RLW
Speaking the truth with love....and rhyme. :) RLW = RhymeLovingWriter (AKA a lady from the wheat fields of KS) rhymelovingwriter.com
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Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse

How Old Are YOU?

I've paced the floor on many nights,

and cradled children, one, two, three,

and walked beside my true love's side,

for decades, counting joys to see;

And sorrows too - as life will throw,

but all in wondered thanks of grace;

With child-like hope, and woman's glow-

I've just begun to age in face - but NOT (again with grateful thanks)

in mind or heart - though days will come -

I'm old as hills and young as pranks

played out in rhyme - compassion's mistress plied and plumb.

Where numbers limit, rhyme sets free

to dream,

to hope,

become....

or be. :)

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Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse
How Old Are YOU?
I've paced the floor on many nights,
and cradled children, one, two, three,
and walked beside my true love's side,
for decades, counting joys to see;
And sorrows too - as life will throw,
but all in wondered thanks of grace;
With child-like hope, and woman's glow-
I've just begun to age in face - but NOT (again with grateful thanks)
in mind or heart - though days will come -
I'm old as hills and young as pranks
played out in rhyme - compassion's mistress plied and plumb.
Where numbers limit, rhyme sets free
to dream,
to hope,
become....
or be. :)
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Written by RLW in portal Stream of Consciousness

Random Tangential Wondering (Senryu)

Are you afraid of

dying?   Only a little

more than of living.

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Written by RLW in portal Stream of Consciousness
Random Tangential Wondering (Senryu)


Are you afraid of
dying?   Only a little
more than of living.
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Cat
Written by RLW

Here Kitty, Kitty

I find it purr-fectly reasonable,

inking lines to purr-suade you

that no purr-son, place, or thing

could ever purr-manently replace

(purr-haps not even temporarily)

the feline fur-ball purr-ched upon

your windowsill. She neither purr-forms

special tricks, nor purr-uses books

on your shelf for purr-poseful

discussion. The rules that purr-tain

to others never purr-vade her domain.

She rules as queen. Purr-nicious

tales of purr-forated curtains, shredded,

or muddy tracks, purr-ambulated

across the kitchen floor? Purr-ely

coincidental - most likely canine purr-fidy

meant to slander. Widen your purr-view

to include claims (purr-fectly

purr-missable) of past and present

owners. Do not purr-sist in your

unbelief, but believe.  Purr-chase or adopt

today, and let the purr-ported party - begin.

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Cat
Written by RLW
Here Kitty, Kitty
I find it purr-fectly reasonable,
inking lines to purr-suade you
that no purr-son, place, or thing
could ever purr-manently replace
(purr-haps not even temporarily)
the feline fur-ball purr-ched upon
your windowsill. She neither purr-forms
special tricks, nor purr-uses books
on your shelf for purr-poseful
discussion. The rules that purr-tain
to others never purr-vade her domain.
She rules as queen. Purr-nicious
tales of purr-forated curtains, shredded,
or muddy tracks, purr-ambulated
across the kitchen floor? Purr-ely
coincidental - most likely canine purr-fidy
meant to slander. Widen your purr-view
to include claims (purr-fectly
purr-missable) of past and present
owners. Do not purr-sist in your
unbelief, but believe.  Purr-chase or adopt
today, and let the purr-ported party - begin.
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Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Tribute to Casimir (Petrarchan Sonnet)

He plays a fool (whose feast day nears approach),

yet all can tell with glance this travesty.

With silver tongue and feigned inanity

we’re rapt – within the tales. He dares to broach –

to mesmerize and tickle fancy’s poach

of pandering - with reckless, wanton glee.

We’re fallen past gate’s gullibility,

then buoyed again by fantasy’s encroach.

How then? Who called to witness, gilds our skies –

full blown with antiquated dare and doom?

None other than the jester, crown festooned.

Dear Harlequin, long master of disguise,

whose slated hand of artist weaves the loom

upon which worded tapestry is crooned.

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Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Tribute to Casimir (Petrarchan Sonnet)


He plays a fool (whose feast day nears approach),
yet all can tell with glance this travesty.
With silver tongue and feigned inanity
we’re rapt – within the tales. He dares to broach –

to mesmerize and tickle fancy’s poach
of pandering - with reckless, wanton glee.
We’re fallen past gate’s gullibility,
then buoyed again by fantasy’s encroach.

How then? Who called to witness, gilds our skies –
full blown with antiquated dare and doom?
None other than the jester, crown festooned.

Dear Harlequin, long master of disguise,
whose slated hand of artist weaves the loom
upon which worded tapestry is crooned.

