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 of 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!
have you seen your light?
have you seen the way it
slips through the crevices
of mournful minds?
you bring the dawn in
murkiness of night
spread your weary wings
to take flight
fearless through the fire
you have left me sun-soaked
surrounded in seeds of hope
For dVerse OLN Live. Lillian is our host.
Image: Michelle Beauchamp
I wish for you a garden
a garden full of grace
where the earth smells sweet
hints of hollyhock and camomile
I wish for you a pair of wings
that flutter soft like baby’s heart
but fly feral through the storm
I wish for you a sun-baked sky
where rain drizzles daydreams
and clouds kiss your eyes
I wish for you an emerald stream
where fellow fairies dip their toes
with tiny tea cups
sipping slow on apricot tea
I wish for you a haven
feather landing, velveteen
rosy cheeks, pillow dreams
where it seems there
is no darkness
only light
just hold on tight
For this week’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub
It is my pleasure to feature “Vika Muse”, a Ukrainian digital artist, who despite the despair and chaos in her country continues to shine through her artistry. She has kindly shared her work with us as inspiration. We are hoping to share a little light between her beautiful work and our poetry. We welcome you to join in.
You can find “Vika Muse” on Instagram @get.muse
and at www.inprnt.com/gallery/vika_muse/
This poem is dedicated to Vika Muse.
Sun hovers closely, almost obnoxiously over the seemingly bashful plants. The tiny but glorious sprouts take cover in the decay.
Sun: Wake up and rise to the season! Slither your way through the damp of dead leaves and bloom!
Crocus Bulb: I will not.
Sun: But the bees are winter-weary and waiting. The old maple is budding in neon green. Do you not hear the serenade of songbirds? The rain is barely a sprinkle. I promise.
Crocus Bulb: Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow. I will remain here in earth’s embrace.
Sun: I know your tender shoots have poked the soil. The scent of your saffron has teased the wind. You are a such a tenacious little tuber. What is it you wait for?
Crocus Bulb: I wait to be seen.
Sun nods and slips slowly into the cumulus.
Sanaa is the lovely host over at
We are writing “Prosery” that includes the line, “Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow.” – from the poem A Daughter of Eve by Christina Rossetti.
I fear that we have failed
I fear every mistake unrecognized and repeated
I fear every moment squandered
I fear for the waste of intelligence on gain and pain
I fear compassion dumbed down to tiny yellow hugging emojis
I fear the death of humanity
I fear the lies, the fabrications suffocating our nations
I fear desensitization
I fear the power of one evil twist flipping the switch
I fear malice, so gracefully dressed in good will
I fear centipedes, freeways and losing the ones I love
I fear the silence of words unspoken, hearts unopened
I fear robots knocking at my door to deliver my mail…. or kill me
I fear for all I have not done, for all I have not given
I fear we had the gift of saving each other but we didn’t open it
I fear there is more and
I fear we will never know it
For Poetics at
Sarah has given us a rhetorical device, anaphora to play with in our poetry.
your hat is heavy
you garnish it gracefully
in plumed purple
tints and tones of
stoic scarlet, it’s
silky silver lining
soothes your soul
builds the wall you need
but I see….
ancient stratums
precariously piled
in colours of rain
and pain, pearl grey
layers of loss
balancing high above
un-spilled tears, the
broad-brim hides nothing
my friend
your eyes hold the weight
We are trying on hats today at dVerse Poets Pub. Pay homage to a hat in a poem, yours or someone else’s. Metaphorically, we’ve worn the hats!! Use one as your muse OR use a hat to symbolize something more abstract. Hope you can join us for Poetics! Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
image: pixabay.com
The old screen door creaked as it slowly opened, then slammed shut by the wind. He scrambled from the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her. She was completely oblivious to her bare, chilled arms and the tousled twist of silver hair resting across her face. He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her forehead.
“Where did you go, my sweet heart?”, his eyes pooling at the corners.
Her grey-blues gazed past his, far beyond the walls of the quaint cottage.
“I guess… I wandered? I wandered lonely as a cloud.”
