Come Dance With ME

Come dance with me, my love, I care not where.
On a sandy beach, our steps we shall share,
while the sun is high, we waltz, hot and slow,
as our thoughts take on a sensual glow,
and we dream of night, our bodies laid bare.

Take my hand, lead me to a field so fair
where we glide with daisies, without a care,
as rain patters down, and the sun sinks low,
come dance with me…

Hold me tightly in the crisp mountain air,
as dusk gives way to night, without a prayer.
Our bodies sway, ‘neath the moon’s argent glow, 
and we come together, a liquid flow.
With stars in our eyes, one more time, mon cher,
Come dance with me…

©️2021 KT Workman

(Note: A rondeau poem has 15 lines containing 3 stanzas—a quintet, a quatrain, and a sestet. Lines 9 and 15 are short: a refrain consisting of a phrase taken from the 1st line.

Rhyme scheme: a-a-b-b-a, a-a-b-R, a-a-b-b-a-R.)


Image by fsHH from Pixabay

Mother

She rejoices when Spring spreads its green skirts,
Arranges them about its sun-draped form
And settles upon the tilled garden dirt
That basks beneath a bright blanket of warmth.

Seeds sprout, take root, raise their tiny green heads,
Reach for the sun, drink in April’s showers.
She picks the brash, ripe produce, tends the beds
With gentle hands and love’s healing power.

Seasons change, a chill creeps over the land,
Diminishes the sun, guides in fall’s winds.
Vegetables grow sluggish, as do the hands,
And winds once warm are replaced by cold friends.
Winter howls, its fangs frost-bite spring and she.
Spring will return...Mother, at last, is free.

©2021 KT Workman

(Note: A sonnet is a 14-line poem written in iambic pentameter. It contains and octave (presents the theme and develops it) and a sestet (which brings the poem to a conclusion).

Rhyme scheme: a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g.


Image by Adina Voicu from Pixabay

Let’s Make a Deal

“I’ll pay you fifty million dollars,” Angela Burk said, her sharp gray eyes boring into Mark Pearson’s. “And all you have to do is give me a little nudge so I can die.”

The old lady was serious! Mark couldn’t believe it. He had agreed to have lunch with Mrs. Burk prior to her surgery on Monday, something the anesthesiologist had never done before with a patient, but she had been insistent; though, her asking this of him was the last thing he thought she may want to talk about. Questions about the operation, yes, but never this. It was just a simple operation—a vaginal hysterectomy for fibroid tumors that had enlarged, which was an uncommon occurrence for women of Mrs. Burk’s advanced years, but not unheard of.

I can’t be hearing her right…this is crazy. Or maybe she was senile. She couldn’t be asking him to kill her. “Mrs. Burk, do you know what you’re asking of me?”

“Yes, young man, I know perfectly well what I’m asking: I want you to help me pass on.”

Mark took a big drink of the expensive wine, started to set the glass down, changed his mind, and swallowed another big gulp. He studied her face for a moment, noted the set of her jaw and the astute intelligence in her steady gaze. Though her shoulder-length silver hair hinted at her age—ninety-five—the rest of her spoke of a much younger woman. Makeup expertly applied, a shocking red dress that skimmed her slim body, and red pumps to match, she could have passed for someone in her fifties. Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind having a look under that red dress and maybe even tapping the old broad.

Continue reading “Let’s Make a Deal”

Goodbye

Goodbye, dear one, my friend, my confidant—

You knew me well, better than I knew you.

You listened while I talked, bared my dark soul,

Without judgment or contempt—just silence.

You soaked me in, absorbed my rambling thoughts,

Consumed my anger, never gave it back.

Though you were a battle-scarred knight with wounds

That had ravaged your body, caused you pain,

You spoke little of your own afflictions.

Instead, you listened, you heard what I said,

Did not dismiss me as silly or crazed

As others have done. You truly listened!

You gave unconditional love, my friend, 

Wanting nothing in return but my love.

