Buddha’s Golden Years

He was squat and round like the Happy Buddha.
He no longer had a care in the world,
yet he worried about everything.
We met in a place called home-his home.
I was a child entrusted with the care of a human being,
A beautiful bald headed, confused little man
who once upon a time had his own life, cares that mattered,
and a vote in his own destiny.
He spent life as a carny, raising roller-skating monkeys.
He could barely tell me anything about them through the haze and worry
of the dementia that was killing him far faster than anything else that plagued him.
His family no longer visited.
His monkey friends were long gone.
A sixteen year old stranger sat at his bedside
while he lay dying.

I cried for his loss and mine.

Guest Bard: She is Raging

Her every step has set the ground to
Shaking; quaking and trembling,
it’s breaking off at the edges
and swallowing up every ounce
of the requiem, of grief.
The calling of sincerity.
The jeers slipping in her veins
and boiling, bubbling under the surface.
The pressure is building and steam
falls in droplets, carving canyons into
the pale framework of her cheeks.
The landscape has shifted,
rushing in. The scaffolding that held
her little world in place
has turned liquid and swept her
straight off her feet.
She’s sucked up all her skeletons
in the whirlwind of her desire
and torrents of hopelessness have
blackened out the design.
It’s opening inside her:
a daybreak that looks like twilight.
Her womb unlocks like a fissure and there
the storm rages on.
The thump, thump, thump
of her latest plummet.
She does not fall gracefully.
She crawls through the sludge
of her latest defeat, barely on her knees.
Her hands dip into the typhoon,
the endless well of emptiness.
She screams in silent pleas.
A storm bound and bent on the decline
of civilizations, of peoples, of hopes
She’s hollowed out her place here.
She’s settled into the void.
The unfilled.
The vacant.
Carnivorous yearning,
ravenous famine.
Her words are a pestilence,
a plague on those who have stepped back
to watch the rupture,
to mend the breach.
Storm chasers, paparazzi.
She is an epidemic,
Widespread, unchecked,
and unbridled.
Rampant and wild,
she is filling this world.

Laura A. Lord is the founder of the blog, History of a Woman. She is the author of Wake Up a Woman, History of a Woman and The Telling. Her work has been published in The Beacon, Whirl with Words, and The Collegian. She is working on a book featuring her son’s favorite toy, Boo Bear, as well as, Perjury, a collection of short stories and poetry. She lives on the Eastern Shore of Maryland with her husband and her two children.

Social Media:

Twitter: @LauraAshleyLord
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Blog: http://historyofawoman.com

Bards’ Verdict: A true whirlwind of feelings, wrapped up in words and somehow made palatable by the benign nature of dark and light pixels, yet beneath them, the emotion of this poem is almost strong enough to break free of the screen.

A quick and heartfelt cry

It’s been days since we last spoke
And I’m wondering why
Did something between us get broke?
All that I know is I
Am wrapped many layers deep
In such insecurity
I can’t ask you outright, so keep
It public by veiling in poetry
Just know that I see you
I’ll wait til you’ve something to say
I’m not trying to reject you
But I can go too far the other way
Sometimes I can frighten
(I think by clinging too tight)
I wish you’d enlighten
Me so I can put this right
Was I inadvertently unkind?
Did I say something rude?
It’s rolling around in my mind
Don’t know what to conclude
If it was something I’ve done
I know that I’ll curse the day
I promise, I’d NEVER intend
To push you (of all people) away
Yet it suddenly dawns on me
That I’m of no consequence
Your life might’ve got busy
Maybe there is no offense
I’m just not important enough
(I’d rather that, than that we had an issue)
Hope you’re off doing wonderful stuff.
In the meantime, I miss you.

Behold – the tree of words

Background: We wanted to do something different as Christmas presents one year, so I wrote this, and we put it with watercolour paintings of trees, in frames, and gave them to our nearest and dearest. Since then I’ve had more fun making images with poetry (did it today, in fact) and LOVE the versatility and cross-over of using the words to physically create the picture.

