what a dramatic conclusion
winter bursting into tears
like some last minute production
bewildered red-bellied woodpecker
ponders your intention
I ponder your intention
shamelessly rubbing shoulders
with spring
your cocky grin
sharpened at one corner
I don’t trust you
always been a flakey one
For De’s quadrille prompt. The given word is “sharp” or a form of the word.
wind speaks like Spring
coaxing daffodil shoots
still slumbering
under dead-leaf duvets
but they hold fast
to winter’s dream
wise to the wavering
of these fickle days
I break up sticks
slipping deeper into
memories of you
some give way
some are too green
A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub.
Punam is our host and gifted us the word “slumber” to include in our 44 word poems.
I can sink easily
into the silver of sage brush
drown in this waterless place
bone-dry and barren
where nothing much grows or dies
but the wind
the sky is black velvet tonight
studded in stars
each one mirroring my dreams
that have long since tumbled
with the weeds
but if I were the cactus
I’d know where hope thrives
beneath thorns and thick skin
ever-flowing, but conserved
ready for the drought
For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub ( 3 p.m. EST). Share one poem of your choice or incorporate the mini-prompt provided. I decided to play with some contradiction to the line by H. Jackson Brown Jr.
“Hope is not a resting place but a starting point – a cactus, not a cushion.”
finally, you have arrived
broken, depleted, defeated
one by one you have come
full circle, enlightened
first, run your fingers
over these blood-stained walls
faded only by the sun
understand that
cemented tears will not run
beyond this gate of wisdom
for this place
you enter wide-eyed
with only a child’s heart
this space
is where love begins
Dora is our host at dVerse Poets Pub for Poetics this week.
This poem is inspired by her prompt titled “It’s Written in Stone”
Image: pixabay.com
this dance we do
between time and space
not an orderly cosmos
rhythm – one, two….lost!
I’m tapping on stars
as you tango to Mars
I extend towards Luna
you reach for Soleil
I align, but you sway
I’m popping, you’re locking
rarely in sync
I glide, you dart
but somehow
each time
you waltz your way
back into my heart
For Poetics today, we are playing with the topic of dance.
You are welcome to join in. It’s a pleasure to be your host.
dVerse Poets Pub
Image credit: unsplash.com
We set out for the drive to my hometown. I place my purse on the floor and sigh. We are always a bit stressed to arrive on time. Just over an hour away, my mother of eighty five years waits at the other end.
Her small dining table will be set for us, perhaps the night before, complete with seasonal napkins. There will be a lasagna or chicken casserole in the oven, a fresh salad and bread from the bakery. There will be homemade dessert like fresh carrot cake or iced brownies. On an end table, a thoughtful plate will offer a little snack first such as cheese, crackers and grapes. The apartment will be clean and organized, despite her fatigue and arthritic pain.
I take a sudden, deep inhale as I contemplate endings. The scenery blurs by in familiar fashion but I notice recent rainfall and snowmelt have flooded some farmers’ fields. Trees still stand stoic as water rises around their roots. In the corner of my eye, a hawk catches the updraft to glide over the highway. I exhale slowly.
winter breathes, steady
spring is always a given
but we hold our breath
A haibun for Frank’s Haibun Monday prompt over at dVerse Poets Pub.
Image: pixabay.com
these darker days
I lay my thoughts
where tree shadows sprawl
boldly across the snow
they rest in the glisten
while I listen to my heart
beating to the rhythm of
the red bird’s wings
I take flight, unfettered
from the pinch of winter
A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub. De has given us the word “pinch” to include in our 44 word poems. Doors open at 3 p.m.
find a fancy, shallow dish
spread a layer of cream cheese
if you let it soften first
this step will be a breeze
white, chunk crab meat
drain it fairly well
add it to a bowl
and flake it for a spell
next, a jar of seafood sauce
Christmas red, tangy, sweet
mix it in very gently
now the next part is neat
put a layer of this lovely
over top the cream cheese
find a frilly spreader knife
an array of crackers, please
doesn’t matter if they eat it
as long as it is there
some will just devour it
some will not dare
A “rhyming recipe” for dVerse Poets Pub and our last prompt for 2023.
See you in the New Year!
she dips her words
in molten moon-glow
scatters them over ebony sky
until they stick
she sketches rough drafts
traces cryptic constellations
how does she know our secrets?
she stretches metaphors
from star to star
now here we are
still tangled in the garland
A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub. I am your host today. The word I have chosen to slip into your 44 word poems is “sketch”. Doors open at 3 p.m. Come join us!
Image: pixabay.com
please find attached
my heart
edited by many
saved by few
reworked, renamed
and shared with you
I remember
your cursive flow
deep sea-blue
carefully crafted
carelessly signed
searching for a signature
that spoke your mind
dear childhood
write back soon
under desk lamp, stars
between margins
of vintage florals
I’ll count the days
doodle me dreams
that I’ve stashed away
p.s. I miss you
For Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.