And I failed you, though you said you failed me.



You are gone now, off to a better place.

Some call it heaven, I call it sweet peace.

I hope your soul mate, whom death snatched away

Before it took you, waits with a smile and

A hand to lead you home, that elusive

Place you had searched for most of your hard life.

Goodbye, dear one, until we meet again.



©️2021 KT Workman

Dedicated to my “partner in poetry” who passed away recently.

(Note: blank verse poetry does not rhyme, and is written in iambic pentameter. It has a consistent meter with 10 syllables per line, where unstressed syllables are followed by stressed ones.)

Image by Tumisu from Pixabay

Little Fish

Above the torpid water, summer sleeps
as the creek meanders along its way.
Big fish slumber in the shore-shaded deep;
in the reedy shallows, little fish play,
young and bold, they care not about the day.
They dart and splash, chase crawdads and minnows,
joyous with life, not like the old fellows.

©2021 KT Workman

(Note: Rhyme royal—7 lines long, 10 syllables per line.
Rhyme scheme: a-b-a-b-b-c-c)

Image by MeHe from Pixabay

Our Town

Have you ever seen a TV show and thought, “Man, I’d love to live there.”? Over a period of time recently, I watched all 110 episodes of Northern Exposure and felt the same pull I had in the early 1990s when I originally watched the series.

Northern Exposure ran on CBS from July 1990 to July 1995, receiving a total of 57 nominations during its run, and won 27. Critic  John Leonard called it “…the best of the best television in the past 10 years.” I would place it in the best of the best of all time.

Set in the fictional town of Cicely, Alaska, Northern Exposure is the classic “fish out of water” story, but so much more. New York native Joel Fleischman (played by Rob Morrow), a recently graduated physician, is sent to practice medicine in—he thinks—Anchorage, Alaska to repay the state for underwriting his medical education. But instead, he is sent to the small, remote town of Cicely, which needs a general practitioner. Joel is not a happy camper, to say the least.

Here is where the magic happens. Cicely is populated by an eclectic blend of people, many of them eccentric, and much of the time, Joel doesn’t quite know what to make of them. Mysticism, dream sequences, and some real oddballs are thrown into the mix. Joel has a love/hate relationship with Maggie O’Connell (played by Janine Turner), who happens to be a professional bush pilot and Joel’s landlord. Though Cicely and its residents grow on him, all he wants is to return to his beloved New York.

You won’t find Northern Exposure on any streaming service, something to do with the high cost of securing the music rights, and that the creators didn’t want to compromise by replacing the music used at the time with generic music. I have to say, I can’t fault them for that. The music used in the show is outstanding and diverse, and adds to its depth; it shouldn’t be replaced with generic fare. But you can buy the entire series for, as of this posting, $57.40 on Amazon. If you like quirky TV shows and movies, which I do, the price is well worth it.

Now, I’ll get to the “why” of this post: the song “Our Town” sang by Iris DeMent. It is the last song played in the last episode of Northern Exposure. As the episode ends, this song is played while we get a goodbye look at all the characters and Cicely. If you listen to it on YouTube, we can’t see Cicely and its residents, but we can hear the nostalgic song. I have to say, my heart hurts when I hear “Our Town.” I miss Cicely. I want to live there.

If you’ve read this far, I encourage you to click on the link below to listen to “Our Town.” I don’t think you’ll be disappointed you did.

©2021 KT Workman


Iris DeMent

OUR TOWN the song.

Plinks

Drip-drip-drip, rain slides off the sheet-iron roof,
Plink-plink-plinks onto the wayward tin can
Placed by wily storms or fickle wind’s goof,
Who can rightly say, be it beast or man?

The rain cares not where the gentle drips fall,
Nor gives a thought as the plinks softly sing
To small ears listening behind safe walls,
Lulled to sleep by the drip-drip and plink-plink.

