19 August 2012

WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS – PROMPT # 69

By Poetic Bloomings

So, we’ve dispelled the saying, “You can’t go home again!”  Our poets offered a wonderful mix of memory and angst about their origins.

Many things and people influence our lives, be they our parents, siblings, mentors, role models… they all have one thing in common: the ability to affect change in others just by their presence and wisdom.

“HOW DO YOU VIEW your life? – POETIC BLOOMINGS MEMOIR PROJECT

Part 4: With a Little Help From My Friends – Again, we are putting restrictions (darn restrictions!) on your muse. Family members, although influential, will play a special role down on the list of prompts. Today, write about someone who is or had been a great influence in your life. How did they affect you, what important lesson did they impart? It could be a neighbor, a teacher, a close friend, a group of them or a total stranger. If there was a lesson to be learned there, they’re fair game.  Thank them for giving you a hand up.

MARIE ELENA’S GODSEND

Might You Be A Poet?

She once was told to write about someone influential in her life –
someone with no family ties.
So she set aside for a moment the fact that they are surely
twin cousins, separated at birth,
growing up in an eerily similar life and time.

She focused instead on the shared yellow brick road
to poetic solidarity.
It took no effort on her part, as her pen gushed
camaraderie
harmony
laughter -

then abruptly stopped.

She coaxed it gently, conceding the feeling
something was missing.
It began again – this time slowly, softly,
in watercolor.
She watched as it whispered

t e a r s

p r a y e r s

g r a t i t u d e.

Ah, yes.

She capped her pen,
and smiled warmly eastward.

© Marie Elena Good – 2012

WALT’S LIFE MASTER:

GO WEST, YOUNG MAN

Cast bread upon the water,
manna for the mind at a time when
his words mattered, but never found their voice.
He had a choice to make -
take his cache of word hash home,
or drop crumbs into the water;
laced with cadence and nuance
which would lead him back to where he belonged,
ripple after ripple, broadcasting in the beauty of words.
Westward he gazed, where her admiration bathed
his tired and tepid soul; a grasp for control
of what lived within him. Encouragement came
in comforting tones, impassioned pleas
to please the one who found purpose in his prose;
piety in his poetry. For no notoriety
would come without words that spoke to hearts,
or thoughts that touched souls,
or one who would allow him into both sanctuaries.
His lessons came in the belief in his convictions,
the gratitude for his gift, and a strong hint of humility;
in his attempt to share his world with all who wanted
to cast their bread upon the water alongside his own.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

I had written an alternate piece for this prompt:

ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE

Long after the rage and the death of two,
I was given the chance to enhance
an amazing tribute; a salute to four
so “Fab” that it became part of their name.
And I was adorned as the “stiff one”;
dark suit and striped tie, sweating bullets.
Happiness is not a warm gun when nerves
kick in. I begin each “really big shoe”
with my arms folded and mouth turned down -
half frown, half – I’m going to lose my lunch.
A great bunch of entertaining musicians;
they were equipped with replica guitars
acting like the stars they were. Getting by
with a little help from my friends.
Mr. Sullivan, on stage alone
until the words I intone, “Ladies
and Gentlemen, the Beatles!”

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2012

Process notes: I had been asked to do my impersonation of Ed Sullivan to open and introduce a Beatles tribute band on stage. I had NEVER had the grapes to do it in public, let alone spotlighted on stage before a packed house. My shyness and fear of public speaking died that night. Lesson learned the hard way. I am grateful for that opportunity!

“really big shoe!”

This entry was posted on Sunday, August 19th, 2012 at 12:30 AM and posted in Beginnings, Encouragement, Fresh Start, Friends, Harvest, Influence, Journey, Lesson, Memoir Project, Mentor. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.

237 Responses to “WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS – PROMPT # 69”

  • Henrietta Choplin
    August 19th, 2012 at 1:57 AM

    Okay, you two… I won’t guess this time — beautiful, both! :) :) !!