#tribute  #harlequingrim 
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Written by RLW in portal Stream of Consciousness

Attitude

no more time

for

listening

to

closet minds

who

put me down

stories writ

to

captivate

have

called my name

since

ageless past

pen in hand

or

blood-inked quill

will

spew the page

with

wondered phrase

take away

what

fills your need

and

leave behind

all

else you see

15
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Written by RLW in portal Stream of Consciousness
Attitude
no more time
for
listening
to
closet minds
who
put me down

stories writ
to
captivate
have
called my name
since
ageless past

pen in hand
or
blood-inked quill
will
spew the page
with
wondered phrase

take away
what
fills your need
and
leave behind
all
else you see
15
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13
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"Comfort food for the soul." I'm quite down, fellow prosers. Times like these, only poetry soothes me. Please write a lovely poem about comfort or comforting somebody. Make it at least 50 words. Tag me because I want (need) to read.
Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Eat Up, Sweetness

It tagged me out -

that slide to down.

Took me round

for spiral's sake. No slake

of thirst for joy.

The boy who offered

all I ever wanted

taunted me with

promises he never

meant to keep.

So deep I fell into

his welled depravity,

that gravity could not

defy until the bottom

scraped my brow.

No soul stays in

torment while there's

breath to push away

the pain. The gain,

by my design, is

waiting by - to try.

~ ~ ~ ~

Dear heart, your star

is set to shine. Pay no

mind to what's behind.

Down's but half of

the equation; up and out

the balance that will

heal. Feel the you

inside that chooses life.

Then see us

standing

by your side.

 

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"Comfort food for the soul." I'm quite down, fellow prosers. Times like these, only poetry soothes me. Please write a lovely poem about comfort or comforting somebody. Make it at least 50 words. Tag me because I want (need) to read.
Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Eat Up, Sweetness
It tagged me out -
that slide to down.
Took me round
for spiral's sake. No slake
of thirst for joy.
The boy who offered
all I ever wanted
taunted me with
promises he never
meant to keep.

So deep I fell into
his welled depravity,
that gravity could not
defy until the bottom
scraped my brow.

No soul stays in
torment while there's
breath to push away
the pain. The gain,
by my design, is
waiting by - to try.

~ ~ ~ ~

Dear heart, your star
is set to shine. Pay no
mind to what's behind.

Down's but half of
the equation; up and out
the balance that will
heal. Feel the you
inside that chooses life.

Then see us
standing
by your side.





 
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Written by RLW in portal Religion

Alive by Grace

Words will not reach what I want to say.

Perhaps it is folly to try.

The gift

is good;

heart impels attempt.

To share good,

when evil surrounds – remains

greatest hope of being

who I was made to be.

Darkness of my corners

seeks illumination.

Fear of my night

threatens less

when I seek Light.

Eye has not seen,

ear has not heard;

yet heart

touched awareness

today.

God is present

& acting,

not for me

but through me.

My tiniest, tentative ‘yes’

turned the tide

toward Him.

Amen.

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Written by RLW in portal Religion
Alive by Grace


Words will not reach what I want to say.
Perhaps it is folly to try.

The gift
is good;
heart impels attempt.

To share good,
when evil surrounds – remains
greatest hope of being
who I was made to be.

Darkness of my corners
seeks illumination.
Fear of my night
threatens less
when I seek Light.

Eye has not seen,
ear has not heard;
yet heart
touched awareness
today.

God is present
& acting,
not for me
but through me.

My tiniest, tentative ‘yes’
turned the tide
toward Him.

Amen.

17
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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Country

The road turns to gravel three miles south of the driveway entrance. Fine, limestone dust, routinely pulverized by heavy half-ton farm trucks, rolls itself airborne at the slightest disturbance of hot prairie winds. It wafts, not unlike your perfume, through car interior and settles into every cracked crevice tinier than eyes can see.

You slacken on the gas, hoping and praying to stir up less ever-present dirt clouds threatening to surround. No use. Bobby S. passes you doing 60 mph going south, proud as a peacock in his new red Dodge Ram, spitting bits of gravel toward your windshield as he goes. Shit.

He's a good neighbor though. He and his pa helped out all last winter when your cows were calving, the blizzard hit, and you were down with pneumonia. They even fixed that section of fence, unasked, without expecting a cent.

It's OK. You'll be paying them back real soon with your own blood, sweat, and tears when haying season starts. That's what neighbors do.

You notice Mom's hung laundry on the line as you turn slowly into the drive. It's gravel too, but the thought of fresh, clean sheets on the bed tonight justifies the little extra effort you make now to keep the dust down. Nothing better than that first whiff of fresh, clean, sun-dried sheets. Well, not many things anyway.

The back patio, already starting to shade from the late afternoon sun, looks mighty inviting. It'll have to wait - just like the chores did which now need tending - which got put off while you ran to town for supplies when the mower quit.

