Two lives can never pay back what is due. Tears of fear end in grateful cheers. Why? is the lonely cry. -------- --Judi Van Gorder Playing with head and tail rhyme.
  18. Sorry It's Sunday Sometimes it takes clawing and scraping to find inspiration to write a poem daily. Sunday is easy, I choose at least this day of the week to listen to my God through His Word. "We are His people, the sheep of his flock." this week the people are defined, "from every nation, race, people, and tongue." Why can't the heads of His church hear His Words? Why can't the heads of His church listen to their own words? ------------------------------------------- ---Judi Van Gorder Vatican II Chapter II The People of God L1 "At all times and in every race, anyone who fears God and does what is right has been acceptable to Him." I just wanted to write a simple poem from my meditation of the Sunday scripture. But that keeps coming back to a subject bothering me for a few months.
  19. Remind Me Again? Blankly I make small talk seeking a signal, a trigger. "Yes I walk the trail at lunch." Who is this guy? He knows my habits but who? No clue. He thanks me, he took my advise, "Sure, glad I could help." (What advise?) "Oh yes, on the house," "Spell the last name for me?" S-m-i-t-h (shoot me now) "on Green Valley? ". . . "Appleblossom Lane, sorry I hit the wrong key." "Thanks Paul, say hi to Marge for me." ---------------------- ---Judi Van Gorder
  20. Pressure Cooker I remember my Mom cooking stews in her pressure cooker and I got mine as a wedding gift along with a meat grinder and flour sifter now all relegated to the back of the cupboard. I have to admit I was a little afraid of my cooker I watched like a hawk while that round weight on top rocked back and forth just waiting for it to blow. So now that same kitchen basic makes headlines I guess I was right to fear it it seems it is the perfect host to send nails and ball bearings into the legs and guts of unsuspecting passers bye. -------------------- ---Judi Van Gorder More Boston Marathon Bombing poems see Frank's Marathon by Frank E Gibbard or my marathon haikus or April 15
  21. Tinker

    April 15 #15 Poem a Day

    April 15 So it's here a day off from the office a cool breeze blows off the ocean a sparrow hops onto my stepping stone a single white rose blooms a poem is whirling in my head a cup of coffee sits steaming on my desk a text from my son saying "'morning Mom" and Oh Yeah..... the deadline for filing 2012 taxes and two bombs explode at Boston Marathon. ------------------- --~~ Judi Van Gorder
  22. Day Thirteen April's thirty day search for my muse to make a daily offering by placing pen on paper and write of familiar places, intriguing faces, in simple phrases, to invoke a reader's response whether noted or not, sometimes draws a blank. This is all I have to give today ------- ---jvg
  23. Haibun Cherry Blossoms In a front corner of my garden are two trees, a Weeping Cherry and a Fuji Apple. Cherries grow well here in individual gardens but it is apple orchards that have supported our local farmers for decades. This morning I went out into my garden to observe the traditional symbol of Spring and be inspired to write a cherry blossom haiku. The cherry blooms had already faded, with only a few fragile almost ethereal blossoms left while to the right the apple tree was in full-bloom, vibrant and renewed by Spring. I felt rooted to my community. cherry blossoms pale as death next to Spring's pink blush on my apple tree ~ ~ ~ jvg
  24. Frank E Gibbard

    A variation on a haiku (my NPM#7)

    I went up the road Saw a bunch of strange people Addressed them "oh hi queue"
  25. Frank E Gibbard

    That Girl (NPM 10)

    Exotic location the girl, an ocean ozone, a waft of suntan lotion. She is walking men are gawking, eyes appraise a body born for warming rays. Hypnotic hips go swaying, her sashaying along the beach. Pink lips part as if she sips a succulent peach. Some males think, was that a wink? Imagination does its wishful thing that and man's fatal fascination. A bossa nova's playing over and over a figment from Ipanema is fading, samba sounds are still pervading so all that remains sax and marimba refrains and a final ... ah.
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