Category: Poetry

Winter Brown

Published on by annwjwhite2 Comments

Here under gray skies the colors fail.
Green has faded, yellow gone, red is only
Litter found where children’s feet played.
Brown, brown survives.

The air bites with icy teeth, bites again.
Trees hold their leaves, brown and thick
Against their chests. Dead grass rustles.
Small chirps, squeaks, then beavers sail

Along the wetlands, busy pulling brown
Branches toward their lodge. A heron steps
Out of the grasses, stabs into the water,
Retrieves a catfish. Minnows streak into

Streams from eddies, a school of gymnastics
As they flip, swirl, dance, tag and run
Toward the river. A river otter slides down
The muddy banks, brown fur coated in

Slippery red-brown clay which washes off
Creating a particulate fog of camouflage,
Nipping and biting their dinner on a water cruise.
Crows chase bard owls, who wish to nap

On shore-bound trees. Smaller birds join
The cacophony of shrieks and cries, always
One step behind the bigger birds. They are there
For the excitement, but not fools. Owl talons

Are sharp, like the cold. Sparrows pull small
Grasses to line nests, which sit abandoned
Until the temperature rises enough for eggs
To warm in the sun, the missing sun.

One Thing

Published on by annwjwhite1 Comment

One Thing.

His arms, which reach to hold me,

At the end of a day, of a storm,

Guarding me in space and time,

Outside the world, inside our sphere,

A shelter formed from two strong arms,

Two strong hands, which kindle hope.

Peace and tenderness fill my heart,

My brain breathing, a relief from reality,

Boxing worry in steel bands, ordering it,

Diffusing the pain, ignorance, and hatred

Which strikes between the hours of isolation,

Solitude, aloneness, and despondency.

Heart melted into ease, resting weary head

Upon shoulders precisely positioned upon

Muscles of love, offering bright solace.

I am cocooned in ataraxis, blooming in

Our conservatory of love, of pansies,

Violas, Pinks of my John, Johnny Jump-ups.

His arms, the foundation, the center,

And my breath catches, my heart glows.

Here I am safe. Here I am understood.

Foxywiggles, Princess of Heart

Published on by annwjwhite1 Comment

Foxy is a shiba princess who languishes

Upon a bed of knotted flannel blankets,

Not a stitch in sight.

At sixteen she forgets

Her beauty, her play, games of fierce biting,

And sleeps upon the floor playing

Princess and the Kibble, a new form of pea.

Ambient rock and roll trades place with lullabies,

Silly made up tunes that almost rhyme.

Sleeping in my arms and rocked, her

Dreams of running in a grassy field

Keep her wiggling in pursuit of time.

Flying off the backstep, in search of

Adventure, the ligatures stretched,

Pulled her arthritis, turned off her will.

Gave her a world of painful hobbling

On three legs unsteady.

We both cried.

Make the decision for her, I heard.

Turned off my ears and hand-fed her

With a stainless steel spoon:

Grilled chicken

Roasts with marinated carrots,

Basted turkey and tomato soup.

Was the mobile backend jack that kept her up,

Moving during trips to the dreaded vet,

During Ins and Outs of the backdoor

For three months of worried fall.

Her head tilted right with vertigo.

So did mine as I fell. Physical therapy

For the ears set us both straighter,

But slowed our walks.

Month four had her casting 

Off her backend help. Abandoned, I smile.

She’s a Princess with a future

Who sings back to me, a two note hum,

Laughs at my jokes and silly

Dances, in the cold brisk winter wind.

Listening to me when no one calls

And my aloneness leans toward 

Issues of abandonment. 

A proper Princess on a cushion of red,

Who nuzzles my hands, and shores up

My Heart.

Princess Foxywiggles

Cantankerous Clouds

Published on by annwjwhite1 Comment

Born in an itching collision
Of molecules of H2O brushing
Against the dust specks,
Wandering carefree across the sky.
Itching, you needed more of your kind.
Particles of outstretched bonding
Grasping to find more of your kind,
Just your kind, and melding
The chemicals you needed,
You founded a drop,
But it was not enough,
“More,” you thundered, “more.”
Your greed eclipsing the scaling
Of dust motes, particles, specks of
H2O gathering breathless,
The wind took on the task of
Rounding the herd and you grew.
It was not enough.
You mounded together,
Cirrus clouds in their skimpy
Lace, Stratus clouds rolling
In batting across the sky.
The mountains mocked you,
Earth ignored you.
So you grew, tall elegant towers
Of white chrysanthemums,
Piled one over the other.
The Earth looked up to you,
Wondrous at your majesty,
But you weren’t alone.
Others stood above you in the sky
Others grouped together and mocked you.
Angered, frustrated,
To win the acclaim you sought,
You turned black and gray.
Stealing energy from the sun,
Bashing, molding, stealing, compiling,
Sending the energy of those collisions
Out to strike in lightning,
Resounding like an orchestra of tympani,
The energy of those others.
You became the storm,
The cyclone, the fury of God,
And wreaked havoc
A temper-tantrum growing,
Waves blew, Winds killed,
And thrusting your entirety
Into your apoplectic fit
You threw them out,
Drop by drop, speck by speck,
Falling on the earth
Flooding, raging, cascading
Until with a last effort,
You itched, a speck of dust in the sky
Lonely for company, holding the
Molecular bonds of H2O,
One at a time,
And it was not enough.