Our host today is Punam. She has inspired us with the topic of writing letters.
(i)
I cursed you for leaving me
hard to do while choking
on so many unspoken words
now it seems that
stages of grief
are my first language
(ii.)
the memories are dulling
like the sea-salt grey of your eyes
but your smile, more like a smirk
resides on your grandson’s face
you would like him
and the other one too
(iii)
they said you were proud of me
I do know you loved me
like a father usually does
your expectations, your dreams
I rebelled with and without grace
my heart holds space for you
An elegy for “Meeting the Bar” at dVerse Poets Pub. Laura is our lovely host.
If there was a key to his heart, she hadn’t found it. She fumbled through her purse to find the one to her Jetta. Sunlight striped her auburn hair through bedroom window blinds as she wrote the final note. Again. She had a way of stockpiling last chances, storing them in some kind of invisible vault. She took them out on dark days in November or when his words managed to rip through her hardened heart.
This time was different, she thought. This time she balked at the idea that you cannot pluck moonlight to bring in your pocket. Moonlight is universal. Joy is transportable. Self-love is…. She whispered mantras as she buttoned up her trench jacket and slipped on her chelsea boots.
She placed the solitaire engagement ring on the kitchen table beside the note. A gauzy, daylight Luna welcomed her out.
This week I am hosting Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST and the prompt runs all week. Prosery is a dVerse creation. It consists of a short piece of flash fiction or creative non-fiction that includes a given line from a poem. It does not exceed 144 words. The quoted line is “You cannot pluck moonlight to bring in your pocket” taken from “October Letter” by Helen Hoyt. Feel free to visit our virtual poetry pub and join in!
Word count: 144 words
Image: pixabay.com
when will we shed this armor of indifference?
will hatred ever dissipate
in rivers of empathy
flow to bloodless bays
pacific blue?
will the light find a voice?
can it pierce through, shatter the
ancient bellow of the baneful?
whose hands will entwine?
whose eyes will meet
look deeper than deep
beyond race or reason
fear or deceit?
will God be there to watch?
exhaling relief in scented sea-breeze
murmuration of doves
gracing the skies overhead?
what will fill this space between?
will it bloom in fields of lavender
or pink-petaled lotus flowers
rising from the mud?
only bridges know
I am hosting Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Join us to share a poem of any theme or form. My offering is a late response to this week’s Poetics by Punam – Building bridges
Image: pixabay.com
deep as eggplant purple
thoughts spinning, spilling like
cornucopia
sifting out summer bliss
Autumn winning, chilling
I will welcome the shift
place my bets, regrets on
maple leaves, sun-lit
in bold Goldilocks-gold
let them free fall fancy
My attempt at a “Flamenca”. Grace has us writing to this interesting poetry form today over at dVerse Poets Pub. Also a sprinkling of Melissa ‘s Poetic prompt this week – Folding into Autumn.
Image: pixabay.com
the sun sets like rainbow jello
surpringly so, because I know
she holds heavy hearts
grackle-black, pain-drenched
but one by one, chards and slivers
she gathers them up
until the weight
of the world’s sorrows
takes….
her….
d o w n
whipped cream clouds
are only shrouds
For Quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. Kim Russell is our host. She has gifted us the word “sliver” to slide into our 44 word poems.
I can stretch summer like
salt-water taffy
pastel skies still sticking
to my tongue
September is a tease
butterscotch fields
subtle notes of pumpkin-spice
and soft plum
but what does he know?
already flirting with hints
of chocolate mint
pine-scented pipe dreams
of winter
De is hosting her favourite prompt over at dVerse Poets Pub.
We are writing Quadrilles of 44 words, including the word the word “pine”.
Photo taken by my hubby on a nearby trail.
were you tired of the space between?
one hand over the other
clinging tight to a rope of final reflections
white knuckled, daring yourself to let go
begging yourself to hang on?
it was only a sliver of time
the size of a pinhole
to us
“I’m ok” . Gone
but to you it must have felt like eternity
thoughts drawn and suspended, mid air
pain pooling, slowly rising in silence
gradually crashing, battering
until the break wall burst
sometimes I see you in desert sunsets
over sleepy canyons, under eagle wings
in restful lake ripples, and in my dreams
whenever clouds whisper your name
I listen
Sharing this for dVerse Poets Pub in response to Merril’s Poetics: August Transitions, which I’m sorry I needed to steal for a title. A therapeutic write as today marks three years from the day we lost my stepson, Brian. If I could share one thing that could possibly help others who have a loved one showing any signs of suicidal thoughts, it would be this – Don’t think it will never happen. The space between can be a blink.
National Suicide Prevention Helpline (Canada) – 1-888-456-4566 or SMS 45645
Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Text 988 (U.S.)
Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Text 988 (Canada – beginning Nov. 2023)
its dark again and people I care about
tap on their phones – somewhere
not to me
if they did, I’d really want to talk
about the neon yellow Wilson’s Warbler
I saw today on the feeder, curiously pecking
at the perch beneath him, instead of the seeds
maybe a baby
or how I forgot to shell the shrimp
just threw them in the pan
their wiggly legs doing the can-can
outer skin crisping, creeping me out
or what I think of religion, lattes
and the perfectly L-shaped crack in my ceiling
or why I believe the world can change
but it won’t
my neighbors know nothing about me
whether I write poetry or obituaries
or both
maybe I’m a horrible bitch with blue eyes
they’d know which is true if
they ever ventured up the driveway to say hello
I saw a strange, elongated
flashing light in the sky last night
and wondered if any of them saw it
I’ll never know
In response to Poetics hosted by Sanaa. She has shared the poetry of Amber Rose Tamblyn and challenged us to write in her style.
image: pixabay.com
can we sit with the broken?
palms out, catching tears
before they drop, pop and roll
into archives of Autumn
can we sit with the broken?
in forever fields of Spring
soothing scents of
hyacinth, honeysuckle
sweet grass tickles
and the taste of tolerance
A Quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub. Our 44 word poems must include the word
“pop”.
It’s a pleasure to be your host today.
image: pixabay.com
He sits on the curb of a busy parking lot. His dirt streaked face hides in battered hands, wiping tears but I catch a glimpse. One shoe is off, a foot somehow injured and his scrawny arms and legs are covered in scabs. Behind him, is a grocery cart filled with random, unidentifiable articles . Ironically only a few yards away is a grocery store he wouldn’t dare enter, even with spare change.
Around the corner, there is a sub shop. I go inside to buy him a sandwich. Standing in line, I wonder what to order. I don’t know him or the stories behind the face. He was somebody’s seed once. Now wrapped in deep purple layers of pain. I imagine each one carefully peeled back, revealing a pure white center, still intact. My thoughts break as I am asked, “Lettuce, tomatoes, onions on that?” I randomly choose toppings. No onions. He is the onion. Dropped, rolling aimlessly, roots withered, skin scraped, hope crushed. He raises his head from his hands, and looks up. I offer him the sub and a bottle of water. He says “God Bless”. The first layer of an onion is the easiest to remove.
tears cut through layers
seasons lost in toxic soils
searching for sunlight
Written in response to Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.
Melissa LeMay is our guest host and she has us writing to the theme of onions.
I walk away
not to remove my dark skin
from the stark glow of your alabaster ways
or to dull the glitter of your goldenness
oh no, child, don’t be fooled
there are better things a comin’
I have better places to go
where enlightened souls illuminate
like the photosphere of the sun
I walk away
waving, hoping, dreaming, being
fingers fearlessly flipping you off
through your burnished beams of light
For Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub
Grace is bringing us inspiration for Ekphrastic poetry.
Before the de-cluttering, I didn’t know what I had. This felt comfortable. Each shelf, drawer, box was a vault, silently preserving pieces of the past. Now through dust and cobwebs, I dare to unlock them. Letters unsent, my sons’ baby teeth, loose photos, Holly Hobby with one arm missing. Where is it?
Panic builds, peeling back the layers. I’d rather be wrapped in blankets of the unknown. Immeasurable. Infinite. You can’t push it away or embrace it. It holds nothing tangible, therefore nothing “lose-able”.
I sit on the edge of the bed, psychoanalyzing myself. What is this fear of rediscovery? What I know is all I have? I am done, no longer sheltered by the uncharted? With everything in place, I am exposed.
Once I feel all this beauty in my hands, I feel the loss. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror.
For Prosery Monday at dVerse Poets Pub.
We are writing a short piece of prose no longer than 144 words, including a line from
The First Elegy, Duinos Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke.
“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror”
quiet isn’t really quiet
it screams over deaf ears
in a forest of fallen words
quiet is solid, thick enough to cover the grandest of canyons, but subtle
effervescent in the tiniest of dew drops at dawn
quiet isn’t “crickets”, that’s ignorance
but quiet may be cryptic to the ignorant
quiet holds up sacred space between the abused woman and drunken husband sprawled across the couch
quiet is not a haven, it is a resting place
quiet knows things, not worth speaking to the hidebound
quiet is collectable, but sometimes only
jagged eggshells embedded in your feet
quiet can hurt
quiet doesn’t always like itself and longs for invisible strings to be plucked into meticulous, enlightening melodies that lift spirits instead of eyebrows
quiet is the tea bag in, thoughts steeped from depths untapped, poetry poured out
it stretches infinitely, briefly pausing for birdsong and rumble of thunder
quiet is often unwanted but persists, can be easily broken by the weakness of intolerance or the strength of the benevolent
quiet has a steady breath
and then…
quiet is the ultimate end
At dVerse Poets Pub, Kim has challenged us with writing a poem on the quality of a different thing (noun, verb, adjective) using the same format as Les Murray’s poem, The Quality of Sprawl.