He led her to the sofa and wrapped her favourite afghan around her shoulders. He tilted her face gently towards his.
“You are not a cloud. I cannot…I will not let you wander, my love.” She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to.
The confusion in her eyes was screaming.
Written for Prosery at dVerse Poets Pub. Lillian is our host for the prompt and has offered us the line “I wandered lonely as a cloud” from the poem, “I Wander Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth. Include it in your prose/flash fiction of 144 words of less.
my country
smorgasbord of diversity, democracy
pride without pompousness
but now?
horns blast in choruses of “me”
some take a nibble of the pie
boorish banquet begins
gorging, throwing away the bones of logic
don’t they know?
hatred will eat your heart for breakfast
It’s Quadrille time at dVerse Poets Pub! Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
Write a poem of 44 words, not including the title that includes the word, “nibble” in some form. It is my pleasure to be your host!
Not the prettiest of poems, but neither are the current events in Ottawa.
image: pixabay.com
I awake to the white, weary
my thoughts cocooning inward
stone-cold lace cascading
almost too pretty
to cover the pain
but there you are
still sifting for seeds
through winter’s wrath
not a shiver, or sliver of doubt
that the sun will shine again
A quadrille which is an original form from dVerse Poets Pub.
Merril is our host and has chosen the word “shiver” for our 44 word poems.
Photos from my front yard.
A crupleprat, a crupleprat
what do you do with a crupleprat?
poke it gently? kick it hard?
does it live out in the yard?
is it wide? is it short?
does it fizzle? does it snort?
where’d you find it?
tell me please, will it really
make me sneeze?
a crupleprat, a crupleprat
is it just a spoiled brat?
for hiding it’s identity
in all of this nonsensity
a crupleprat, a crupleprat
Bjorn just bought a crupleprat
I hope its friendly, not a louse
I hope it doesn’t eat his house
OH this is silly, that I know
so now dear poets
I will go!
I was a little too curious about the “crupleprat” in Bjorn’s poem, but he kindly set me straight in this one.
There was once was a long-bearded troglodyte
hidden deep in the caves of Brumbalyte
the story they say…he made salamander souffles
and served them up fancy for socialites
But the ogres were all in a quibble
for they wished they could savor a nibble
the troglodyte paused, and rose to the cause
feeding trolls and foresty fibbles
Now he sings to the beat of his whisk
as the ogres throw him a kiss
and sometimes, they say he jiggles and sways
dancing wildly into the mist
Bjorn has us writing Nonsense Poetry over at dVerse Poets Pub.
Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
image: pixabay.com
she wasn’t fond of crows
or the caw of his voice
overbearing, cocksure
pecking at her speechless
with his eyes
yet she hand fed him
sacred seeds of her soul
one by one until
it lay dormant
cold pressed and hardened
he foraged still, for scraps
while she fell into the light
and herself again
his metallic iridescence muted
raven ways fading far
from her memory
but crows, they say
never forget a face
Happy New Year! I’m your host for our first Open Link Night of 2022.
Feel free to join us at dVerse Poets Pub.
Image: pixabay.com
you have a way of tinseling my pain
black and white “poke”-a- dots
over my grey
but grey is where I take my breaths
where I hurt and heal
how I feel
when I’m not juggling gimcracks
rainbow daggers
you carelessly toss my way
“Tinsel” is the word to include in your quadrilles this week.
Join us at dVerse Poets Pub. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
I have written from ripples of rivers
furrowed bark of the oak
chiseled words from sandstone
gifted to me from the gleam
of Eagle’s wings
when the stars speak, I take notes
translating to my liking
the drab of dead leaves still
finds a way to impress
time and loss
they have punctured holes
in my soul
but I still patch them
with poetry
It’s OPEN LINK NIGHT at dVerse Poets Pub, your opportunity to share ONE poem for our reading pleasure and the read the work of fellow poets. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. Hope you can join us!
Thalia exits the 4runner and begins the copper trail to Red Rock. It’s been a year. Some believe that’s enough…. as if grief has a clock or a season. She feels the shifting weight in the small wooden box, moving it slowly from side to side.
