I'm the daily prompter for July
www.nahaiwrimo.com/home/meet-the-prompters/roy-kindelberger
Published Tanka:
Ribbons Spring/Summer 2018 (Page 44)
my grandparents
would stop by
bring me treats and presents . . .
surprise visits
don't happen anymore
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-oceans-of-our-lives/
oceans apart
and somewhere in between
wave after wave
that sweep my feet at
different times in my life
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-how-music-saves-us/
Healing
He sat at his keyboard. It’s set to Fender Rhodes. Because he likes that sound. He really didn’t know how to play. Yet he’d created the first notes to a song. His song. It echoes through his head. Like a song created over forty years ago. A song that eventually played for twenty-six minutes. A song that started with a single note.
in his forties
he left his old life
and started again
the healing begins
when he lets it
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-earth-hour/
i doze in my chair
with accompaniment of
crickets and frogs
the campfire slowly fades
into the midnight hour
coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-fragile-and-resilient/
the airplane
departed without me
a decision
to stay one more day
or maybe forever
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-the-world-to-come/
I found a man with his hands in his face. Defeated. A former teacher, now in his late seventies. His Alzheimer’s progresses rapidly. Along with other health concerns. A list. He has trouble communicating his needs. But this is clear. As he sits on a bench. Clear, he’s emotionally exhausted. I go over and sit next to him.
deaths door
opens wider each day
a new journey
silently i put my arm
around his shoulder
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-building-bridges/
a return
to an old manuscript
feels like new
a walk on the bridge where i
took the picture years ago
http://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-walking-at-night/
meteor shower
on a midnight walk
stops us at a fountain
cascades upwards and down again
there’s always more
http://coloradoboulevard.net/whats-on-the-roof/
moss covered roof
of an abandoned home
eight years
a kitten, now a cat
sits on the back porch
http://coloradoboulevard.net/blossoming-memories/
i planted the seeds
watered and pulled weeds
and waited
then i stopped waiting
and blossomed
Published Haiku:
Frogpond Spring/Summer 2018 (Page 45)
roots and stump--
all that’s left
of our childhood treehouse
Published Haiku from No Longer Strangers: Haiku Northwest 25th Anniversary Anthology (Page 45):
a robin sings
outside my window--
i close my laptop
another shot
into the circular file--
revisions
the record player
skips at the end--
mourning doves coo
http://www.amazon.com/Longer-Strangers-Northwest-Twenty-Fifth-Anniversary/dp/1887381279/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1436382884&sr=1-5&keywords=no+longer+strangers&pebp=1436382885342&perid=13NFMKQNPNG9WZSEZYWB
Haiku From Jumble Box:
the way--
the circle he paces
at the home
Page 123
falling leaves--
the day a tree branch broke
beneath my feet
Page 180
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1878798391/ref=cm_sw_su_dp
www.nahaiwrimo.com/home/meet-the-prompters/roy-kindelberger
Published Tanka:
Ribbons Spring/Summer 2018 (Page 44)
my grandparents
would stop by
bring me treats and presents . . .
surprise visits
don't happen anymore
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-oceans-of-our-lives/
oceans apart
and somewhere in between
wave after wave
that sweep my feet at
different times in my life
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-how-music-saves-us/
Healing
He sat at his keyboard. It’s set to Fender Rhodes. Because he likes that sound. He really didn’t know how to play. Yet he’d created the first notes to a song. His song. It echoes through his head. Like a song created over forty years ago. A song that eventually played for twenty-six minutes. A song that started with a single note.
in his forties
he left his old life
and started again
the healing begins
when he lets it
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-earth-hour/
i doze in my chair
with accompaniment of
crickets and frogs
the campfire slowly fades
into the midnight hour
coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-fragile-and-resilient/
the airplane
departed without me
a decision
to stay one more day
or maybe forever
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-the-world-to-come/
I found a man with his hands in his face. Defeated. A former teacher, now in his late seventies. His Alzheimer’s progresses rapidly. Along with other health concerns. A list. He has trouble communicating his needs. But this is clear. As he sits on a bench. Clear, he’s emotionally exhausted. I go over and sit next to him.
