When no one is watching

By Karla Doell

When no one is watching,

The popular girl, the life of the party who seems to have it made,

Stands wishing she could have the courage to dispel her masquerade.

When no one is watching,

The jock, receiving scholarships, who appears to be carefree,

Goes home to be the family's dissension scapegoat appointee.

When no one is watching,

The counsellor and greeter, filling others with comfort and healing,

Just needs for once one person to come and ask just how she is feeling.

When no one is watching,

The nerd who eats lunch alone, rejected, and unnoticed when he drops out,

Stays home to care for his sick mother; a husband and father they are without.

When no one is watching,

The reclusive child who shrinks back, will not join in games, and is just no fun,

Lives with her uncle, abused, and cursed as useless, with nowhere to run.

When no one is watching,

That guy making everyone laugh, the quipster, comedian, the famous class clown,

Is a derelict son, spending nights in his truck, his only place to lie down.

When no one is watching,

The boss who pushes employees too hard, is cold and just a plain slave driver,

Mourns the loss of his family from a car crash, in which he was the sole survivor.

Only in the muffled shadows can one hear the meadowlark cry out like the crow;

Before them the fire-lit cabin in the wind-swept tundra;

The gemstone concealed in the thorny crown.

Watch, when no one is else is watching.

Love, when they feel unloved.

See, when everyone else is blind.

Not just a flower

By Karla Doell

Recall for me a moment—

A daughter’s fifth Christmas:

Marked by the pink ribbon,

hugging tight the halcyon lights

suspended on the auburn mantel.

Marriage to the one and only:

Signified by bands of gold,

Circles of perpetual unity,

Universally recognizable love.

Snowed in with the family:

Evidence in an explosion of shimmering doves,

The only image on the single photo attempted,

From ‘let go!’ to getting to know, in choked closeness.

A close one’s depart:

Embodied in the melody of her favourite song,

its recording dances through the empty halls,

invoking profound joy and sorrow.

The battle for an idea:

Indicated by words etched on paper,

Standing firm for what they believed,

To stretch lasting into the grey future.

A speech once given:

Now indicated in quotes,

Spread down through the generations

In songs, books, education and Internet.

Freedom fought for and claimed:

Remembered by the red poppy

which makes its home on the graves

of those who sacrificed everything,

amplifying the blood spilt to acquire it.

What is a symbol good for

If the memory is not important,

If a symbol invokes no response,

If it transforms us less than dust on Jupiter?

Then is it anything more than a sham?

A fragment of coloured cloth.

Aurum forged to accessorize a finger.

A blurry photo that never turned out.

A song repeated to redundancy.

An old document to be shelved away.

Words spoken to preoccupied ears of indifference.

A red velvet cut-out pinned to your suit:

the result of conformity, obedience or habit.

It is not the symbol

But what the symbol represents.

So if we remember

Not just as facts, pictures or stories,

Out of conformity, obedience or habit,

But by the deep transforming why,

If on your heart you pin, not just a flower,

But penetrate your heart of the selfless sacrifice,

It makes all the difference.

11:11 definition of poetry

By Karla Doell

At first I was hesitant to write again,

perhaps out of fear

of not being as good as before.

But for the second time

I walked across the field,

which appears to be dead,

but is only playing possum

in instinctual protection

against winter’s impending reign.

The wind blinding me

by whipping the hair into my face,

again I found my inspiration.

Perhaps this is the definition of poetry:

saying in a hundred words

what could be said in ten;

but not till the hundredth

do you find the beauty and meaning

in a dead field of grass.

I am all the colours

By Karla Doell

Am I black?

Am I white?

Red is strength:

of anger, of sorrow,

of sacrifice, of loss,

of hope, of love.

Orange is spontaneous:

Full of life, innovation,

A million stars in the sky,

And you must connect the dots.

Yellow, is of being and of choosing:

loyalty, respect, courage,

faith, ignorance, humility,

disobedience, selflessness, greed.

Green is structured:

Rules that both bind and protect,

Uses facts and data,

Bringing balance and foundation.

Blue, the guide:

Twisted duo of knowledge and experience,

Words of building and encouragement,

Step by step, the right path.

Violet image turned mirage:

It is tradition, experiences, past companionship,

The important ones are treasured,

So that they cannot fade away.

The spectrum of the rainbow merge into white.

The six paints of the pallet mix into black.

Am I black?

Am I white?

The blank page

By Karla Doell

On the blank page patters lines, curves, dots, circles

The utensil: raise then return, push and glide

Together they form patterns, and collections

Add some pauses, because the void

Can, in itself, be something expressive

Mark and rest, thick and slight

Scarce a trace of hesitation

The blank page begins to communicate

Longer, longer, racing forward

Stop. Continue, Stop.

Section by section—

Something symbolic descends into the page

Tracing the architecture of a dream

It aspires in the light

And contemplates in the dark

The blank page receives meaning

It breathes softly

Its heart beats in a hushed dance

It stirs the senses from a deep slumber

It etches in the mind

It tickles the heart

A prism unfurled beyond the visual spectrum

A melody ablaze in the bones

The blank page transforms emotion

One stands in awe at the stark contrast

Framed in a rectangle

Bound by leather

It whispers to the soul