Image: Michelle Beauchamp
springtime convention
birds whisper lessons of life
we need to listen
desert sun leaves diamonds
in unexpected places
sweet summer garlands
sky sketches for me
brush-strokes blend, bend and suspend
where do colours go?
Do you have a poem to share? You are welcome to join us over at dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. It is my pleasure to be your host.
Images: Michelle Beauchamp
shift a little, my darling
find another angle, alien to you
you have painted me in colours
that only you can see
flat, fixed, formulated
fabricated pieces
so meticulously defined
by your jaded brush
look again, my darling
unveil my violet heart
shade me in ebony, if you must
and I trust that you must, though
I am not afraid of the darkness
moon flowers bloom in the gloom
why deny yourself sweet shadows?
they come from the light
Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Lillian is our lovely host, sharing with us the story of Thorvald Hellesen (1888-1937) and the art of Cubism. We are choosing a painting for poetic inspiration.
look inside
you will find it
buried loosely where you left it
no? then follow me now
past the ho hums and doldrums
over the bridge of punctilio
and stagnant rivers of reason
bypass the labyrinth of what “is”
trample the hedges and
enter the valley of sally
now.. t-i-p-p-i-t-y t-o-e, barefoot
between blades of grass
watch your step
this is where the little people live
only to serve you tea and stories
rest here for awhile
under buttercup umbrellas
taste the lemon-berry breeze
shhh….listen to the colours of the sky
remember when fish could fly?
you drew them, I saw you
fins and all
the fish?
yes, the fish
and you too can have fins
you can have anything here
It is my pleasure to host Poetics today at
We are letting our muse run wild, inspired by the beautiful work of photographer and visual artist, Erik Johansson.
Through my oversized front window I wager the weather to be warm. Again I am wrong. The sun is tricky these days, undecided on sending us to the beach or simply spotlighting the neon yellow of finches on my feeders. Crocuses attempt to poke through decayed leaves but the chill has kept them from blooming. A blue jay bounces below the century old maple searching for fallen seeds. He seems overdressed for Spring but then again, he has no choice.
I take in a few moments of stillness, waiting for nature’s next performance. Pine needles on the scotch pine muster up a little jiggle as the slightest breeze blows between them. The blue jay boldly returns with a sudden landing on the top of the feeder. His squawking is far from musical as he contemplates another dramatic manouever. He misses the tray, sending sunflower chips to the doves below. The show has only begun.
early spring still sings
fading slowly in birdsong
summer’s rehearsal
A late response to Linda’s “Late Spring” haibun prompt.
little pond, you play well
with sea foam clouds
painting their portraits
on your pretty glass skin
don’t you know?
you are a window
it is only the sun
holding up mirrors
illuminating the depth
of your shallow little heart
who’s playing with who?
For Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Merril is our host and she has offered us a variety of ways to incorporate the theme of windows. This one also happens to be a quadrille.
and so it begins, minuscule
granule of sand
clinched between fingers
one revolutionary stem cell or
the distance a brittle leaf tumbles
against the breeze
one drop of sweat
blood
benevolence
a trickling to the pool
fools stand on the edge
dipping their toes
Kim is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. The word she has chosen for us to include in our 44 word poems is “revolution” or a form of the word.
Image: pixabay.com
Close-up – feet resting on frame of a too-high stool. Planes taxi laggardly across the tarmac. Somewhere between the first and last sip of a mediocre margarita, I read the news. In the world of virtual poetry prompts and comradery, there are diamonds.They sparkle with such bravery, tenacity, and brilliance, you wish you could bottle it. That was Glenn Buttkes.
The void was instant. A black hole, a piece ripped, an abyss of words unwritten. Stunned, I still questioned my tears. Did I know Glenn? No. Sound-clue– annoying sound of straw for last drop of over-priced tequila. Thoughts wavered. Yes. I knew Glenn. We met beyond horizons of logical space, between the darkest lines of prose and poems, in the comfort of common beliefs, under the moon…. and on the moon. I met him when the seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart.
It is my pleasure to host Prosery at dVerse Poets Pub. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
The line we are including in our prose is from a poem by Valsa George
“The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart” – “Winged Words”
Papa don’t preach
I’ve managed forty years without you
the diligent daddy lessons
presented punctililously, with
fancy words like “indubitably”
Papa don’t preach
I’ve lived a good life
not the one you dreamed but
one forged from the voids
you left when you were here
and when you were gone
They told me “your daddy loves you”
as you laid there dying
“your daddy is proud of you”
as they laid you to rest
I say I have my daddy’s hands
and my mother’s heart
I say I didn’t dance with my father
or I don’t remember
I remember steel grey eyes
tenebrific, acheronian
longing for something
I’ll never know
Puman is our host for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. She has asked us to write about fathers and include at least three song titles from a given list. You can join in here.