Guest Bard: Into the Light

Into The Light

Into The Light
There is darkness.
In the drink I hold
There is light.
It is brief.
It is faint.
It is mirage; no oasis,
Only a short road to tragedy.

More darkness.
Let me sleep,
For when I sleep
I do not feel.

In the morn (my last day?),
I take a breath.
The plans for endless darkness fail
As I reach for the light
Held by another.

I realize, coming out of the darkness –
Where there is breath
There is

Mother of Imperfection Profile

Sandy is a wife and mom who claims sarcasm as her superpower. When not immersed in the chaos of five kids, a husband, and a dog, she writes – and only hopes she does it well. You can see for yourself at Mother Of Imperfection.

You can also find her here: Twitter, Facebook, Google+, Pinterest, and Bloglovin’.

Bards Verdict: Sandy has the ability to very quickly immerse the reader in emotions not their own, and to take them on a journey with the poem as it moves towards its end.

End Stage (After All These Years)

Attempting to breathe in every ounce of energy that flees my ailing body,
Daily I inhale life-
No longer for the desire to live, but solely on instinct
I am supposed to live.
I am supposed to live because that’s what the brave do.
Because that’s what we tell ourselves—will ourselves to do
Despite the illness, the fatigue, the waiting…
And while I wait,
Razed emotions make futile attempts to emboss themselves upon my soul
They leave no lasting marks
They make no impression to stir my withering core
Yet the body keeps on
Separate but conjoined
Siamese twins of the psyche, unable to be parted without death of one or both
The courageous will forge ahead
Because that’s what they do
Valiant, heroic—the words of survivorship
 I am supposed to live.
I am supposed to live, because that’s what the courageous do.
Time has stolen the desire to live, in exchange for the compulsion to exist.

Among less seasoned survivors

I may appear fearless.
I am simply fatigued.

 This entry is for Two Shoes Tuesday. The cue is Breathe. Hit the link and go read a spell.

Josie Two Shoes

Guest Bard: Hobbled



The dark.

Crawl my way up

Cold, stone walls

Dragging under me

a leg broken to bits.


Decide not to know.

No one there to tell me different.

Soaking wet


The longest, coldest

Decades-long night.

No stars above

Clouds, rain, voices

Lightning to illuminate shapes, figures

Stopping to peer down at me

Watch me struggle

And then vanish

Some shout encouragement

While sending rocks towards me

The most sympathetic of them

Throw me rope

Attached to nothing.

And I thank them.

Motivated only to survive.

Every inch a new callous

Every movement shooting pain

Powerful, strong and acknowledged.

Closer to the top

Voices clearer.

“Why does he bother?”

As if I have not asked myself

The same thing


As if their doubts and fears

I did not share.

And I climb to shed them.

Fingers touch earth

Drug out of the well

By the last of my strength.

Forced to be still.

Patience mandatory for healing

For true healing.

But once I rise

I find myself


Wounded in a way

Perhaps only I may ever see as truly restored.

Others choose to see the scars

I see the healing

I see the miraculous

I see the recovery

I seek those who see it too.

And whether I find them

Or not

I will run

And dance

Awkwardly but with such a passion

And joy.

I choose to feel

I choose to be bold

I refuse to be anyone

Who is not me

Who is truly hobbled.

Who is truly hobbled?


Rick describes himself as an Easy-going, life-loving, b ball watching, guinea-pig tending, heart following, truth telling, blog writing, hard working doofus wishing u much love and joy 🙂

Go visit Rick over at All Things Bright and Lovely …an eclectic, happy mix of photography, color, fashion and personal insights.

Bards Verdict: There’s some really powerful, emotive imagery happening here, which is hugely effective in conveying the struggles the poet is experiencing, and in spite of adversity, striving to overcome. And it’s always nice to end on a hopeful note.