deaths door
opens wider each day
a new journey
silently i put my arm
around his shoulder
https://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-building-bridges/
a return
to an old manuscript
feels like new
a walk on the bridge where i
took the picture years ago
http://coloradoboulevard.net/poetry-corner-walking-at-night/
meteor shower
on a midnight walk
stops us at a fountain
cascades upwards and down again
there’s always more
http://coloradoboulevard.net/whats-on-the-roof/
moss covered roof
of an abandoned home
eight years
a kitten, now a cat
sits on the back porch
http://coloradoboulevard.net/blossoming-memories/
i planted the seeds
watered and pulled weeds
and waited
then i stopped waiting
and blossomed
Published Haiku:
Frogpond Spring/Summer 2018 (Page 45)
roots and stump--
all that’s left
of our childhood treehouse
Published Haiku from No Longer Strangers: Haiku Northwest 25th Anniversary Anthology (Page 45):
a robin sings
outside my window--
i close my laptop
another shot
into the circular file--
revisions
the record player
skips at the end--
mourning doves coo
http://www.amazon.com/Longer-Strangers-Northwest-Twenty-Fifth-Anniversary/dp/1887381279/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1436382884&sr=1-5&keywords=no+longer+strangers&pebp=1436382885342&perid=13NFMKQNPNG9WZSEZYWB
Haiku From Jumble Box:
the way--
the circle he paces
at the home
Page 123
falling leaves--
the day a tree branch broke
beneath my feet
Page 180
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1878798391/ref=cm_sw_su_dp
Tree of Fear
Hot, humid,
shady pine,
tree to climb,
seven years old.
Tree soars toward
sky,
A beanstalk,
boy reaches,
branch by branch,
stairs toward heaven,
exhilarating until,
Crack!
Branch drops,
feet dangle,
heart pounds,
wind blows,
mind,
surges, sucks,
boy’s soul.
Remembers,
Dad’s story,
Grandpa built bridges.
No fear,
fell once,
forever…
Mouth wide,
quiet desperation,
feet find trunk,
hands grip,
steel.
Down the
steps feet
find ground.
Twisted, splintered wood,
scattered leaves,
lay.
Eyes wide,
mouth dry,
kneels touches
Branch.
Looks up,
sunshine peaks,
blinding.
A boy,
seven years old,
closes eyes,
hugs
himself.
Hot, humid,
shady pine,
tree to climb,
seven years old.
Tree soars toward
sky,
A beanstalk,
boy reaches,
branch by branch,
stairs toward heaven,
exhilarating until,
Crack!
Branch drops,
feet dangle,
heart pounds,
wind blows,
mind,
surges, sucks,
boy’s soul.
Remembers,
Dad’s story,
Grandpa built bridges.
No fear,
fell once,
forever…
Mouth wide,
quiet desperation,
feet find trunk,
hands grip,
steel.
Down the
steps feet
find ground.
Twisted, splintered wood,
scattered leaves,
lay.
Eyes wide,
mouth dry,
kneels touches
Branch.
Looks up,
sunshine peaks,
blinding.
A boy,
seven years old,
closes eyes,
hugs
himself.
Clear skies blue lake flows
Evergreens shadows… mountains high
Serenity glows…
Evergreens shadows… mountains high
Serenity glows…
Tell Me A Story
An old stump
sits alone.
Battered, fragmented
a sage.
Other trees
grow.
Flowers bloom,
seasons go.
But old stump
remembers,
of times past,
times to come.
It’s not alone.
Old stump has
stories to
tell.
An old stump
sits alone.
Battered, fragmented
a sage.
Other trees
grow.
Flowers bloom,
seasons go.
But old stump
remembers,
of times past,
times to come.
It’s not alone.
Old stump has
stories to
tell.
Tank On Empty
No gas, here, anymore.
No store, here, anymore.
No customers, here, anymore.
Overgrown weeds, faded white,
boarded windows.
rusted red gas pump,
leaning telephone pole,
turned off, powered
only by the sun.