Note: Today I turn 62. I was 22 when I lost my father to a heart attack. He was 48. He liked big words.
before me, colours bleed like ancient ink soaking papyrus skies persimmon sits, shiftless when did you boldly gush against apocalyptic orange? time is muted, cloud-muffled I strain to see movement but you are still to the naked eye I must wait sunsets speak slowly
We are adding the word “shift” or a derivative to our 44 word poems.
Join us at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille Monday.
Doors open at 3 p.m. EST
are you a gift? my little chickadee wings, pillow soft flit-flutter beating be-stilling my heart touch down with a pin-prick patter tiny claws tickle my palm your feather belly begs for a gentle stroke all dressed for dinner black-capped, black bib fancy little fellow you stare at me in wonder between pecks and nibbles I stare at you in awe blessed by your presence lost in your charm you are a gift my little chickadee
For today’s Poetics, Ingrid has shared poems of gratitude and asked us to “write a poem about a special gift you have received at some time in your life.” Feel free to join in with us over at dVerse Poets Pub. Last year on my birthday, I asked my son to take me to a provincial park, to a special spot where visitors can feed the chickadees. For me, it was a most memorable gift of nature.
Today the sun takes our winter weary souls for a drive along the river. The scenery alternates between an eclectic array of waterfront homes and narrow sections where the water laps at the edges of the road. Just before the gravel dock, around the familiar curve, there is a small parking lot. Tall, naked trees stand stoic against the shoreline, their lanky limbs reaching over the banks. Despite the sun-sparkle of rippling waves, the surface of the river is still mosaic. Jagged ice islands gently sway, randomly tapping each other. A few ducks paddle bravely between them. It is January, again.
Then we see him. Like royalty and in true raptor form, he pumps his wings with slow, powerful beats. Gnarly talons cast ominous shadows below. His pure white head appears angelic but his deadly hooked beak says otherwise. Tiny birds scatter. We watch him scope the ice, laser focused. Patient. Swooping across the river without a passport from one country to another.
mallard ducks under
scavenger knows no boundaries
cross-border trade
A haibun for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Grace is our host. Join us!
he arrives at dusk
fearless of nightfall
holding / space
between sun-starved winter days
and fate of sleepless nights
time flakes, falls like snow
boundaries between worlds weaken
I soak in tints of twilight
de-icing darker thoughts
they melt in the glow
of scarlet feathers
For dVerse Poets Pub.
It is my pleasure to be your host for Quadrille Monday as we share poems of 44 words.
The given word is “ice” or a derivative.
Doors open at 3 p.m. EST
Today the sky is blah-grey. The epic storm that delayed our Christmas will be easily forgotten. There is a cold front lingering but I am numb to the nip of winter.
We pack away large boxes of decorations and carry the balsam fir tree to the curb. It is still green, still thriving through it all. I pluck the uneaten gumdrops from the candy tree I playfully put together a few days earlier. They feel heavier now, like my heart.
This new year slips in without recognition. Time has barely shuffled past the twenty-seventh. We rearrange the furniture back to its original setting….before Christmas, before the storm. I collect the holiday cards displayed on the window sill, leaving only one, signed with love from my mother-in-law. It will sit here for awhile.
no calendar for death
december takes another breath
angel finds her wings
A haibun for dVerse Poets Pub in response to Kim’s prompt, ‘Fireworks and a Dripping Tap”.
where are you, my winter?
with your warrior winds
whipping on waves
candy coated tree limbs
I remember rosy red cheeks
against bleached white hills
magic carpets spinning sideways
sopping mittens, caked in snow
silence of snowflakes on tongues
screams of glee, toes numb
It’s Quadrille time over at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a poem of any style, exactly 44 words, not including the title. It must contain the word “candy” or a derivative of the word. It ‘s my pleasure to be your host today.
paint me a hazy shade of winter
colour me in winter things
I’ve heard your sunshine
smooth like legato but
more like cold weather blues
heart-bass beating with
tinkling of frozen tears
a muffled melody
trapped under ice
gift me withered roses from snow
tie them up in ribbons of your grief
for me to unravel, like a winter’s tale
I see your pain
waiting
on the other side of sunsets
heavy footprints in the snow
oh honey
…… let it go
Lillian is hosting Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub where we are blending some wintry music titles into our muse. She has given us many to choose from. I chose the following…
A Hazy Shade of Winter (Simon and Garfunkel)
A Winter’s Tale (Queen — and also The Moody Blues)”
Cold Weather Blues (Muddy Waters)
Footprints in the Snow (Bill Monroe)
Let It Go (Idina Menzel)
Roses from Snow (Emmylou Harris)
Trapped Under Ice (Metallica)
Winter Things (Ariana Grande)
He put his coffee down, gazed into her hazel eyes and asked again, “Am I a part of your heart?
“She looked down at her undisturbed croissant, pulling a few flakes from its edges. Without looking up, she said,
“I can’t breathe.”
He reached over the tattered diner table and placed his weathered hands around hers. They felt like silk. As always. He ran his fingers over the promise ring. The sun managed to dazzle the small diamonds through the streaky restaurant window.