Leaf, changing

Published on by annwjwhiteLeave a comment

You were green once,

As the sun peeked above the horizon,

You stepped from your bud,

Exploded in color, racing your brothers and sisters,

Reaching to the clouds,

Drinking their tears.

You grew, blessed by light and warmth,

The summer brought drought,

Hot rays of radiation from the yellow

Globe of eternal life and death.

You survived. Turning upside down as

The heat beat upon your epidermis,

Your skin, and you released gases to the sky

When it cooled at night,

Protecting the mobile creatures who 

Rested beneath you.

Then the world cooled, and days

Brought a rainbow of change.

Possessed by the wild of glory,

You dressed for a ball 

In colors no one could miss, 

That no one would miss,

For you radiated the history

Of a growing season.

The wind came and teased you,

“Take flight, join me, whirl with me,

Twirl with me, spin and dance,

Chase the clouds, travel the world

Toward the sea.” So you did. For an eternity

The world danced beneath you until,

When the cold rain fell upon you,

Exhausted, you fell to the ground.

Mourning the end of your life,

You surrendered to the inevitable end.

Then hoar frost stole upon you that night,

Like a fairy godfather or mother,

Glistening you, crystalizing upon you,

And glorious, like a diamond,

You knew beauty again.

In the Game of Life:Kyler Murray

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In the Game of Life, Kyler Murray
By Ann WJ White, BA and MEd, Teacher of Children of the Rainbow.

https://whiteawjwords.com/2019/04/30/in-the-game-of-life:kyler-murray/

Why are men so afraid of a child grown to
adulthood because of the brown hues of his skin?
By the talent of his athleticism?
By the company he keeps with owners,
Coaches, schools, family members who stand in his shade
While he holds the Heisman over his head and beams.
Names that the white rich are afraid not to fear.

Young men who bear their talent to the competitions that enrich.
Men and women of brown, black, tan, golden and peach,
None the white that the cowards wear
In hoods and salutes, crazed by swastikas, but
Pulling the green from hands that are rank with fear
Who celebrate their wins with demands
That the enlightened should scoff and turn from.

Not to salute the evil that the sadist and bully
Demand at feasts and festivals, competitions,
Games of ball, games of skill, games of prosperity,
Games that pull us together in our pride.
This bully offers feasts of cold hamburgers,
Colder French fries, and yells his admiration of himself
From the top of his Towers and Hotels.

Football, Baseball, Top of the Draft of Each of the lists.
His trophy an honor of skill, mind, effort and time.
He’s not perfect this Kyler Murray. Facing such
Criticism as he has faced, as those of his hue have been
Condemned simply for color, he has spoken his piece
At fourteen and fifteen, has apologized for his now he is grown.

Arizona will cheer him as he dawns the red of birds,
The MLB and NFL will watch and cheer as well.
His name is Kyler Murray and he has played his life well.

the lane

Published on by annwjwhite4 Comments

When I was lost,
I wandered
Through golden boughs
As the sun set,
Knowing that the path
I chose
Would lead me to
A place to make
My stand,
And find myself.

Wednesdays Visual Writing Prompt

Hands; a photo prompt, a poem

Published on by annwjwhite2 Comments

https://allaboutwritingandmore.wordpress.com/2017/10/08/daily-picture-prompt-280/

They raise their hands, beautiful hands,
Hands that have known labor, have kneaded,
Have created, have loved and been loved.

Praying to the creator, a creator, Mother Nature,
"End the storms. Save our brethren."
And the clouds tower above them like city towers.

From plenty, they sense the devastation, the need.
Politicians storm the fortresses for a picture.
They shout, "We are here with your relief."

Paper towels tossed into a crowd who wish for
Water, food, medicine, jobs, homes.
The cleanup has begun, with a single roll of paper.

Beautiful minds are shocked at the blatant
Lack of care. The victims are brown, black, and white.
They are a colorful mosaic, whirled and swirled by wind.