Silently they creep on tiny wet feet
Beneath a cracked pane of misted raised glass.
Aqueous drips and plinks, seldom they meet
Those to whom they sing at two AM past.

Plinks slowly lessen, lightly tread away,
Follow the drips as night steps into day.

©2021 KT Workman


(Note: A Shakespearean (English) sonnet consists of 14 lines written in iambic pentameter, and usually has 10 syllables per line. It has three quatrains and a couplet. Rhyme scheme: a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g.)


Image by StockSnap from Pixabay

Mama

Mom
so dear,
I still hear
your soft, sweet voice
in my memories
of a long-ago time.
I was small, you a giant,
quiet and gentle of nature.
You were homemade bread, killer of snakes,
dressmaker extraordinaire, cow milker,
gardener, canner, factory worker,
herder of children, a comfy lap,
the scent of vanilla, honest sweat,
a good example, warm heart,
rough-workened hands, bent body.
You were many things—
Mama to me,
home, sweet home,
safety.
Missed.

©2021 KT Workman


Happy heavenly Mother’s Day, Mama.


(Note: an etheree poem consists of 10 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10 syllables. The lines can be reversed in order—10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. And you can do a double etheree, like my poem here, which is 20 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and 1. Or can be written in reverse order.)


Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

Thomasina Tull

Thomasina Tull clomped down the school bus steps, head lowered, books clutched tightly to her chest, and waited for Mr. Earl to lever open the door. She always hated these few beats of time that seemed to last forever before she could escape the yellow monster filled with mean grins and even meaner eyes.

On the ride to and from school—as well as on the playground—the other kids’ relentless teasing, contemptuous looks, and sometimes shoves or kicks had lessened as she and they had gotten older but had never stopped. Only in the classroom was she free of harassment. She was always assigned the front desk in the center row so she could see the blackboard. All the faculty at Blackburn Elementary knew she couldn’t see worth a flip.

The doors whooshed open, and Thomasina quickly stepped to the ground and strode away. She knew she shouldn’t look back, but she did and saw Jackie Carter’s fuzzy face hanging out the window, making those disgusting smacking noises before yelling, “What’s up, doc?” his top lip poking out and his bottom lip pulled back in a bad Bugs Bunny imitation.

The bus pulled away, trailing hoots of laughter and a swirling cloud of dust.

Thomasina sighed, well past the point of being hurt—or told herself she was. After all, it was nothing she hadn’t experienced a thousand times before.

She grabbed the mail from the listing, rusty mailbox and started the quarter-mile walk down the little-used lane to her home. She stuck to one of the two parallel tracks that were bisected by tall Johnson grass and crowded on both sides by thick trees whose limbs twined their leafy fingers across the road, keeping it in perpetual shade. Wouldn’t do to brush against any stray stalks; though it was mid October, there hadn’t yet been a hard freeze to kill off the seed ticks and chiggers that clung to grasses and brush in shady spots, laying in wait to transfer to some unlucky warm-blooded host.

So, Thomasina stepped carefully, bunching her long, faded skirt in one fist to keep it from touching the grass, remembering her first run-in years ago with chiggers, the scratching and misery. When she had told Daddy about the itching, he had rubbed the wide scar that parted his dark hair on the left side, frowned, and studied the small red bumps on her legs for a time. Then his sky-blue eyes, which she had inherited, brightened, and he’d grinned. “Them there are chigger bites, Tom.” And in his limited way, had told her about chiggers and seed ticks—she had already known about regular-sized ticks—and smeared her legs with calamine lotion.

Sometimes, Daddy knew things, and sometimes he didn’t, but all in all, she knew more than he did. At one time—and this was so long ago she barely remembered—he knew everything, but the accident at the sawmill had stolen the bigger part of that knowledge. And it had even stolen Mama, who’d slipped away in the dead of night after Daddy came home from the hospital, leaving four-year-old Thomasina with a daddy that had trouble even tying his shoelaces. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Continue reading “Thomasina Tull”