“I don’t understand”, he whispered.
She slowly pulled her hands from his. One tear escaped, rolling over freckles to her plate.
“I feel confined between rigid walls of commitment. I don’t live in the black and white, but here… “
She paused, stared emptily at her ring, then into the pain of his eyes.
“Here, in the tender grey, I swim undisturbed.”
Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub.
Lisa has gifted us the line “Here in the tender grey, I swim undisturbed” taken from the poem “In Sullivan County” by Celia Dropkin. “Prosery” consists of prose, no longer than 144 words and must include a given line from a poem. Feel free to join in.
blossoming against the blue
of broody skies
truth will always rise
to find you
so……simply…… b-r-e-a-t-h-e
into sea salt dreams
change is brewing
stranded on the last slice of sea ice
these are the things they don’t tell us
you too will find your way
the sun will rise again
and I will be your trellis
Laura has asked us to create a poem using end lines of previous written poems.
Image: pixabay.com
you stole me from Tuesday
swept me away to Wednesday
now here we are
sipping on a cocktail
of present, past and future
when we sat, swaddled
under the cherry moon that
hovered over shadow-painted mesas
I forgot my battlefield earth
and the sound of my aching heart
do you know the color of night?
I think you do …
ice-blue hues of frozen time
blush-strokes, shades of bliss
undertones of you
shining through
Written in response to Lillian’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. She has challenged us to include in our poems, the names of movies that have won the Golden Raspberry Awards. There are 13 to choose from. I used the following – Cocktail, Under the Cherry Moon, Battlefield Earth, Color of Night, and Shining Through.
Lillian has also asked those who frequent our virtual pub to fill out a questionnaire regarding Open Link Night LIVE. Your input is appreciated. Thanks!
October sits between dying days of summer and winter’s icy breath. The maple tree in the front yard was busy last night, carpeting the lawn in retro shades of green, gold, orange and red. It reminds me of my childhood home in the 70’s where life was good. I walk across the leaves to hear the crunch and fill the bird feeder. The sun slips between tree shadows, dazzling where it can. I scan the herb garden for soup ingredients. The painted rock still sits a few feet away. “Every Child Matters”. I think about the “mush” that was served in residential schools and rationed rotten vegetables passed off as meals. I pick the last of my basil.
On the stove, scents of rosemary, thyme and oregano mingle and begin to fill the kitchen. I add the basil, give it a stir, poking gently at fresh carrots, zucchini and roma tomatoes. Contemplating whimsical additions, I open the fridge to find wilting spinach. It will do.
stolen in September
hearts descend in shades of dreams
truth will always rise
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub.
The theme is soup and I am your host.
without solid reason to
keep track of time
I burn my days over
hot coals of contrition
watching the embers
die like dreams
it seems…..
we are sempiternity
always in the making
or taking
are we ever done?
is it enough to
simply breathe?
For Quadrille Monday over at dVerse Poets Pub. Merril is our host and she has offered us the word “track” to include in our 44 word poems.
How is one September different from the others? Rebellious red maple leaves glow between the green….as usual for these early days of fall. A familiar sky hovers in cornflower blue. A monarch flitter- flutters over black eyed suzies, gathering nectar for the epic flight. I take in his beauty but he is no stranger. As rehearsed, the potted purple petunias, bow gracefully out of summer. Like every year, I pinch off shriveled blooms as if there is hope for more. Three sisters soup simmers in the crock pot once again. The sun still flaunts like June.
But on this day, the fifteenth day of September, a handsome young man with eyes like mine, takes a beautiful young woman, places his hands in hers and says, “I do”. I think the birds sang a little sweeter. Perhaps the breeze was scented in sweet alyssum, tousling her golden curls. I am certain a slivered piece of moon peeked from light years away.
september elopes
from autumn algorithms
love, keeper of seeds
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. We have a guest host, Xenia Tran and she has asked us to “create a haibun about September and a special moment you experienced during this month or are looking forward to.”
it was all vanilla
no Tuscan sunsets oozing
over edges of Krakow nights or
glimmers of ginger and lemongrass
she prayed to garam masala gods
begging for murals of flavors
to touch her tongue
to touch her heart
days gnawed at her so gently
she let them feast
as she slumbered deep
into sea salt dreams
For Poetics: Spicing it Up.
Merril is our host and has given us some spicy words to play with!
My playground was a nearby field – dirt trails, apple orchards, small hills, tall grasses. Caterpillars, beetles, grasshoppers and ladybugs were my playmates. I’d catch them, cup them gently between my hands, observe every detail before releasing them. I remember monarchs, the sun catching their wings, landing unpredictably on plumes of blinding yellow goldenrod. I remember warmth of summer on my arms, my fair skin turning blissful brown and counting freckles on my nose. Most of all, I remember the milkweed. I was fascinated with plucking one, peeling open the neon green pod to feel the silk of seeds. Beyond fascination….perhaps an obsession.