Voices come through the air, the web, the functions of 
of which convey disbelief, horror, future action.
But for luck, there walk we in similar straits.

Caring is call to action. Share, share alike, give.
From coast to island to coast the storms remain.
You only have a short time to build. Build.

A legacy is formed by the footsteps you leave.
I step in my ancestors steps. "Here is a broom,
I will sweep. A mop, I will scrub. Soap to wash..

The bitter taste of anguish, in the mouths. Eyes that 
Pierce though miles away. Stories that will be told to 
Grandchildren, of the great storm, of a roll of paper tossed.

Watching Television in a Plastic Cube

Published on by annwjwhite6 Comments

The gorilla sat in his living room,
Ignoring the rampaging children,
Tired after a long day of modeling
For the cameras.

The T.V. in the corner shouted
The humanity of humans, of conservation
When the news interrupted
Shouting of Twitters, long and loud.

They hadn’t let him vote,
Although he had watched the debates.
He had formulated a plan,
To repatriate his species.

Back in the jungles, where
He was born. They should have
Let him vote. But he was mute
To the signs he needed for

His hands to speak out. Compassion was
Cruel, he thought, to let so many
Of the tired humans slave
And lose their security. After all those years.

He watched his son and daughter
Hanging upside down from tire swings,
His wife climbing high to get to school.
Dinner was to be served soon. He was the sitter.

What was it that made human’s
The top of the food chain?
That left him in the shackles
Confined by man’s curiosity?

Curiosity still existed for him.
The wild still called him.
He mumbled a prayer for the so-called Masters
Who could dissolve the world in fire and rhetoric.

Anger erupted on the telly, more yelling
Disgusted, he stood and strode
Straight to monster machine, reaching for the remote
That empowered images, that brainwashed,

Of violence perpetrated on with fists at the
The human caged. Exhausting. Calming he turned sadly, switching
The channel to PBS, the public challenge,
The overview of the world. Change?

Democracy Now, the Warren Report, on
Expounding Columbia’s freeing the higher thinkers.
His brother! Kept in a zoo, now free. Their constitution.
Perhaps “they” would be allowed to vote.

He snorted in humor and settled
Back into his repose. These silly dreamers.
One of his infants smacked the back of his
Head and the infants outside giggled.

He reached and tumbled with his
Small daughter, letting her win,
Only to be beset by his son, babysitting,
Bouncing both on his arms.

Maybe there was hope. He had waited so very long,
The bouncing children pushed the remote buttons, changing sadness
To Sesame Street. Watching other children be children.
He was grateful to see them so engaged

With other infants, growing in a wild world of uncertainty.
Their time would come. They would visit and wonder
At the peace his family gave him. Secure together.
Finding a way to keep them all close.

Foggy, the Recollections of the 60s

Published on by annwjwhite3 Comments

My brain has foggy recollections, memories,
Of the things we were promised,  to be given,
As children, a world of peace, of standing in protest,
Flowers garlanding rifles held to sway children
By children no older than themselves.

The soldier shot, nerves and muscle, scared,
Not thinking of killing, not thinking
Of pelting rocks. Afraid. Unsure. A child of time
Given orders to stand by, to wait. Make them go away.
Orders again years after Kent. Waiting for the fog to come here, too.

Foggy recollections of Camelot, children in play,
Played in vinyl, surround sound. A glimpse into intense
Cherishing of time. The President’s Missus. Bravely
Facing the loss of a civilization, as she sat waiting, as the nation paused, then
Rushed out of the White House, a widow, out of time.

She was tall, classic, classy, a champion of children, well-educated
A woman who bore solitude in her heart. Her public face perfect.
A woman bearing in her arms, the children. Protecting them.
Mourning her husband John, her brother-in-law Robert, Martin
Luther King, all three martyrs to peace. She remained silent.

But her dream of peace arising from battle and blood was
Taken up and thrown, like feathers from a nest quickly disappearing
Erasing the stigma of violent victimization as others took up the flag of
Skin, of religion, of contesting savagery. Or so we thought.
Life fell from her hands into the ocean of solitude and ignorance.

She was a princess , a wife, lost, out of time but standing, but seen as
Perfection. Mother, editor, dressed in dark memories swirling in fog.
Clothes of the soul, shared by photographs stolen when she didn’t want to be seen,
Of private moments. With the population who couldn’t buy the tags of her style.
It’s so hard to see her now, under her packaging, with memory fading.

Foggy, recollections of the time. Childlike I believed, I still believe,
Making the decision to stand in the line of fire, to protect, being
Like her in my soul. Strong, able, sad, but never at peace.
For the world didn’t change as promised. Fog flew into the spaces as
She slipped away into obscurity and fairy tales. Moving into subtitles of time.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/foggy/