    Reply
  • Henrietta Choplin
    August 19th, 2012 at 3:30 AM

    (I could look backward, but I would rather look forward…)

    …INSPIRATION…

    I don’t even know you
    And yet,
    It Feels as though I KNOW you.
    You don’t know me…
    And yet,
    I find comfort and inspiration
    in your very presence.
    And when you are gone
    I realize
    there is a part of you
    that stays with me
    Always…
    And we haven’t even met
    yet,
    but
    I wanted to somehow
    thank you
    anyway.

    Reply
  • barbara_
    August 19th, 2012 at 6:32 AM

    Glad you two know how lucky you are. She said, envious.

    Reply
  • barbara_
    August 19th, 2012 at 6:52 AM

    Thanking my college roommate’s (as progressed) fan-suitor-sweetie-husband, Arnie, and his roommate, Ray

    Arnie and Ray
    punning over dinner
    taught me words could play.

    Reply
  • Hannah Gosselin
    August 19th, 2012 at 9:22 AM

    Rooted

    Twig, leaf, limb, bark, branch, trunk and root,
    each are essential to wholeness and wellbeing;
    the relationship is integral on all levels.
    Just as this tree that needs each piece
    every pine needle and green gemmed leaf,
    amber pitch and sap of life runs thick;
    my soul that is made whole by you.
    From birth you’ve been strength that I cling to
    the very vine and root that spread neath my feet,
    you’ve caused this emerald canopy to be fuller.
    Our friendship boosts the bole of me
    shared compassion that speaks clearly to the core.
    Yes, and just as the majestic oak experiencing change
    we stand tall not falling or ceasing the celebration of life,
    moving through each season we stand and dance through it all
    and we do not grieve the loosing of a leaf for it is fodder for the cycling.
    We carry on stretching and growing strengthening and glowing
    From earthen cradle where we were once small seeds,
    born from the same womb, we are connected.
    Our roots roil richly in spite of and because of calamity,
    we choose to gather and gain height, reaching to the Son
    knowing and holding sisterhood, sacred and nourishing.

    ©Hannah Gosselin 8/19/12

    Reply
  • Linda Swenski
    August 19th, 2012 at 9:49 AM

    PROPPED UP

    I met her shortly after I got married.
    She knows all my secrets,
    and still loves me.

    She was there when I was pregnant,
    and all my single friends fell away.
    She understood my loneliness.

    She threw a baby shower for my second child,
    something I never had for my first,
    and gave me such joy.

    My children cherish her,
    my husband likes her,
    I can’t be happy without her.

    She has been my analyst,
    my companion, my sounding board,
    my entertainment, and my friend.

    Together we have solved the world’s problems,
    and our own.
    She gives me hope.

    Our lives have all been richer
    because she is with us.
    I hope she always will be.

    Reply
  • Connie L. Peters
    August 19th, 2012 at 10:07 AM

    Jack Smith

    You were an old man—
    in our eyes
    (in your thirties).
    Skinny—
    you said if you turned sideways
    and stuck your tongue out,
    we’d think you were a zipper.
    You said funny things
    like calling cars you didn’t know
    the make of “vehickies.”
    You weren’t healthy
    and had to take one step at a time.
    The doctors said you wouldn’t last very long.
    You said you had too much to do for the Lord.
    Last I knew, you were still going strong
    in your seventies.
    You started a Bible study for teens.
    You gave us our first Bibles
    and we read them into the night,
    laughing when the pigs fell in the water.
    One evening you asked my best friend and I
    if we knew Jesus as our Savior.
    We said no.
    “Do you want to?” you asked.
    We said yes.
    Thank you.

    Reply
  • Henrietta Choplin
    August 19th, 2012 at 1:39 PM

    Ahh… Wonderful!