It’s not him. He was made of laughter. His eyes danced when he spoke. His aura so large and colourful, it would never fit into a box. She wonders… where does death fit? Do you squeeze it between smiles and hollow condolences? Do you fold it, file it, take it out only for reference?
Perched on a cliff, the sunlit sandstone warms the back of her thighs. Her hands clutch the box. What are the roots that clutch? What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?
There is nothingness here, yet it is something to hold onto forever.
“Prosery” for dverse Poets Pub. I am your host today. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. Join us in writing a short piece of prose no more than 144 words excluding the title. It must include the following line from T.S. Eliot’s poem, “The Waste Land”.
“What are the roots that clutch? What branches grow out of this stony rubbish?“
i pour a little hope in my tea
because it tastes like cream
the stillness is sweet
but loneliness
it lingers at the back of my throat
ho hum hints of bitter melon
i get lost, gazing at the garden
summer is still breathing
between ruby grape tomatoes
desperately clinging for life
on withering vines
the birds rejoice at the feeder
serenading me to breakfast
but i am only hungry for words
mellow conversations that
taste like cherimoya
i chew on my thoughts
they taste like burnt toast
and almond butter
We are incorporating fruit into our poetry at dVerse Poets Pub.
I’ll be your host. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
Image: pixabay.com
Claire adjusted herself in the wheelchair, finding a slightly more comfortable position. She tucked her wavy brown hair behind her ears and secured her mask. The new hip was a blessing even if it was a year late and the hospital experience was chaos. Fortunately her room was on the west side and she didn’t have to tolerate the noise of hostile protesters below. A perky porter approached, raising her eyebrows to smile.
“Your lucky day! Glad to be going home?”
“Absolutely”, replied Claire as she texted her husband, confirming pick up.
“Ignore the absurdity as we exit”, said the porter. “One of these days, I swear I will lose patience….then my job. “
Claire grinned under wrap. “So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm?”
“Nah”, said the porter. “I won’t stoop to it”.
The double doors opened to mindless roars.
Ingrid is hosting Prosery at dVerse Poets Pub. She has shared with us the life and work of William Blake. We must include the line “So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.” from his poem, The Chimney Sweeper.
little bones stood strong ran freely prairie grass-tickled sun-blessed faces little bones danced in regalia as fathers drummed beautiful native tongue rising across the plains little bones angled softly into mother's arms treasured gift from Creator little bones stolen, broken tears rushed spirits crushed little bones rest wait for the light wings of love take flight For dVerse Poets Pub. Lisa is our host. Write a 44 word poem (excluding the title) but including the word "stand". ***Notes: Here in Canada we are asked to post the 24 hour National Crisis Line for those who may be triggered by the recount of Indian Residential Schools, so I will start with that. 1-866-925-4419 It would take over 5,000 quadrilles to even begin to express the pain, shame and anger that so many of us feel towards the continuous discoveries and recoveries of precious Indigenous children. Having worked in a Native American daycare, it hurts my heart. Residential "schools" were prisons. Children were stolen from loving families. They were abused physically, emotionally, sexually and spiritually by priests, nuns, ministers and administrators. This took place over a span of more than 150 years in Canada and the U.S.A. Innocent children as young as three years old were forcibly taken from loving parents, had their traditional hair cut and stripped of their own clothing. Their spoken language was prohibited and punished. They were undernourished, under-nurtured and many never saw their parents again. Many families were never told what happened to their children. It is shocking to think that anyone during my lifetime was capable of such evil, especially under the semblance of any 'religion" or government. Generations of Indigenous families have been impacted from the abuse and loss. Residential "School" survivors suffer today and inter generational trauma moves forward without proper acknowledgement and assistance. The TRUTH has been ignored and hidden by church and government, but the voices of these little bones can be heard. Let's listen, learn and stand up. I hope you find the time to research and read the stories of Residential "School" survivors. Many of them have only now found the courage to speak about their painful experiences. To evolve we must be educated. https://fb.watch/7hcZ85Tbk0/ https://youtu.be/ToUVHjr1xK0
she hides in summer’s heart
wrapped in rays of sun
and the velvet of plum petals
she sifts ocher-orange saffron
between her fingers
lingering safely from
Hades den and season’s end
she slumbers deep, dreams
of stigmas dried,
forever deadened
but autumn returns
petals lose grip
walls tumble
and one beloved soul
returns to the underworld
It’s Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Share ONE poem of your choice.
