Like Bourbon It’s Best Aged, by Debi Swim

Like Bourbon It’s Best Aged
by Debi Swim

Can it be possible
you look at me and see
something I don’t see?
You fell in love,
I can understand that,
cause love is blind they say.
What puzzles me is that you stay –
not stay with me, you’re a faithful man,
but stay in love with this old crone
of loose flesh and thinning bone.

Can it be possible
after all this time
of plodding forward arm in arm
you forgive the passing years
and gravity for the damage
to sweet young flesh?
Can overlook reality
and view instead
with eyes that gently see
beyond this shell
to the very soul of me.

Can it be possible?
Oh, yes.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 319.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

The Smell Of Death, by Debi Swim

The Smell Of Death
by Debi Swim

They urged me forward, “Go say hello”
they said, but he was asleep… I hoped,
sleeping behind the wrinkles of pain.
I tried to remember him tall and gentle,
a shy smile lighting his eyes, toting the black
bag he carried to doctor sick animals.
He took us kids on calls sometimes
in his 1940s Chrysler Sedan.
By that time he was retired,
just doctoring as a favor and passing time.
But now walking into this quiet room, shades pulled,
the sounds of shallow puffs through thin lips,
an occasional quiet moan, sheet drawn over
yellowed parchment skin and sharp bones
frightened me. My first face to face
with the ancient foe, and I’ll always recall
the smell of death not quite disguised
beneath the medicinal scent of Lysol.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 315.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

The Pleasure Of Your Words, by Debi Swim

The Pleasure Of Your Words
by Debi Swim

You will forgive me, I hope, for crashing your party.
I’ll just sit here on the fringe and only breathe.
You probably won’t even notice my presence for
I’m so totally in awe that I could not utter a word,
in fact it would be a kind of heresy even to speak.
I’ll be inebriated with the elixir of conversation,
the excerpts of your writing, the praises, the critique,
the literary acumen, the laughter, the jokes,
the comradery of good friends. I will silently raise
a toast to my good fortune to be in the presence
of giants though I’ll have little inkling of what I hear.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 310.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Broody Hen, by Debi Swim

Broody Hen
by Debi Swim

I sit before my computer keying thoughts.
They came smooth and swift, a bird soaring,
once. Now they perch on a limb, refusing
even to sing. I pretend this bird is nesting,
warming eggs and I wait for them to hatch.

How long does it take? Days? Weeks? Months?
I wait and wait like a broody hen. Impatient.
Anxious. Despairing at the lifelessness.
But, still I sit and wait hoping for the day
when something new comes into the world.
I wait for the sounds of breaking free.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 309.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Shadows of Memory, by Debi Swim

Shadows of Memory
by Debi Swim

We dwell in
a river of time
of eddies and currents
sharp rock and soft silt
beneath our feet
and the water flows,
trickles, rushes, floods
passing behind
as we stand in this moment
watching the water
flowing toward us
an eternity,
we hope, of spill.
Then that moment is gone
yet it is still now.
Soon you’ll be gone.
Soon, I’ll be gone.
Then we’ll just be
shadows of memory
wavering in the stream.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 300.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

A Line In The Sand, by Debi Swim

A Line In The Sand
by Debi Swim

I look at earth, sea, air and all things therein. The detail, design, intricacy, variety, purpose, how things work together and it is a sign to me of something supernatural… other than. I see in all peoples a bent toward worship, service, and some acknowledgement of God that interprets itself into a religion. The very few who eschew the concept of a creator have rejected one God for another. They become their own god living for their own ends, gratified in their ability to shape their own lives, and answer to no one but their own conscience. It is all a choice. That I choose one over the other doesn’t make me more enlightened – or less so. I speak for myself, not for you. I’ve drawn a line between what I believe and what I can’t believe and those things I will take on shaky faith.

In this universe
immense and mysterious
there’s room for magic.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 289.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Alone Not Lonely, by Debi Swim

Alone Not Lonely
by Debi Swim

I didn’t choose solitude;
solitude chose me.
Hurry, bustle, noise
of the world bruised
my soul till I could not
hear the song of the lark,
the music of the wind,
the wisdom of the clouds,
the slow, steady pulse
of the earth’s heart
so I began to withdraw
to the subtle call of quiet.
She soothes my spirit
with whispers, calm,
colors of rich, luscious
hues of marigold sun
and turquoise skies
goose grey of storms
that toss the static and
spark of strife away.
Even this room from which
I write is so quiet I can hear
a faint hum, a strum of OM
nothing distracts. Solitude
chose me.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 294.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

I Am A Poem, by Debi Swim

I Am A Poem
by Debi Swim

I am a poem who doesn’t want
to be understood. I don’t want
a reason to be, I just want to be.
To be swished around the mouth
like the first sip of wine. Savored.
To be heard as a whole then
separated into instruments
lyrics, impressions and emotion.

I am a starting place, off ramp,
corollary route, tertiary road and
little gravel lane where memories,
experience, longing reside restlessly.
I am of the many and yet individual.
I sing. I dance. I cry, rage, laugh.
I speak plainly and in riddles.
I am a poem. A song. A voice.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 295.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Cycles Of Life, by Debi Swim

Cycles Of Life
by Debi Swim

Hi, Dad, It’s me again
Do you have time to talk?
(Oh, here’s a pretty vase of
flowers from my garden.
The roses are from the bushes
you use to prune for me.)
I wanted to catch you up
about what’s been going on.
Seems like things happen so fast,
then, sometimes they just drag.
Same old, same old… I guess,
School, work, soccer games.
Braces for Billy, Julie into dance,
Aunt Millie, she’s in the nursing home.
Ellen had a little girl, finally.
She and Bob are so excited
after waiting so long.
Oh, Stan died. Heart attack.
But maybe you knew that already?
Are you here, Dad?
Can you even hear me?
I wanted to ask. I need to know.
Is there more than this
endless cycle of
living and dying?

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 296.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.

Dark Forest Of The Soul, by Debi Swim

Dark Forest Of The Soul
by Debi Swim

It smells like fear
acrid, sharp, razor sharp
after the safety of knowing,
not questioning, having faith.
I don’t like this part of the woods
I’m finding myself in. It’s lonely
here. Quiet. Every snap of a twig
sounds like a gunshot. I flinch.

It smells like disease. Unhealthy,
musty, rank cheese, beginnings
of rot. Yet, if truth is true then
perhaps this isn’t the end though
it must seem that way to a tadpole,
a caterpillar, polyps. Metamorphosis.
Not death. Development. Growth.
Transformation. Transmutation. Change.

It smells like petrichor. Rain after a long
dry spell. Refreshing. Healing. A tinge of
newness, beginnings, hope, something
more than before. Deeper than. A quenching.
I can’t go back. I’m too far in. I’ll follow
this path to its end. I’ll trust that this path
brings me to the light and I’ll blink my eyes
at its glory after the darkness of the forest. Amen.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 281.

Debi Swim is a wife, mother, grandmother and persistent WV poet.