    Reply
  • The Happy Amateur
    August 19th, 2012 at 3:00 PM

    TRUE FRIEND

    She is
    Like so many whom I love
    Across the ocean now
    Yet I hold her close
    A treasure of a soul-mate
    That was found
    In distant lands
    Where I survived a shipwreck
    And was a wreck myself
    A Robinson
    She wasn’t Friday to me
    Just a friend
    Or maybe both of us
    Some days were Fridays
    And other – Robinsons to one another
    We taught each other lessons
    And we learned
    And grew a bond
    That’s getting only stronger
    While we’re separated
    By such trifles
    As time, and space, and borders
    She is always
    Right here
    With me

    Reply
  • Laurie Kolp
    August 19th, 2012 at 4:01 PM

    A rough draft… trying to get things ready for school.
    **

    Playing Outside

    We wore a path from house to house
    riding bikes, roller-skating
    playing dress-up, pantomime;
    living, loving outside freedom
    we shared together, unaware
    of struggles caged within.
    We started kindergarten
    at different schools;
    you public, me private.
    Nothing changed
    until I moved.

    Reply
  • sheryl kay oder
    August 19th, 2012 at 4:27 PM

    Blessed

    It says Postcard and is decorated
    with sketches of flowers. On it you
    had written a rarely received
    note of encouragement.

    My only memento of your life
    sits on my desk and tells of
    your appreciation of my
    coming to church on the bus.

    You told me my children
    spoke with courtesy and
    kindness to each other—
    a conversation which blessed you.

    You blessed me by just being you.
    Faithfulness was your routine as you
    also took the bus to church, loved
    your husband and raised your children.

    At your funeral the pastor
    praised you as one who always
    welcomed new people in spite
    of the pain from your cancer.

    Your husband and children
    called you blessed as do
    many who have known you.
    Enjoy the presence of your Savior.

    Reply
  • Marian Veverka
    August 19th, 2012 at 6:26 PM

    True Friends Forever

    Neither one of us remembers when
    And how we met. The story goes that
    We were four years old when one of
    your brothers took you across the street
    And introduced us. Neither of us was allowed
    To cross the street alone. Our memories begin
    On each side of the curb where we stood and
    Hollered back and forth to each other..

    Our children and then our grandchildren
    Always wanted to know what life was like
    In the “Old days” – both of us bristled
    At that expression, but there were horses
    Pulling wagons of ice and junk and every
    Time a car approached all the boys ran
    Outside to look at it and see what model
    It was and the “winner” was whoever
    Saw the most models because cars were rare
    During the depression and then the war which
    Came to us second hand, we heard it on the radio
    And wrote to relatives who were in the service
    And prayed for everyone “Over there”

    We played in the high school band. You starred
    In the drama club. I wrote poetry and how you
    Cheered when a poem of mine was published in
    “Seventeen” magazine. Your mother had taken
    a job in Higbee’s department store so you
    Could attend an all girls college in New England
    I also went out-of-town, to a school in the South.
    Which was co-ed. We almost lost touch.
    Just a few letters now and then until you
    Met the love of your life who was the wrong
    Religion and oh, the tears, the threats, the drama!
    That summer we dropped out of college and
    Became friends again “Goodnight Irene”
    Was on every juke box and radio station , and
    We were singing it when I drove you and John to
    Catch the bus to Indiana where you could get
    Married in a couple hours and at the station,
    I danced with a man with one leg and his friend
    Was so impressed that eventually we were married

    Which is another story altogether and you and I each
    had six children . You kept on living in Cleveland.
    Hubby and I built a house near his family. It was
    In the country along the lake shore. We got together every
    summer at least – our husbands were WW2 vets
    and became friends. You and your friends would
    pitch tents in our yard, the kids ran wild and when
    we all got together, oh, the parties we had!

    It was you who left this earth first, and there isn’t
    A day goes by I don’t remember something about
    Us, usually with laughter.. Of the gang that we hung
    Around with, I am the last one left here, and not
    Able to travel to Cleveland.

    So it goes, time, the one absolute that takes and
    Gives and takes away and may we all meet again
    Somewhere, all of us, parents, children, friends
    In His time, in His place.

