Archive for the ‘stanzas’ Category

Upside Down World   Leave a comment

The Appoach of Nemesis

 

Entering in you find a scene of order;

cleanliness is best, old ways, archival.

No scrap sets loose outside its borders;

prepared and sorted for your arrival.

 

At first these chores remain a daily theme;

your well-being, uppermost priority.

Nursery, kitchen, bathroom, spotless clean;

unflinchingly scoured, no glance of pity.

 

Then exhaustion eats away intention;

lids not fastened, diapers miss the pail.

The parents perfect fairy tale, pretension;

images of counters not wiped down,  assail.

 

Soon the scraps of daily life accumulate,

Corners, shelves, piled high in towering stacks;

unfinished projects of someday thrown out

in reckless spates of self-recrimination.

Neglected expectations looking back.

 

Grown self remembers nothing of this, just

recall sunny days laughing play ’round your bed.

Your parents let go of idealistic bliss,

learned practical reality instead.

 

The Old Wive’s Tales spoke most tellingly,

“A child must eat two pounds of dirt before it’s  grown.”

must have been adhered to, even if unwillingly;

you grew up a wild seed, as though unintentionally sown.

 

Yet, the world you inhabited has changed

in ways undreamt by those who came before.

Skies, less friendly, far more severe, now hang

above; their cloaking power shields no more.

 

This invasive ultra-violet spectrum;

undreamed, unexpected, unwarned of;

no meteorologists speculation

consumed your high-school aged attention.

 

Now add to fearsome rays of  UV-B

(no slathered sun-screen will you from this protect),

this conjoined threat, the deadly UV-C.

The stratosphere, it’s weakened net, suspect.

 

“Sub-arctic ozone hole has closed,” they said.

Then what new forces  are applied to bring

this present world of fire and sun-burnt head?

What Nemesis has brought it’s poisoned sting?

 

The streaks of yellowed leaves on branch and tree,

the deadened bushes in your neighborhood,

no chances of recovery appears;

once healthy grown, since before your child-hood.

 

But no, this menace isn’t born of man

Nor chemical, nor min’ral laden trails,

No o’er-arching depopulation plan

could bring this disaster onto man, so frail.

 

The very earth on which you first rode bike;

spun cart-wheels, stalked hand-stands begins to shift.

Holes,  big as houses ope’ in the earth like

yawning caverns threat’ning souls to sift.

 

The biggest river’s course dries up in places

where deepest flow should boat assist;

nor record flooding waters show their trace

downstream inside old banks were once to list.

 

Where once, a thunder-storm (requirement),

the after-image rainbows now appears

with dry puff-clouds for accompaniment;

a puzzlement of mystery to fear.

 

Compasses of youth point not toward Big-dipper,

but just off-angled toward the southeast,

moving further that direction every year;

These heavens not fixed, nor constant in the least.

 

Tell then, what happened to the world we knew;

The ever constant state of slow decay?

No trusted word is spoken now of Nibiru,

whose slingshot orbit bends ’round darkened day.

 

The other voices sang its imminence,

repeated cycle told by ancient clay;

of  preparations we thought, “There’s no need.”

We failed to heed the warnings at the Bay.

 

Every day brings news of fresh disasters.

Belching mountains, once thought dead, speak plain;

we must prepare, these, our sure forecasters.

Volcanic ash spreads far with acid rain.

 

Your world, unquiet, strains against her bounds.

Rocking chains of gravity, she trembles, then subsides.

Blasting forth in strangled screams her trumpet sounds;

again she moves, she stumbles, heeds command.

 

He calls to her while riding Nemesis

in wild orbit, swinging sceptered load

‘midst open streams of radiation; hisses…

She tumbles to the rhythms known of old.

 

If you this mating should survive, recall

that warning you were given.  The future

of your progeny depends on having all

this information in a form that is assured.

 

No woodland paper will survive that journey

into the dark abyss, and its return.

Leave solid notice in earth’s rocks deeply worried,

Record the cycle of the earth it churned.

 

Ancient tablets made of etched and fired clay

created for endurance, simplified;

tell stories of the sure and certain day

when earth again will heed the call, and

on Nibiru’s tail, will take the wild ride.

 

Nibiru's calling

 

Ellen M Story , Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc. May 2018.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ellen M Story, Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc with appropriate, and specific direction to the original content.

 

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Daughters Who Do More   Leave a comment

 

There are daughters

who are clever, and

win arguments, but never

learn to value what is near;

 

There are daughters

who are stable, and take care

of business, but are not able

to forgive a sibling who is dear;

 

There are daughters

who are patient, and

attend to to every instant of  their

child’s every effort to steer clear;

 

There are daughters

who are passionate, and

take stands against oppression

but cannot see the truth in all their peers;

 

You, however daughter,

are all these things and then some,

even when you’re acting winsome

you are awesome! Never fear.

