Broken Things

(for Fran)

Often when her house is tidy
with the floors all clean and swept
she will slip into a back room
where the broken things are kept.

There she stands amid the clutter
of the puzzles, games and dolls
feels an inner sadness welling
as the tears begin to fall

on her knees to sort and gather –
finds a Ken who has no arms
someone’s pulled the head off Barbie
here’s a bracelet with no charms.

Dolly’s buggy wheel is missing
puzzle pieces need a frame
happy endings ripped from stories
dice and tokens but no game.

So she gathers parts and pieces
seeking one or two to fit.
But the chaos is too hopeless.
How does she make sense of it?

Then she feels the gentle presence
of His hands upon her own.
They are putting things together
better than she’s ever done.

There’s a piece – it goes with this one
here’s an arm, a leg, a face
there’s the ending of a story
here’s a picture of that place.

Oh how fast an hour passes
as they put a few things right
she may come again tomorrow
even slip back in tonight.

There is still so much to sort through.
Will she ever get it done?
“Do not fret my child, I’ll help you.
You and I have well begun.”

© 2009 by Violet Nesdoly

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This poem is published in our poetry club’s anthology, River of Words.

It is linked at One Shot Wednesday Week 48.

Changing of the wardrobe

Goodbye my sturdy jeans that cling
like sweat in summer heat.
Auf Wiedersehen my turtlenecks
snow drifts of fuzzy sweaters
So long my wooly winding scarves
uniform of leather gloves
and fleece-lined walking boots
Farewell my pantyhose
I’m leaving for a tan
Au revoir you lush buffet
of purple velour and red boucle
black velvet and wine corduroy

Time to wear salads
of lettuce green and berry pink
crinkle cloth and gauzy linen
swaying and swishing silky skirts
break out the halters and bikinis
bring on those cutoffs and capris
backless sandals and flirty tees!

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

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Where I live it’s finally the time of year to mothball the sweaters and haul out the fun clothes. (But I won’t be hiding the cozy stuff too well, because chances are I’ll still need it more often than I’d like in the weeks ahead.)

The kelp-dressed mermaid was a stranger I sighted on the White Rock (B.C.) pier. Isn’t she cute! Now there’s one way to wear salad.

This poem is linked at One Shot Wednesday Week 47.

Mourning Music (a Wordle poem)

Wordles of inspiration

Mourning Music

Strings flow trembling morning music
red, blue, purple drumbeats

Taste cold thought, wild enthusiasm
rich pomegranate love poems.

Remember golden cherry summer
know love’s austere winter

lovely eyes always longing, reaching, leaving…
Enough pain. Spoon candy consolation

massage wisdom thoughts
behind holy Christmas find children.

Sustaining heart whispers, Still know, yet hear
wipe mourning Jerusalem’s crying tear.

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

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This is a type of found poem – inspiration from the Writing From Words prompt. There, along with the challenge were links to “Wordles” – word clouds, computer-generated from a variety of texts (from blogs to books to Bible verses).

When I first saw all these colourful and slightly confusing graphics, I felt overwhelmed. How could I make a poem out of this! After some thought, I came up with a method that worked for me. I took screen shots of each one, named them W1-12,  made myself a grid and collected from each words that interested me — nouns, adverbs/adjectives, verbs and miscellaneous words. With those words I composed one line from each wordle and then played with line placement to come up with “Mourning Music.”

I’m curious about how others wrote their Wordle poems.

Key

Not off-key, answer key or low key
I’m talking about your common
house key, car key
file cabinet, mailbox or luggage key
the flat metal kind
with intelligent ridges
ground into its blade

The kind of key
you keep with others
on the little flashlight key-ring
next to the fob
that makes your car
blink and a toot

The key you sometimes misplace
lose, or forget
bringing on yourself
panic, frantic phone calls
hours lurking outside your house
(with its blank windows staring at you
as if it doesn’t know who you are)
waiting for someone to show up
with the spare key

The key you have nightmares
over others finding
and helping themselves
to your car, your computer, your TV
your very identity…

Have you seen mine anywhere?