    Reply
  • Laurie Kolp
    August 19th, 2012 at 10:40 PM

    Here’s another:

    My Friend Nicole

    We were nonsmokers
    yet we used to sit
    on the back porch and
    smoke while imbibing
    wine, passing time with
    our whine about men,

    commiserate our lowly
    plights under patio
    lights swarming with
    moths and mosquitoes;
    orange Citronella candles
    spewing fumes in the air,
    but damn if we’d stink
    up the house,

    plan futures we deserved-

    not with those rude jerks
    or assholes (can you
    believe what they did?)

    but with pipe dream
    illusions blown away
    on a puff and a whiff
    of smoky experience.

    Reply
  • Poetic Bloomings
    August 19th, 2012 at 10:55 PM

    You need to post the photo, Walt. Everyone would get a huge kick out of it. ;)

    Marie Elena

    Reply
  • thatmissr
    August 19th, 2012 at 11:51 PM

    I just couldn’t get serious with this prompt today . . . maybe I’ll try again later in the week.

    Hair Today

    Looking in the mirror
    Has always been
    A hair-raising experience.
    Most mornings,
    The battle between
    Fingers and filaments
    Ended in an angry ponytail -
    The very definition
    Of uneasy stalemate.
    Then one day
    A roommate
    With magic fingers
    And wise words
    Taught me to embrace
    My wild mane.
    My hair and I
    Have begun
    To understand one another,
    And my locks
    Will never be the same
    (Thank goodness).

    Reply
  • “Hair Today” « A Particle of Difference
    August 20th, 2012 at 12:01 AM

    [...] the fourth part of the memoir project at Poetic Bloomings, we were to write a poem about a friend (basically anyone [...]

    Reply
  • seingraham
    August 20th, 2012 at 12:25 AM

    Thanks be to the Faithful

    Every time I return from yet
    another sojourn
    to the great beyond,
    An increasingly unknowable place
    That grows ever more difficult to describe
    And even more challenging to articulate

    Without exception, without fail
    I am always warmly welcomed back
    Embraced by a group of friends,
    the nucleus of which
    is such that I know not how to classify,
    categorize, or in any way explain

    Such exceptional people,
    I am certain,
    are as rare as true love
    And just as precious
    if not even more so
    People – friends, of whom
    I know I am unworthy
    Yet feel incredibly blessed
    to have in my life.

    When I finally soar back into their lives,
    as if on the wings of some recalcitrant
    —or at least at last, forgiving angel—
    There are never any recriminations,
    nor the slightest whiff of disapproval
    and not a hint of disappointment.

    If any of these, feel any of that
    they are incredibly careful
    to keep such feelings
    expressly well-hidden, from me.
    Their love and acceptance seems,
    and after years of experience, I believe is,
    truly unconditional.

    So – no matter how long my
    fickle health has me
    go to ground
    Or, contrarily provokes
    months of behavior so bizarre
    My family must crave disowning me
    This company, never intrusively,
    always reassuringly, but really – just there
    Lets me know throughout all the
    shades and vagaries that
    make up my shredded life:
    I am loved, I am treasured,
    I am valued beyond all measure and—

    When I am so inclined
    or my demons at last
    let loose their surly bonds
    No matter should it take
    a million untold days
    My band of allies
    will still be there for me
    Eager, nay, impatient
    to help pick up the ruined threads
    That link the fragile web of my existence
    to the weft and weave of theirs
    and to carry on as if uninterrupted…

    We continue
    Their strength becomes
    My strength, at least
    For a time
    and I know,
    I do, I am so very blessed.

    S.E.Ingraham©

    Reply
  • seingraham
    August 20th, 2012 at 12:43 AM

    I agree with Megs, Walt – this so sounds like your gig … way to go and great poem …

    Reply
  • erinkayhope15
    August 20th, 2012 at 1:24 AM

    Here’s my attempt:

    Brother
    The best older brother,
    A girl ever had;
    The best of examples,
    A brave young man;
    You were all that and more,
    A really good friend.

    In loving memory of my older brother, Cameron, who died in 2008 after living with lung cancer for 2 years. He was only 12.