 

As a Mother you are able

to diagnose the trouble, that

a rash and swollen eyelids signal

allergies.

Salvation from the itching

is what you searched for in the kitchen

when you made home cooked meals for

little ones.

As an artist you concocted

double entendre’s in the journals

given as gifts between mere mortals,

with good cheer.

With a camera and a car

you have journeyed near and far

to be with sun and moon and

shining star.

You have braved the burning desert;

by your own self you have treasured

both the beauty and the solitude;

yours alone.

Your bravery is laudable,

your comedy is laughable,

your costuming commendable;

You triumph here.

 

As your Mother

I am hoping that with issues,

finally coping, I am able

to live up to what

you need.

 

@ By Ellen M. Lattz, April 12, 2018

Ellen M Story , Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc. April 2018.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ellen M Story, Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc with appropriate, and specific direction to the original content.

Glamorous   Leave a comment

You know that song from CATS?

The one about the scruffy cat

that was once glamorous?

I feel like that sometimes.

 

I look like that most of the time.

Scruffy.

I say, “It’s a choice.”

But is it?

 

Where once I was lively, I’m tired now.

Down and blue.

Been there a few times….

Where the lively hit the wall.

 

All that I was is laying there,

sprawled out, face down.

Curled up in the gutter

Like a road-killed cat.

 

By Ellen Lattz, March 2018

 

 

 

Ellen M Story , Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc. May 2016.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ellen M Story, Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc with appropriate, and specific direction to the original content.

Sanctuary   Leave a comment

Beautiful Elm tree

Up here, as I part the branches of the elm tree,

the ancient nordic symbol of female power

wraps its sibilant welcome around my trembling rage.

My seven year old self has only just begun

to understand about injustice.

 

Up here I am apart from everything down there:

Squinty eyed siblings, scheming to take your freedom;

walled off Parents, sunk in their prisons of despair;

teeming schools of careless classmates

taunting you with their trite barbs, easy cruelties.

 

Up here I am a part of the endless skies.

The wind is in my hair, and in my nose, and in my ears.

The leaves whisper timelessly of growth and living.

My eyes find solace in the company of ants

endlessly searching for new sustenance.

 

Up here, my part is clinging tight to the rough bark.

The rounded limbs, the gently bending branches

hold my sleight weight with ease.

Suspended in this pocket of temporary sanctuary;

there is peace, there is calm, there is strength.

 

Reclaiming myself, I descend again into the storm.

 

@ Ellen Lattz, March 2018

Ellen M Story , Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc. May 2016.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ellen M Story, Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc with appropriate, and specific direction to the original content.

What I Wanted to Do   Leave a comment

 

I keep forgetting.

I opened this because there was something

I wanted to do;

Something specific,

but

I’ve forgotten what it was.

Life is like that.

You have ideas you want to accomplish.

very important things;

You knew what they were

but

you got distracted.

 

 

Ellen Lattz, March 2018

© Ellen M Story , Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc. May 2016.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ellen M Story, Ellen M. Lattz at emariaenterprises, llc with appropriate, and specific direction to the original content.

Posted March 29, 2018 by emariaenterprises in Challenge, Poetry, stanzas, Uncategorized

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Technophobic   Leave a comment

I eye the page, and check the space.

For every line there is a place.

And every word goes in apace,

while images have made their case.

 

Excitement builds when cadence sings,

with every breath the stanza rings.

Rhythm moves, and subject stings.

We, breathless, wait for imaging.

 

Call up the app, and set the spot

where caption line, and image, hot,

direct the action and the plot,

with color, line ,and lighted dot.

 

We framed the subject, chosen size,

rejected any compromise

of hue and contrast, we surmise

the nature of the piece, a prize.

 

Satisfaction settles in,

as we ,the process then begin,

of file transfer with a pin,

attach the subject, there, within.

 

Happily we call the scene

where image went, so we can preen,

but, Lo. No image is there seen.

It layeth yet, where it had been.

 

Yon, never copied there to here,

directions followed, never fear;

still subject lies unmoved. Oh dear!

What can have happened? (Drops, a tear.)

 

The desperate artist tries again,

to set the image, clicks in vain;

while mocking image there remains.

now hangs the head in techno pain.

 

Were written page, on cotton set,

the image would be transferred yet,

with brush and ink, and colors wet;

but pixels still defy the vet.

 

The edits of the word and link,

are graven now in pixeled ink,

but chosen photo, still the fink,

remains aloof; the heart, it sinks.

 

Nor now, the edit mode is scorned,

the Artist doth the image mourn,

which never, now, will page adorn,

since edit tool won’t birth the form.

 

 

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© Ellen M Story and emariaenterprises, llc 2012.

Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author, Ellen M. Lattz, and/or blog owner, is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ellen M. Lattz, and emariaenterprises with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.