I want to plant milkweed and memories into protective soils, bring back the monarchs, save them from their demise. I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace. I want to feed the butterflies and my soul.
Prosery for Sanaa’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up to or exactly 144 words. It must include the given line from a selected poem. Sanaa has chosen the line “I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace” from “What I would like to grow in my Garden” by Katherine Reigel.
Photo taken yesterday on a walk through a local conservation area.
What is this wasteland, this dormiveglia
where slumber sleeps and wakefulness burbles?
I am aliferous, floating like the floss of milkweed
caught between comatose clouds and
the warm rush of kindled crosswinds
colours? they don’t exist here
only the phosphenes as I rub my eyes
but I remember the feuillimort of autumn
and subtle scents of solandis
arms flailing, I sail sideways, longing to
fall into the open arms of consciousness
while sandman waves from above
here, under wayward stars, I wait
to nestle in quilts of haimish reveries or
wake to the gleaming edges of reality
Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub – “There’s a Word for That“
We are stirring a few uncommon words into our muse.
I am your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST
image: pixabay.com
We call him “Chippy” although we know there is more than one. Chipmunks live, work and thrive beneath our yard, front and back. He likes to scurry across the narrow base of my wooden fence. In and out, he races between alternating planks of vulnerability and safety, darkness and light.
Now he sits, perched upon the corner of the aging cement porch, frozen in sunlight, meditating. This is his rooftop. Inches below him, where a piece of the old porch has crumbled, is the doorway to his home. He is miniature against the draping peach begonias, overgrown shrubs and my massive maple. A few leaves, curled and brittle have begun their descent in today’s soft breeze. I watch through the window to see how long it takes for him to flinch. He is transfixed, eyes upon the world. With his fortress close by, he stands guard.
beneath the same sun
we bury thoughts of Autumn
I share my shelter
Join us at 3 p.m. EST for Haibun Monday
I am pleased to be your host as we consider the theme of shelter.
By Luna’s light, her scars become memoirs
freezing frames, she cautiously thaws moments
passion longs to peek between the lines
At dawn she stirs stories in the sunrise
it’s where words morph in shades of marigold
blossoming against the blue of broody skies
For dVerse Poets Pub, MTB (Meeting the Bar).
Laura is our host and has challenged us to an interesting form to play with in which we must choose a line from given poems and “write a stanza(s) taking each word as the start of each successive line i.e. the first word begins the first line, the second begins the second and so on“. I chose the line “by freezing passion at its blossoming” from the Neil Carpathios’ poem, “The Kiss”.
you are wind-driven
all trumped-up
on erroneous energies
captured only to collide
truth stands still as rock
no need to move or prove
I watch the white caps
curl, gaining strength and
wonder when your fallacies
will shatter like the waves
Sarah is hosting Poetics:
The four elements
Photo: yesterday evening at the beach
grief screams, then hides, in hearts it creeps
we wait for silent buds to speak
secrets that should never be
lay deep beneath canopies
angel blossoms restless, stir
think of you the way you were
grief screams, then hides in hearts it creeps
we wait for silent buds to speak
Grace is hosting MTB at dVerse Poets Pub, bringing us the “Octelle”, created by Emily Romano.
she doesn’t drink from
the half-glass-full
would rather choke
on jagged truths
feel the cold-rush rumble
before the storm
she plucks pitch-black petals
from her garden heart
offers them up in bouquets
she types eulogies
in her sleep
for loved ones
not yet passed
For this week’s Quadrille at dVerse Poets Pub.
De has given us the word “type” or any form of the word to include in our 44 word poems.
Image: pixabay.com
squandered moments of July
slip subito through my fingers,
time personifies, gets hungry
and I am its prey
its always been this way
blight has taken the tomatoes
again, spring dreams deadened
and withering herbs will get
more than their wish
tonight, torrential style
“dark and foreboding”, he says
as he gambles on grilling
under gun metal skies
and here I lie, glaring at August
daring me into the fall
should I be moved by hues of gold
embrace the turn of nature’s path?
I resist, holding fast, for
Autumn’s shifty ways have
pulled me off the edge of summer
It’s Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub (3 p.m. EST)
Join us to learn more about the Lunar Codex.….and link up a poem!
This one was inspired by Tuesday’s Poetics with Sanaa Rizvi.
give me your half-baked ideas
I’ll put them back in for awhile
start the coffee buzz buzz buzz
while we wait…..
for both to percolate
I am more of a cool Britannia
than a sugar plum fairy
be wary
change is brewing
Written for Lillian’s Poetic Prompt “Make Mine a Double Dipper” where she has asked us to incorporate some very unique flavours into our poetry.
Join us at dVerse Poets Pub!
we walk, silent
under half-moon sky
rain wraps itself
in melancholy clouds
elusive as tears
thunder lurks skin-deep
muted, clawing
I see talon shadows
of your grief
starlight is gone
from the cosmos
and your eyes
I lift layers of you
to find you
Its Quadrille time over at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a poem of 44 words, including the word, “wrap”.