    Reply
  • Jacqueline Casey
    August 20th, 2012 at 9:26 AM

    Walt and Meg: both your Sunday am poems just beautiful, one of you looking West; the other East…

    Reply
  • Andrew Kreider
    August 20th, 2012 at 10:39 AM

    Best man

    He was like me, tall
    and musical, and clever.
    He was the one man
    I ever fell in love with
    and he was gentle with me.

    He is married now,
    balding and slightly unkempt
    as he chases the
    kids while his partner looks on.
    We reminisce about life

    and parents dying
    and the slow discovery
    of truth long buried.
    We talk in straight lines, of hell,
    and words that fall like soft rain

    and I realize
    I love him as much today
    as I did back then
    when I melted before him
    and he was gentle with me.

    Reply
  • Lauren
    August 20th, 2012 at 10:39 AM

    More Than Teammates
    (dedicated to the fencing team)

    They stood clustered together
    Knowing each other.
    That soon changed.
    I wanted this first for the sport
    Of hitting people with swords

    Not expecting to a find a family.
    Teammates who became like
    Brothers and sisters while we pushed ourselves,
    And each other, everyday to get better,
    Perfecting our skill.

    This group of people
    Accepted me, craziness and all,
    As the person I was
    And made me believe
    I could be the person I wanted to be.

    They were my personal cheering section
    On and off the strip.
    Some held secrets, some made me laugh,
    Others helped me get up when I was down.
    To think I almost missed out.

    My coach
    Pushed us
    Made us work for what we wanted
    But always had a kind word
    And advice on every aspect of life.

    These people became my solace.
    Seeing their faces (half of them at least) in school
    Gave me hope that I wasn’t alone,
    That there was a stress free place
    I could go, which was where they were.

    Reply
  • Pamela Smyk Cleary (PSC)
    August 20th, 2012 at 10:41 AM

    My Second Mom

    Tall,
    gangly,
    red-hair &
    freckles,
    loud, laughing,
    big-boned,
    athletic –
    one glance
    could confirm
    no common blood
    between us

    (If she had a totem, it was
    a giraffe — while mine
    might be a field mouse)

    Often embarrassed, but
    rarely outdone (she could sing,
    belch & blush with the best of them)

    Beating the neighborhood boys
    at football in the street (for none
    could fathom how to block a lady)

    Life wasn’t always kind,
    but she was
    (without exception)

    _ _ _ _ _

    ps: You can see her picture — if you bop over to my blog. ;-)

    Reply
  • Jacqueline Casey
    August 20th, 2012 at 10:59 AM

    Prompt For Poetic Bloomings (write of an outside influence; friend or teacher, etc)

    “I was a weedy garden, overgrown”

    There comes a time in any garden’s scope
    when magic will appear; so unexplained
    and such a cultivator for my slope;
    I called him “Mr. Snow”, tho not his name.

    Reminded me of tune from Carousel.
    I kept my notebook with his accolades;
    when humming it, his meter taught me well
    and so my garden grew though in the shade.

    I kept this teacher’s approbation near;
    his love for my fine Haiku tucked away
    into a secret garden where no fear
    could ever enter or find disarray.

    Sometimes the weeds come faster than the bloom
    But with his cultivation I have tune.

    Reply
  • mike Maher.
    August 20th, 2012 at 11:14 PM

    Those Winters From Over Here.

    It was winter at the bust stop,
    the telephone poll already covered in frozen spit
    when things first started to shift,
    the gentle hum that comes either right before or right after,
    the choices not made piling up on the curb
    before we realized some have expiration dates.
    There were more of us then,
    even some we hadn’t met yet,
    others already gone.
    I slept more.
    Stop being so damned depressing, says the streetlight.
    What would you know about emptiness? says the batter’s box.