Clear skies, no wind,
time stands still.
Emptiness but something lingers,
ghosts, apparitions,
float from days past.
Everyone’s drifted on
like a tumbleweed.
Yet stories remain…
No gas, here, anymore.
No store, here, anymore.
No customers, here, anymore.
Overgrown weeds, faded white,
boarded windows.
rusted red gas pump,
leaning telephone pole,
turned off, powered
only by the sun.
Clear skies, no wind,
time stands still.
Emptiness but something lingers,
ghosts, apparitions,
float from days past.
Everyone’s drifted on
like a tumbleweed.
Yet stories remain…
Pilgrimage to the Village
Roads been traveled, turns been taken,
for good, for bad, but it’s still mine.
Cancer…Hope…forsaken…
growing old like fine wine.
A voice says it’ll take me,
“That poor man,” head shaking.
from deep beneath the Dead Sea.
I’m sick, my will breaking.
But not poor.
The finality,
even if it’s a blur,
my mortality.
But I’m here,
with god’s blessings.
I’ll always be here,
I’ll see you in the dwelling.
My pilgrimage
to the village…
Orange Is The Color
I creak up wooden stairs. Faded worn,
carpet squares, a patchwork quilt mourns.
A newel post, wiggles, slants, fits like a top hat.
I enter a dim-lit, back room, that
smells of an old cigar, extinguished long ago,
stacked books, and yellowed newspapers show.
A bible, hands of grace lay near an empty shaped mallard ashtray,
A cane leans against a table, with cold coffee, and pills for the day.
Twinkling eyes peer over bent rimmed glasses, shaky hands shuffle cards.
Game board spread around. Grandfather grabs blue pegs. He lifts his head,
regards.
“I’m yellow, let’s go!” I say, anxiously, grabbing pegs, humming.
He gazes, wrinkled frowns. “My boy, that’s Orange.” Hands drumming.
My mouth, opens, shuts. I smile, and draw first.
“Well, then…” I touch age spotted wrist.
“Orange is the color.”
I creak up wooden stairs. Faded worn,
carpet squares, a patchwork quilt mourns.
A newel post, wiggles, slants, fits like a top hat.
I enter a dim-lit, back room, that
smells of an old cigar, extinguished long ago,
stacked books, and yellowed newspapers show.
A bible, hands of grace lay near an empty shaped mallard ashtray,
A cane leans against a table, with cold coffee, and pills for the day.
Twinkling eyes peer over bent rimmed glasses, shaky hands shuffle cards.
Game board spread around. Grandfather grabs blue pegs. He lifts his head,
regards.
“I’m yellow, let’s go!” I say, anxiously, grabbing pegs, humming.
He gazes, wrinkled frowns. “My boy, that’s Orange.” Hands drumming.
My mouth, opens, shuts. I smile, and draw first.
“Well, then…” I touch age spotted wrist.
“Orange is the color.”
A Melody of Toys and a River
A river of dreams flows, it ripples, curves below.
A valley of toys roam, rapids carving foam.
Green fields and a river, drifts only to deliver,
a toy box given to a garden of children.
Small hands emerge, small hands converge.
Hands open up anew, a river runs through.
!
A river of dreams flows, it ripples, curves below.
A valley of toys roam, rapids carving foam.
Green fields and a river, drifts only to deliver,
a toy box given to a garden of children.
Small hands emerge, small hands converge.
Hands open up anew, a river runs through.
!
My Footprints
Footprints
Past, present,
I walk sand,
by sea.
Footprints,
not a worry,
for me...
Footprints
Past, present,
I walk sand,
by sea.
Footprints,
not a worry,
for me...
The Flower King
Morning dew.
A lone bee buzzes, hunting nectar
for his queen.
He circles a bud.
Sun beams.
A flower
is born.
A lone bee
gathers,
now king.
Morning dew.
A lone bee buzzes, hunting nectar
for his queen.
He circles a bud.
Sun beams.
A flower
is born.
A lone bee
gathers,
now king.