I am happy to be your host. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
This offering is a late response to Sarah’s poetic prompt, “Persephone”.
you scatter your eggshells perfectly
pique purples, buried blues
a mosaic masterpiece
leaving no spaces in between
I picture myself featherweight
my feet barely brushing ground
juking around every jagged chard
gracefully landing between your
heartstrings
there I strum
you forget your famed fortress
This week is the10th anniversary of dVerse Poets Pub!!
Co-founder, Brian Miller is our host and we are thrilled to have him return to help us celebrate. He has offered us the word “juke” for our 44 word quadrilles. The prompt is open all week. Hope you can join in .
does she remember love?
the taste of chamomile
or colour of sky blushing?
did the clouds burst all at once
or trickle with each taunting poke
until she lay saturated,
unable to feel the pain-drops
streaming down her face?
are sun-smudged days only dreams?
I am your host for the Quadrille at
We are working with the word “smudge”, blending it into our 44 word poems.
Doors open at 3 p.m. EST
His little bones have been secretly buried for years, alongside 215 other children, each with a name, unacknowledged, each with a story, untold. Mother Earth has quietly held him close. His mother has wept for years without closure. It was a September evening and he was helping his father clean the season’s first catch of salmon. She was inside the cabin, nursing their newborn daughter, softly singing in their native tongue. Hearing commotion, she ran outside to see armed men in uniform pushing her husband aside. Her screams echoed her young son’s as they carried him off.
She says time has not healed, only festered. Today, a gruesome discovery on the grounds of an old residential school is not the beginning. It is not the end. “Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.” Her heart aches not for apologys, but for honour, for peace.
~~~
For Merril’s prosery prompt, dVerse Poets Pub. The line she has chosen for us to include is quoted above, from Joy Harjo’s “A Map to the Next World”. It was a difficult task to stay within the 144 word maximum word count. This is a time of shock and shame in our country as a mass grave of 215 indigenous children was recently identified on the property of a Catholic run residential school in Kamloops, British Columbia. Many survivors of these schools in both Canada and the U.S. have been forever scarred from abuse and assimilation, with obvious effects flowing into generations to come.
Image: pixabay.com
when your sky fell
swaddling you breathless
in the blackness
August sun rubbing
salt in your wounds
you laid still
while fools fumbled
reckless with your heart
grief is like a monster
you wear on your face
and they run like you’re godzilla
but you were a flower once
now dying in front of them
petal by petal and in ways
they can’t fathom
still they pick…
I feel for you, I feel not(hing)
I feel for you, I feel not(hing)
“so you round up the usual suspects”
clueless, gutless,
they don’t care less
but none of them fit the mold
they keep painting you in pink
as your pigment pales
on the other side
of rose coloured glasses
I am your host for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.
We are writing poems that include a movie quote.
“so you round up the usual suspects” – Casablanca, 1942
Doors open at 3 p.m. EST
I let my thoughts run wild
through flaxen fields, sun-kissed
they had my blessing
so they dove naked
into cloud dollops
whispered secrets to the wind
followed the flight of the loon
plucking stars, poking moon
I watch them wave to me
grinning, teasing but I
coax them back into jars
of ordinary, one by one
labeling them logic, tragic
dramatic, sporadic
screw the lid tight on panic
and I wait for another day
to fly
It’s Open Link Night. I am your host. You can link up ONE poem of your choice.
On the tip of her tongue the words wait to escape
Though they scream between lines, penning pain to her face
In the dark she is flame, in the light she is dim
Her heart skips…..a beat, she sinks deep into him
In his arms, burdens rise, featherweight floating free
In his eyes she sets sail, anchors thrown to the sea
Under moonlight they dance between shadows and shine
She is tulips in winter, he’s her reason and rhyme
My attempt at Anapestic Tetrameter. Yes, say that 3x. We are playing with meter at dVerse Poets Pub. Bjorn is our host, leading us fearlessly into form poetry at Meeting the Bar. For me, it was a challenge. A bit of a hop, skip and jump from free verse.