    How much of then remains,
    which clinks in our operandi left over,
    which parts frozen to us
    during those New Jersey winters waiting for the bus?
    It was always my job to return the loose pitt bull
    since he bit everyone else
    and most of that not-being-bit by dogs is still here,
    but maybe all I am doing is avoiding
    identifying anyone despite the prompt’s orders.
    But with all the you zigging and me zagging
    and nagging injuries along the way,
    it isn’t always as clear as it should be
    at least if you ask me.
    Who could pick just one when so much has been changed,
    the number of winters adding up,
    the bus just now pulling up to the stop
    or so it sometimes seems.

    Reply
  • janeshlensky
    August 20th, 2012 at 11:54 PM

    Under a Sheltering Wing

    She had a gift for inspiring fear,
    shame too, although she was thin,
    a stooped figure like a crane in a cardigan,
    each morning entering the classroom
    with her bottomless coffee cup,
    her glasses riding her nose like a jockey.

    Pity the wretch that did not end his conversation
    once she took her place and peered at each
    of us in turn, then said good morning
    and started class. She was a rare species
    in my life: a teacher who meant it, who knew
    what she was doing and intended to do it well.

    All the heretofore gifted young scholars
    buoyed by reputation and minimal effort
    had to rethink sentence structure and phrasing,
    finally learning that punctuation
    was not purely decorative, that words mean
    and therefore deserve a little respect.

    Naturally, she frightened me.
    disappointing someone you admire is a fear’s fodder.
    with my mother and Mrs. Hood molding me,
    I could envision my life among words,
    even teaching with her for several years,
    creating yearbooks, seeing her with new eyes.

    She said, “Let me be your mama at school;
    if you have problems, I can help you.” She did.
    She and my mama were kindred spirits,
    two halves of a literary whole,
    both smitten with unscribbled paper,
    in love with story and poetry, with possibility,

    and I had the good fortune to have been sheltered
    beneath their sheltering wings and taught to fly,
    but that’s a poem for another time.

    Reply
  • vivinfrance
    August 21st, 2012 at 3:10 AM

    I had a busy weekend, so I’d simply copy/pasted the prompt into a word document until I had time to write. This morning I wrote my response. But now, having read Marie’s, Walt’s and everybody else’s contributions, I am ashamed to post my paltry poem! The thanks, though, are sincere.

    EMINENCE GRISE

    The archetypical headmaster -
    Doctor Walters of billowing gown,
    stern and unbending, majestic and tall,
    to be sent to him for misdemeanour
    was punishment by fear and trembling.
    For the boys it was fear of the cane
    but for us girls it was words.
    He had such a way with them
    he could shrink our egos to zero.

    But his lessons were another matter.
    He taught us English in a way
    that led us to places beyond imagining,
    stimulated the love of reading,
    gave us the tools that we’d need for writing.
    It took me a while to realise
    what I should be doing
    with my life, but now that I am,
    thank you Doc.

    Reply
  • Henrietta Choplin
    August 21st, 2012 at 6:25 AM

    The Comments seem to be skipping around the page, I think.

    Reply
  • jlynn sheridan
    August 21st, 2012 at 4:14 PM

    “Hands that bless”

    One
    thousand and
    one transparent hands
    extended through time to bless
    and raise my head even when I
    was suspended in time, even
    when I was too blind
    to see or feel—
    even the times
    I declared with ornery breath
    that I never wanted a bloody hand
    in the first place.

    Reply
  • Mary Mansfield
    August 21st, 2012 at 9:58 PM

    Unintended Influences

    Those bullying girls skilled
    In the art of middle school torture,
    The dishonest men who received affection
    But only returned derision and betrayal,
    The non-believers seeking to inject
    Their doubts into my resolve…
    They’ve taken their shots,
    Scarring my ego,
    Almost destroyed me,
    But they fueled my defiance,
    Made me push me past my limitations,
    And they continue to drive me
    To build a legacy worth leaving behind.

    Reply
  • Annette Mickelson
    August 22nd, 2012 at 12:06 AM

    Mrs. Zastrow

    She stood in front of the class,
    (Honors English, senior year),
    Shoulder length hair
    black and shining
    like raven wings.