Two hours later you hear the dinner bell peal loud and clear across the yard. You finish putting fresh straw in the hen house, finding five eggs scattered in the brooders favorite nests. Good eating tomorrow for breakfast, plus a couple left over for cake. Nice.

Long before you reach the back door screen, loose in the bottom left corner, the savory smell of pork chops frying drives itself deep into your expanding lungs. Stomach grumbles, saliva flows, and you realize just how much of an appetite you've worked up through the labor of your hands.

The door swings in easy. An overhead kitchen light is off to damp the heat, but sunshine slanting in the west window, coupled with the bulb over the range and the lamp on the table, reveal the heart of this space. Table set for five, iced tea at the ready, biscuits mounded in a basket to the side.

Your haul of eggs gets placed carefully in the container on the counter top. You turn to head to the bathroom and as you do, catch your Momma's smile. She's a beautiful woman who knows how to love well.

You hum a favorite tune as you wash up with every present Ivory soap, stomach growling more loudly every second.

Life on the farm is hard, but life on the farm is good. Welcome home.

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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by RLW in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Country
The road turns to gravel three miles south of the driveway entrance. Fine, limestone dust, routinely pulverized by heavy half-ton farm trucks, rolls itself airborne at the slightest disturbance of hot prairie winds. It wafts, not unlike your perfume, through car interior and settles into every cracked crevice tinier than eyes can see.

You slacken on the gas, hoping and praying to stir up less ever-present dirt clouds threatening to surround. No use. Bobby S. passes you doing 60 mph going south, proud as a peacock in his new red Dodge Ram, spitting bits of gravel toward your windshield as he goes. Shit.

He's a good neighbor though. He and his pa helped out all last winter when your cows were calving, the blizzard hit, and you were down with pneumonia. They even fixed that section of fence, unasked, without expecting a cent.

It's OK. You'll be paying them back real soon with your own blood, sweat, and tears when haying season starts. That's what neighbors do.

You notice Mom's hung laundry on the line as you turn slowly into the drive. It's gravel too, but the thought of fresh, clean sheets on the bed tonight justifies the little extra effort you make now to keep the dust down. Nothing better than that first whiff of fresh, clean, sun-dried sheets. Well, not many things anyway.

The back patio, already starting to shade from the late afternoon sun, looks mighty inviting. It'll have to wait - just like the chores did which now need tending - which got put off while you ran to town for supplies when the mower quit.

Two hours later you hear the dinner bell peal loud and clear across the yard. You finish putting fresh straw in the hen house, finding five eggs scattered in the brooders favorite nests. Good eating tomorrow for breakfast, plus a couple left over for cake. Nice.

Long before you reach the back door screen, loose in the bottom left corner, the savory smell of pork chops frying drives itself deep into your expanding lungs. Stomach grumbles, saliva flows, and you realize just how much of an appetite you've worked up through the labor of your hands.

The door swings in easy. An overhead kitchen light is off to damp the heat, but sunshine slanting in the west window, coupled with the bulb over the range and the lamp on the table, reveal the heart of this space. Table set for five, iced tea at the ready, biscuits mounded in a basket to the side.

Your haul of eggs gets placed carefully in the container on the counter top. You turn to head to the bathroom and as you do, catch your Momma's smile. She's a beautiful woman who knows how to love well.

You hum a favorite tune as you wash up with every present Ivory soap, stomach growling more loudly every second.

Life on the farm is hard, but life on the farm is good. Welcome home.
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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by RLW

All I Have Not Seen

I sensed their presence long before their shape. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck raised in rhythm matching awareness each time my attention cycled left, then right, around the room. A gentle chill traipsed down my spine, light as softest fingers tapped pianissimo upon a keyboard fair.

I squinted into the openness of this most ordinary of living spaces. There an overstuffed armchair, here a lamp…night stand piled with books, alarm and cough drops meant to ease my scratchy throat. Was that a shadow by the bed I hadn’t seen before?

No, nothing there – it must be my imagination playing tricks. The night-time decongestant meant to render restful sleep had started on its work. My eyelids fell despite best efforts to remain awake.

Nights were the worst. Well into the third week of latest bout with winter germs, causing symptoms from congestion to laryngitis, my weariness had hit the hopeless phase. Would I ever be back to talking in a normal voice or finding it simple to swallow and clear my throat without the gravelly, stop-motion that followed this sickness track? The constant cough did nothing but aggravate the tender tissue needing rest.

Nudged from slumber, brief as it must have been, by tiniest of impulse, I dragged myself to consciousness again. There – on the seat of my puffy, paisley chair – was some…thing. Not quite as human formed, but close enough, and breathing heavy into now confining space. And there, another twinning shape appeared behind the first and then a third, this one hanging from the ceiling fan fixture near directly overhead.