It is my pleasure to be your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
Supermoon sent us scrambling to the nearest park for open ground. Cameras in hand, we had visions of something extraordinary. The awe came when I did not focus on or with my camera but stood with mind silenced, tracing her perfection. I imagined some funky God of Geometry with a giant compass and extremely steady hands, carving our cosmic muse into carbon paper skies. He didn’t know her beauty until the asteroids and meteorites chiseled her barren cheeks and the sun dazzled her silly.
We heard the unmistakable howl of a coyote in the nearby woods. Believing in the myth added to the ambience. I became lost in the mystery of moon tides and the depths of craters. I wondered where I stood with her in astrological terms, being born on the first day of the whole zodiac. I am clearly a beginning…to something. Her porcelain face revealed no secrets. With fuzzy photos, we turned to go home. She followed, her golden light gushing over darkened streets. I drank her energy, let her sparkle my spirit one more time, just in case I would not see her Supermoon magic again.
sun in Scorpio
stars of Aries kiss Luna
November clouds drift
Sharing an old but appropriate one
at dVerse Poets Pub (3 p.m. EST)
We are “moon trippin” after an announcement that our 2017 Anthology – Chiaroscuro, Darkness and Light has been chosen to be included in the Polaris Collection, a time capsule of art, music and writings scheduled to be sent to the moon in 2024!!
You can read all about the project here. Click on BOOKS, then POETRY COLLECTIONS and scroll to find us.
“Another”. A good word if you’re talking about cookies. Another time, another place, another day. But don’t let it slide too easily off your tongue and numb your heart. Its a good word if you realize its potential for change as much as its ability to disengage, desensitize, and distract.
It has a way of erasing things. Precious things.
Another crop killing flood? Sure. You can’t just take Mother Nature by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.
“Another”school shooting? No. Not acceptable. Go ahead. Give me another excuse. Cry me another river about your selfish “rights”. Push me down another path of pansy-ass petals to the land of positivity. Toss another meme upon the media canvass to justify your lack of action.
Why do they trade scruples for shrapnel? Logic for innocent lives?
These are the things they don’t tell us.
Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub.
Lisa is hosting and has shared a riveting poem, “Notes on Ulvade”
The given line is the last line in my prose.
Image: unsplash.com
time?
well she thought it was good
night swallowing her day
time vamping to night
light dripping like honey….
dew drop diamonds at dawn
she yawns at the sun
burns her finger on a freshly lit cigarette
hot! dog at her feet, never under
estimates her pain precisely
she kisses his curly ear
aching for one more life
time
Having fun with compound words. Lillian is our super-host.
Come join us at dVerse Poets Pub.
Image: pixabay.com
she stands on life’s ledge
her only hope, heaven
stars, her only light
she slips deep into
desolate seas, pitch-black
her eyes become ink
her mouth, silenced
the salt, stingless
over open wounds
she is not sad
sadness begins
sadness ends
she is static
It’s Quadrille time over at dVerse Poets Pub. What’s a quadrille? It is a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title but it must include a given word or derivative of the word. Today the word is “static”. You can join in too.
Image: pixabay.com
I sit curled into the end of my couch with my tea, still too hot for sipping. The curtain is pulled back a few inches, just enough for me to view the morning show of winged wonders. I’ve come to visually identify many and now my interest turns to their unique sounds, their songs, the music that fills the Spring air. The robin has a few up his sleeve but none on my favourite play list. The chickadees have my heart with their “chick -a -dee- dee- dee” and whistles of “fee-bee, fee-bee” in their black and white tuxedos. I take my first sip of tea and savour the memory of feeding them from my hands. Oh..here comes “Woody”. Whether downy or red-bellied, I ponder whether a woodpecker is truly a songbird but his percussion cannot be ignored. They amuse me tapping on the feeder for invisible bugs, finally settling for seeds.
My ceramic mug still feels warm. I sink into thoughts of fight or flight, watching sparrows sparring in mid air before landing on the ledge of the feeder. In contrast, they sing a joyful composition of “cheeps” and “chirrups”. I pull a plush blanket around my chilled ankles and wait for the next performer. The bird feeder sways, empty. The silence feels like an unwanted intermission at a concert. Intuition tells me the king will arrive soon. Yes. The cardinal appears in his royal red suit, and matching crown. His mate is only seconds behind him, looking a bit chubby but stunning in her fancy feathered hat and vibrant orange lipstick. I wonder if somewhere she carries a purse. Together they will sing a glorious duet, but not today as their beaks are brimming with sunflower seeds. Now, red is replaced by yellow, ablaze. One incoming golden finch is quickly followed by another. My tea sits cold.
minstrels of the morning
trilling softly, stealing time
we sip on sunshine
For Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. Frank is our host. Join us!
mishunderstood 