    I received back my essay,
    staring in silent disbelief
    at her red ink covering my blue.
    I gathered my books,
    blinking back tears of rage;
    hating her youth
    her poise
    her raven black hair.

    I went to her classroom;
    the harmonious years of easy As
    replaced with the discord of a D.
    I coughed and sputtered.
    We sat.
    She wrote.

    I finished the year in triumph.
    I practiced the power of The Preludes;
    The picture painting power of words.
    I did not fail,
    I earned my proudest A.

    At 49, she was gone,
    leaving her sparkle,
    her raven feathered life,
    behind.

    Reply
  • purplepeninportland
    August 22nd, 2012 at 6:34 PM

    Sorry I’m late. Not sorry I was away at the beach.

    Headstrong and Headless

    Then there was that time
    I packed my belongings
    on impulse
    yet again,
    and headed upstate
    New York with a dark
    blonde, curly-headed
    lunatic,who sang songs,
    a cappella, when he was
    not drunk. After a punishing
    three month stint
    with the green-eyed,
    erratic inventor
    of my discretions, I called Kathy,
    begging her,
    please pick me up.
    Get me out of here.
    In a red Chevy Blazer,
    she dragged her daughter
    of six, drove through
    the endless Pennsylvania
    Turnpike and rescued me.
    We packed everything
    we could cram into that Blazer,
    got lost three times on the way
    home, leaving a trail of fools
    and foolishness behind.

    Reply
  • Rooted « Metaphors and Smiles
    August 22nd, 2012 at 8:10 PM

    [...] WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS – PROMPT # 69 [...]

    Reply
  • kelly
    August 23rd, 2012 at 2:14 PM

    Let’s Hear it For the Girls

    Strong-willed women,
    often don’t get along.
    Not true of this group.

    Four females in radio,
    you’d think egos might get in the way.
    Not for the “four babes in the morning”
    (our dream radio show)!

    From families and foes to funerals and faith;
    marriages, divorces, births and deaths.
    Nothing if off limits with this crew.

    Through thick and thin,
    (mostly thicker bodies and thinning patience),
    we support the great choices
    and the bad decisions.

    Our journeys are different, but our paths intersect.
    And we’re still waiting for that BIG break
    when we go syndicate and spill everything
    over the airwaves….NOT!

    © KED 2012

    Reply
  • Marjory M Thompson (MMT)
    August 26th, 2012 at 4:15 PM

    Back at the computer and trying to ‘catch up’ – WONDERFUL responces to the prompt of what I have had a chance to read so far.

    The prompt reminded me of this poem I recently wrote for a LucBat Challenge in Poetic Asides.
    Written of a friend since high school, 5 weeks younger than me and the closest to a twin I’ve ever experiences. I am working on another new poem for the prompt….

    TALL (LucBat)
    I never seem too small
    When with you, I feel tall and can
    Mountains scale, oceans span,
    Explore uncharted land, and brave
    Fast rivers, a dark cave,
    Gathering memories to save, then seek
    To score new, deep music
    Of love that I can keep within
    A gold and satin bin,
    Or dented rusty tin, and know
    Wherever place I go,
    Treasures held will bestow on me
    Reminders that you’ll be
    Always a part of me, my all.

    Reply
  • Marjory M Thompson (MMT)
    August 26th, 2012 at 4:20 PM

    Where did it go? What I just posted? :(
    OK – it ‘landed’ just after Kelly’s post.
    Wonder where this one will go! :)

    Reply
  • Sara V
    August 28th, 2012 at 11:26 PM

    There’s No Place Like Poem

    Sixth grade
    Got the tough teacher
    Mrs. K

    She looked a lot
    Like the wicked witch of the West
    Except dressed for success
    Pressed blouse, fitted skirt,
    Sensible heels and dark red lips

    Terrified I sat straight,
    Back pressed against polished wood
    Waited for the worst
    She was stern
    She gave lots of homework
    She yelled
    And she noticed I wrote poetry