I watched, transfixed in awful stupor, as the creature seated on the chair rose up in floating motion to approach the beside. Silent screams lodged fast in parched and swollen vocal chords. No impulse overcame my need to utter cries for help.

And then, a sense of peaceful calm replaced my dread. The second shape, and third, reformed themselves to flank the first as if to join in meeting me en masse. Appendages, ephemeral as wisps of smoke, formed briefly in outreach toward my body. Once, then twice, and then a third time, each encircled the area of my throat. Honeyed pressure – sweetness with opacity to invade – impressed itself on my mind. I sensed, rather than heard, their message for me.

“We are healers - come in response to your need. Accept this gift to calm your mind and body.”

                                                         ~~~~~

Morning light poured brightly into the room when next I woke. An instant brought realization my voice was back to normal. I cleared my throat and laughed with glee, breaking into ‘Hallelujah’ chorus, just because I could!

Who or what these beings were– or even from where they hailed, remains mystery. Figments of imagination, angels of good fortune, or new and alien life form travelled to earth to fix a fallen race?

All that I have seen has taught me to believe in all I have not seen. Merchants of Mercy I’ve dubbed them – these healers who came in time of need.

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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by RLW
All I Have Not Seen

I sensed their presence long before their shape. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck raised in rhythm matching awareness each time my attention cycled left, then right, around the room. A gentle chill traipsed down my spine, light as softest fingers tapped pianissimo upon a keyboard fair.

I squinted into the openness of this most ordinary of living spaces. There an overstuffed armchair, here a lamp…night stand piled with books, alarm and cough drops meant to ease my scratchy throat. Was that a shadow by the bed I hadn’t seen before?

No, nothing there – it must be my imagination playing tricks. The night-time decongestant meant to render restful sleep had started on its work. My eyelids fell despite best efforts to remain awake.

Nights were the worst. Well into the third week of latest bout with winter germs, causing symptoms from congestion to laryngitis, my weariness had hit the hopeless phase. Would I ever be back to talking in a normal voice or finding it simple to swallow and clear my throat without the gravelly, stop-motion that followed this sickness track? The constant cough did nothing but aggravate the tender tissue needing rest.

Nudged from slumber, brief as it must have been, by tiniest of impulse, I dragged myself to consciousness again. There – on the seat of my puffy, paisley chair – was some…thing. Not quite as human formed, but close enough, and breathing heavy into now confining space. And there, another twinning shape appeared behind the first and then a third, this one hanging from the ceiling fan fixture near directly overhead.

I watched, transfixed in awful stupor, as the creature seated on the chair rose up in floating motion to approach the beside. Silent screams lodged fast in parched and swollen vocal chords. No impulse overcame my need to utter cries for help.

And then, a sense of peaceful calm replaced my dread. The second shape, and third, reformed themselves to flank the first as if to join in meeting me en masse. Appendages, ephemeral as wisps of smoke, formed briefly in outreach toward my body. Once, then twice, and then a third time, each encircled the area of my throat. Honeyed pressure – sweetness with opacity to invade – impressed itself on my mind. I sensed, rather than heard, their message for me.

“We are healers - come in response to your need. Accept this gift to calm your mind and body.”
                                                         ~~~~~
Morning light poured brightly into the room when next I woke. An instant brought realization my voice was back to normal. I cleared my throat and laughed with glee, breaking into ‘Hallelujah’ chorus, just because I could!

Who or what these beings were– or even from where they hailed, remains mystery. Figments of imagination, angels of good fortune, or new and alien life form travelled to earth to fix a fallen race?

All that I have seen has taught me to believe in all I have not seen. Merchants of Mercy I’ve dubbed them – these healers who came in time of need.

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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by RLW

The Words I Choose to Speak

The words I choose to speak of all you are,

described in season’s best - no justice do.

Though terms play pretty verse to catch your star,

the efforts fade as fleeting in my view.

Though sun beats brilliant in its daily ray,

it can’t outshine the inner glow you cast.

If beauty less than best corrupts display,

still happenstance your visage will outlast.

Yet evermore enduring will you glow;

maintaining always beauty, as your base.

In passage to eternity, still know –

this passage casts no shadow on your grace.

     In passed-down days survived to speak you fair;

     these words attest - your light beyond compare.

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Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by RLW
The Words I Choose to Speak
The words I choose to speak of all you are,
described in season’s best - no justice do.
Though terms play pretty verse to catch your star,
the efforts fade as fleeting in my view.
Though sun beats brilliant in its daily ray,
it can’t outshine the inner glow you cast.
If beauty less than best corrupts display,
still happenstance your visage will outlast.
Yet evermore enduring will you glow;
maintaining always beauty, as your base.
In passage to eternity, still know –
this passage casts no shadow on your grace.
     In passed-down days survived to speak you fair;
     these words attest - your light beyond compare.
#prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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