Jacob knocked twice on the farmhouse door, flicking flakes of ninety year old paint from his knuckles. The porch looked the same. Rocking chair facing north towards the old oak where she conversed with warblers and stranger things.
Tightening his grip on the grocery bag, he knocked again…twice. The dog barked and he thought he heard her call out, “If you are a dreamer, come in.” So he did. She looked startled, brushing grey wisps from her sunken blue eyes.
“Ya just can’t barge right in here. lad!”
“I…I didn’t”, he stuttered. “You said to come in”.
Her eyes rolled as she half-stumbled over the dachshund at her feet.
“What ya’ mumbling about, boy? I said nothing of the sort”.
“I brought you some food, mum”, he spoke to the floor.
She burst out laughing, pointing to the dog. “A wiener and my dreamer! “
Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub. Lillian is hosting and she has asked us to include the following line from Shel Silverstein’s poem, Invitation, published in his book, Where the Sidewalk Ends.
“If you are a dreamer, come in.”
Drop in for more details.
the seed nestled in your heart
sun seeking, speaking hope
or the roots anchoring
forging your path
I am not buds bursting
or glisten of leaves in the vineyard
I am not your grapevine, baby
or the wine so divine
I am the trellis
Written for Linda’s Quadrille prompt at dverse Poets Pub.
44 words not including the title.
Add a splash of “wine”
Skerwink Trail, Newfoundland
I will return where
grey flannel clouds drowse
over the sheen of ocean’s facade
where sun spills sparkles
eagle tells me secrets
where the earth rises
to kiss the mist
trees bow to the Creator
where the hush un-knots my soul
I will return
It’s Quadrille Monday. I am your host.
We are writing poems of 44 words, including the word “knot”.
dVerse Poets Pub – 3 p.m. EST
I don’t know the reason I wake up around nine every morning. Late in terms of the working world. Being outside of that, it seems perfect. I’m not sure what makes me sit in the same corner of my couch, hands warmed by my hot tea, slippered feet curled up, sun spilling on my face.
I don’t know why at that very moment when everything felt fine in my world, yours was exploding. How could I possibly slumber while you edged closer to your demise? What reason is there for my contentment and your pain? I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has it’s own reason for being and you had your reason for leaving it.
For Merril’s Prosery: Possibilities prompt at
She asked us to include the following from “Possibilities” by Wislawa Szymborska…
“I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has it’s own reason for being”
I lie here untouched
not as pure as you may think
so empty I am
but yet you piously place
me on your pedestals
bleached, blank and bloodless
you walk by my waxen skin
uninspired but
I am your thoughts, unwritten
the surrender to your pain
a place for your tears to land
and shadows to dance
I am every snowflake fallen
leaving no trace of my existence
I am the moment you were born
I am your winter
and I will wait for you
to paint me
For Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.
Join us as we are write from the perspective of a color.
I am your host and excited to see a rainbow of poetry.
if the sun can move
mandarin peels over linen skies
ocean tides turn
at the beckon of the moon
clouds can criss-cross
horizon-bound
tiny hummingbird flies solo
hundreds of miles
if winds can spiral
and earth can shift
you too will find your way
Lisa is hosting our Quadrille prompt this week at
Write a poem of exactly 44 words in length, not including the title.
It must include the word “way”. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.
but a heartbeat rhythm
new mother nerves
a nest of love seeds
first smiles and songs
it is an echo of all I ever
dreamed for them
blank slates for stories untold
it is fear of finding fault
in my own good intentions
and the courage to embrace them
it is the cry that subsides
in a swaddle as Luna looks on
stars in eyes and pies in skies
a reminder of the greatest bond
In response to Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.
We are writing “object poems” that begin with “This is Not a…….”
Join in for more details!
mishunderstood 