    Half-way through cursive lessons
    She called me to the back of class
    Mortified, I walked through the desks
    Sure a scolding was at hand

    Instead she said
    My handwriting was beautiful
    Should be used to write stories and poems
    Not rote exercises

    Right before summer break
    Mrs. K walked up to me at recess
    With one of my poems in her hand
    Said, “You are a great writer”

    When I looked up at her
    The afternoon sun haloed her hair
    Gave her a glowing crown
    Just like Glinda
    Telling me all I had to do was tap my heels
    And believe

    Reply
  • Michelle Hed
    August 29th, 2012 at 12:19 PM

    Junior High Choir Director

    There was a man –
    What man?
    The man (High School Choir Director) with the power –
    What power?
    The power to move me into high school choir –
    I failed.
    I was the only one to fail.
    It was a crushing blow.
    I wore shades in choir
    to hide my tears.

    But…

    my Junior High Choir Director
    formed an after school madrigal group –
    and so throughout High School
    we sang at Nursing Homes at the holidays
    and went caroling door to door –
    part of me always felt like a charity case
    but the other part of me
    was eternally grateful
    to be given the chance
    to do something I loved
    with a great group of friends.

    He tried to pick up the pieces
    of my broken self-esteem,
    and though my own self-doubt
    left some chips and cracks,
    he gave it back to me,
    more than half full.

    Reply
  • Misky
    August 30th, 2012 at 7:28 AM

    Wishes Do Come True

    We’ve been friends for nearly
    twenty year now
    and even though we see

    each other rarely, like
    maybe once a year,
    the time rolls back like blinds

    and we are again one
    mind, one humour, one
    friendship that I treasure

    beyond most others. She’s
    the friend that I always
    wished I had so there’s truth -

    Wishes do come true.

    Reply
  • Wishes do Come True « Misky
    September 1st, 2012 at 7:03 AM

    [...] Poetic Blooming’s Memoir Project, Prompt: 69 – Friendships Rate this:Share this:TwitterFacebookLinkedInPinterestEmailLike this:LikeBe the first to like this. This entry was posted in Poetic Bloomings Sunday Prompt, Poetry and tagged friendship, memoir project.Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment [...]

    Reply
  • PART 4 – HELP FROM FRIENDS | Two Voices, One Song
    September 1st, 2012 at 2:58 PM

    [...] case, it is the back to the unfolding series in the discovery of self that is being hosted at Poetic Bloomings. In this segment, Poetic Bloomings would like for us to write about people who have or still [...]

    Reply
  • Saved…By A Pal | echoes from the silence
    March 13th, 2013 at 8:38 PM

    [...] Written for Poetic Bloomings Prompt #69 (Memoir Project – Part #4): With A Little Help From My Friends [...]

    Reply
  • www.writemy-essay.com
    April 12th, 2013 at 3:35 AM

    About friends – better to have 100 real friends than 100 000$

    Reply
  • ejparsons
    May 22nd, 2013 at 12:11 AM

    Jon

    I don’t remember the first time we met
    But we met, nevertheless
    And became friends for life
    Even though we’re far apart

    I remember training him to become
    A bartender at the NCO Club
    Telling him the secret that
    There are never more than two in line
    The one in front of him and the one behind

    I remember our many rounds of golf
    Neither of us ever mastered the game
    And neither of us actually cared
    We were just out to have a little fun

    I remember his distinctive and loud laugh
    He would hyperventilate like a hyena
    One night at Denny’s he got going so long
    That the next table hollered, “Save the seals!”

    Then there was the Halloween Party at the club
    It was his night to call BINGO
    What a surprise when he walked in the room
    Wearing a diaper, a hat, and all painted in blue
    He was the first human Smurf I’d ever seen

    I remember being best man at his wedding
    As he had been best man at mine
    Just a couple of years before
    And we’re both still married to the same girls

    There are many happy memories of my friend Jon
    Maybe one of these days we’ll get together again
    Meanwhile, we stay in touch through Facebook
    And, of course, with six matches of Words With Friends

    Reply

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