Author: Gypsie-Ami Offenbacher-Ferris

In response to dVerse Poets Pub Photo Prompt below:

She waits since birth
for that touch
that care
as the sun rises
over the nursery wall

She waits at school
from first grade on
for a smile
a loving hug
before her long walk home

She waits each summer through
bathing suit adorned
towel in hand
dreaming of the swim
no invite received

She waits at the church
white dress arrayed
the veil in place
the music starts
nobody comes

She waits for the call
just one would be nice
two children had she
the phone never rings
it lay quiet and still

She waits outside
on a swing in the eve
floating in imagined memories
waiting for sunset
to carry her away

I can’t swim
I can not swim
Why can’t I swim
I have swam my entire life

I tried
I did try today
My legs refused to move
I have moved my legs always

I can’t walk
I can not walk
Why can’t I walk
Horrific pain attacks me

I do walk
I have to walk
No one here to aid me
Walking and living with no hope

I can’t swim
I can not swim
In the water or ocean
I can no longer swim through life

She loved that lovely island,
and her small place upon it.
Just a pretty little camper,
transformed into a loving home.

Hurricane straps held it
securely to the sandy ground,
and the ocean shore was
a mere stroll away.

Though tiny and old,
she loved this little abode.
Seagull cries carried every morn
in the salty aromatic breeze.

Waves lapped gently
on shores of golden sand,
or slapped angrily upon them
when a storm surged through.

Every morning with bare feet
upon the warmth of the shore,
they walked together,
a girl with her pup on hand.

This island home a dream of hers,
since a child and even before.
To wake with pelicans flying above,
and spy dolphins swimming by.

Winter storms and blowing gales,
never a cause for concern.
Yet, the twist of a pen and a contract torn,
neither of these could she deter.

As it is now and has always been,
greed wiped away compassion.
Her island home was bought by those
with money their only passion.

Now the little home is wiped away,
not by wind or gale or storm.
But by the mighty need for financial gain,
not hers at all, but theirs.

A beacon to allay boredom,
turned down as boredom fades.
The light forgotten on days,
and nights when boredom dissipates
completely.

As the dreaded boredom
creeps back in unbidden,
the light is sought out once again,
without regard to the lights existence
alone.

Joined with the light,
rays of warmth and safety
exude from deep within,
peace and wholeness return,
unbidden.

Boredom and restlessness
seep in, even here,
leaving the light alone
once more, a mere shadow of
ennui.

Excited to announce the publication of “Words That Heal” where my poem, “On Aging,” has found a wonderful home!!

Debilitating,
like a tsunami that never ends,
Constantly destroying the villages
in its wake.

Overwhelming,
like a thick London fog,
Obscuring everything around
into unrecognizable shadows.

Destructive,
like an F5 stationary tornado,
Eternally sucking up all the goodness
and beauty of life.

Exhausting,
like a marathon continuing
Without an end or goal,
leaving the runner hopeless.

Suffocating,
like the deepest pit of quicksand,
Sapping the breath and strength
from the one trapped within.

Agonizing,
like the lone wolf,
At the end of his term,
curled up to die all alone.

A tic on a wild deer
attached – hanging on
for life

One wrong leap
or faulty jump
and off I would come

A lone leaf hanging tightly
onto the mother branch –
long after the Autumn fall

A strong north breeze
or gust of wintry wind
and it’s to the ground I would go

The third smaller wheel
in a cog wound tight –
hidden just out of site

Should the bigger cogs clog
or stop working at all
no use would this third clog have

The plus one plus one more –
an invisible ghost in the night
and day

Should daylight reveal
the ghost is really a girl
a real ghost I’d surely become

In response to a post by Bartholomew Barker at Living Poetry to the prompt: Write a poem with the words Arctic, slow and wolf in it.

Amber eyes peer at me in the night,
beseeching me forth into the darkness.
My walk is measured, slow,
knowing she’s out there.

Hidden by the arctic snow, the arctic wolf
is invisible against the expanse of white nothingness.
I hear a noise, the brush of a branch against another,
the soft shuffle of snow slipping from a pine bough.

My breath crystallizes on my cheeks and lashes,
a huff and a snort and she is in me!
We roll in the snow, tumbling down a small hill,
coming to rest easily against a young pine.

The massive white wolf latches onto my wrist,
hauling me to my feet beside her.
My Tala runs off into the forest,
ready for another game of hide-and-seek.

For submission of my poem, “His Gift.”

thepoetrymarathon.com