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

Linked at One Shot Wednesday, Week 46

Pin money

If it’s 1849
your name’s Walter Hunt
and you owe fifteen bucks
to the draughtsman,
twisting a piece of wire
for three hours one afternoon
should be about enough time
to make the first safety pin
— complete with coil spring
and hidden point.
After you’ve sold the rights
and paid off your debt
you get to pocket
the small fortune of $85!

© 2011 by V. Nesdoly
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The story of Walter Hunt and how he invented the safety pin comes in several versions. The one below (from answers.com) claims he sold the rights for  $100. Other versions say $400.

“The product that Hunt patented as a dress pin is what is commonly known as a safety pin. Hunt was anxiously trying to figure out how to pay back a $15 debt. While discussing his dilemma with a friend, Hunt was nervously twisting a piece of wire in his hand when he suddenly came up with the idea for a pin. Hunt’s creation improved upon existing safety pins in two important ways. First, the point was completely covered when the pin was closed so it was truly safe. Second, Hunt added a circular twist at the bend of the pin to act as a spring and hold it in place. Hunt took his new invention to a manufacturer named Jonathan Richardson and sold the rights to him for only $100. Hunt was able to pay off his debt, but he once again could not profit from future sales of his product.”

I posted this poem in response to a challenge to revive a dead metaphor. The original article is “Guy Kawasaki says to Use Poetry In Business“

The uniform of ever after

The uniform of ever after

(On reading ever after, a poetry chapbook by Robert Martens.)

All small letters
of the English alphabet
are jealous of the characters
who got set
into ever after –
a socialist utopia
of egalitarian equivalence
with no capitals in sight.
Syntax wars
of who comes first
in sentence or name
and gets promoted
to upper
now over.
Any low case letter gets to live
east of exclamation point
question mark, period.
They all bask
in eyeballs’ equal attention
— though there is talk
by a, c, n and others
it’s time
b, d, f, h, k, l and t
get their heads out of the clouds
and g, j, p, q and y
stop passing notes
under the table.

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

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A couple of years ago a local poet read from his newly released book ever after at our local poetry group’s reading series. I enjoyed his poems and bought a book. One of the first things I noticed about his poetry on the page was that he didn’t use any capital letters. That got me thinking about what no capitals signifies — and “the uniform of ever after” is the result.

This post is linked at this week’s One Shot Wednesday, week 45

Master Gardener’s Touch

Master Gardener’s Touch

You blossom
a rose of dark beauty
and haunting fragrance.

I was the anxious gardener
fretting when life’s squalls
toil, loneliness, misunderstandings
buffeted you.
Too protective I neglected to prune
suckers of self-indulgence
pinch off messiness, self-pity
redirect a tendency to sulk.

The Master Gardener must have taken
His secateurs to you
for your petals that lately unfurl
are not the fruit of my
tentative touch.

© 2004 by V. Nesdoly

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Some years ago I wrote the above poem about my daughter, which not only expresses how I feel about her, but also some of my insecurities as a mother. It’s hard to believe she’s already a mother herself!

This post is linked today at FaithBarista where the challenge is to “Share how you experience God in one of the following areas: Mother’s Day, motherhood or a mom relationship.”

Permission

My son's play quilt designed and made by my Mom

When Mom was in the middle
of planning her next cross-stitch
crafting table centers
for the Christmas banquet
or piecing a quilt
her workspace was chaos
but her excitement,
the sparkle in her told me
dreaming, planning,
designing, creating
energizes.

Maybe she is why
I don’t feel guilty
sitting here right now
at my cluttered desk
making this thing with words
while there are dishes to do.

© 2011 by Violet Nesdoly

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This poem is linked at One Shot Wednesday Week 44