Tell Me Another One

“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”

Girl du Jour (author unknown)

The given line is the last line in my prose.

Image: unsplash.com

Past

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

Inertia

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

Haibun: Incoming

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!

соняшник (Sunflower)

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

Fairy Wishes

Image: Vika Muse @get.muse

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.

Prosery: Nature’s Conversations

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

dVerse Poets Pub.

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

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

dVerse Poets Pub.

Sarah has given us a rhetorical device, anaphora to play with in our poetry.

Your Hat

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

Prosery: Adrift

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.

Metamore-for-us

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.

https://www.ctvnews.ca/canada/ottawa-in-state-of-emergency-as-downtown-residents-seek-court-injunction-to-stop-protest-noise-1.5770774

image: pixabay.com

Redbird

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.

All Because of a “Crupleprat”/ Stealing a Nonsense Word

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.

Tale of the Troglodyte

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

Crows

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

Nothin’ But Blue Skies

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.

Mend Me

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!

Holding Space

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?“

Cherimoya

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

Just a Prick

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

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

Plight of Persephone

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”.

Detour

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 .

Weathered

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

dVerse Poets Pub.

We are working with the word “smudge”, blending it into our 44 word poems.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST

His Name was Chankoowashtay (good road)

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

rose coloured glasses

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

Aerodynamics

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.

Join us at dVerse Poets Pub!

Haven’s Door

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.

Paracusia

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.

I Am Not

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”

Nautical

 

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

 

 

 

Nine O’Clock

 

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

dVerse Poets Pub

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”

 

White

 

 

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

 

 

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

dVerse Poets Pub

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.

This is Not a Chair

 

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!

 

Angel White

 

Today we dig the hole. We’ve already spent a day admiring the little shrub of hope my mother gifted us. “Buy a small tree in remembrance of Brian”, she wrote. This young Rose Tree of Sharon already speaks to us in white blooms as if to say everything will be ok. We choose the perfect spot near the fence. My husband loosens the hard packed dirt further with each drive of the shovel. I nurture the soil with a root booster diluted with water. This may be the difference between thriving or fading. We gently pack the soil back in around the tiny tree, making sure it is secure. My husband waters the plant for the first time. I imagine each trickle as a tear for his first born son. I take the angel statue from a sympathy arrangement and give it a new home. Taking a step back, I wonder if there’s anything else we can do to help it weather the storms ahead. Was there anything else we should have done?

 

summer takes our breath

hope lies dormant under leaves

angel white in spring

 

 

Lillian hosts Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. The theme is “new beginnings”.

What If I Told You

 

What if I told you that on one sun-blessed day I sailed slightly sideways into a turquoise sky, would you believe me?

What if I said I felt like a princess, set adrift in the most magnificent hot air balloon, carrying me higher and higher into the quiet? The quiet is a place, by the way. Have you been there? Far above the trees, the silence so pure, so deep, it has no boundaries, no rules, no fear. It is made of peace…. and clouds. Time curtails and sound can only be imagined in the slow motion flapping of a bird’s wings.

But wait, what if I told you I landed gently in the backyard of some unsuspecting souls who served me a cup of home brewed chai tea?

Reading what I have just written, I now believe. Do you?

 

 

 

True story! Written for OPEN LINK NIGHT  at dVerse Poets Pub and in response to Lillian’s prosery prompt. She asked us to incorporate the line “Reading what I have just written, I now believe” (Louise Gluck, “Afterward”, Faithful and Virtuous Night).

Unfortunately I missed our LIVE event. You can check them out on You Tube.

Olive Eyes

 

in your eyes

I caught a glimpse

of an ocean, copper clouds

storm-ravished, heavy swells

hitting hard against weary shores

I think I saw you drowning

 

let me in

let. me. in.

to your guarded kingdom

we will set sail into the rage

ride waves as tall as troubles

to the brink where waters fall

you are not alone

 

 

I am your host for today’s Poetics at

dVerse Poets Pub

The theme is “EYES”. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

Be Leaf

 

autumn exhales a deep breath

as feeble leaves lose their grip

whispering sweet farewells

to nurturing limbs

I watch them cradle-rock

to the pulse of Mother Earth’s song

silently sweeping, weeping

but bravely repelling

the magnet of years past

finding new ways to grow

 

It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets Pub.

Write a poem of 44 words not including the title, including the word “magnet”.

De is our host.

Nebulous

 

you did not vanish

lies lurk, thicker than air

your steps brushed clean

by a stranger

or stranger things

I live in the ground clouds

swinging blind

pecking on scraps of why

my pain, unnamed

but not void

I choke on hollow handfuls

of sympathy

traditional, medicinal

heartfelt, but not felt

and still I find you

a faint flicker in the fog

a single sparkle in the grass

tucked between the layers

                                                             of twilight’s painting

                                                             scarlet and saffron

you are there

I hope you see me

 

 

Written for dVerse Poets Pub OPEN LINK NIGHT.

Grace is our host. Link up one poem of your choice.

OpenLinkNight #276

 

 

       

 

 

Image: pixabay.com

Gone

 

how delicate is this life

that one word, one mis…step

the bending of one finger

can rip a hundred hearts apart?

the way the zephyr innocently snaps

a limb so sturdy lush and green

or the fate of the field mouse feasting on seeds

as red hawk’s talons take hold

the hiker’s boot carelessly crushing

the castle of the dawdling slug

or the fragile web that can only hold so much

of dawn’s dew drop tears

only love is infinite and still

time, thoughts, nature, earth…

everything else moves

everything else dies

 

 

 

For Open Link Night. Bjorn is our fearful leader and host as we go LIVE at 3 p.m. EST.

More details at dVerse Poets Pub.

mucked up

 

you planted me

in richest soils

spoke in sunshine-lies

I smiled through shadows, weeds

naive to your gnarly roots

creeping ’round my garden-heart

I forgave the rain

again

ripping petals one by one

but God sees your ways

and I will bloom

without you

 

 

44 words of poetry including the word “garden”.

We are honoured to have Victoria C. Slotto hosting our Quadrille prompt.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

dVerse Poets Pub

 

 

 

 

Image credit: pixabay.com

The Big One

 

My husband asked me to pack a bag for an unknown destination. Meticulously sorting through my wardrobe, I consider every possible activity and climate. Will we swim? Hike? Dine casually? Upscale?  I pack my whole wardrobe.

We arrive at the U.S. border with all travel documents, including airline tickets, safely hidden from me, inside my husband’s leather jacket. It is still on the chilly side here. Spring has been teasing us, a matter of days ahead. He hands the customs officer our passports. “Where exactly are you headed to?”, he asks.  My husband takes out the printed tickets, places them in is hand and replies, “It’s a surprise for her birthday”. The customs officer looks closely at the tickets.  He bursts into a smile bigger than the tiny booth he is confined to. “Have a good time”, he says and waves us on.

The anticipation grows as we near the Detroit airport. We enter the terminal and I know this has to be the big reveal. I imagine the reaction of the airport attendant if I tell her I didn’t know where I was going. As I struggle to pull my overloaded suitcase towards the desk, my husband hands me my ticket.

VEGAS BABY!!

 

they say what happens

here stays, but I saw snowflakes

dance in the desert

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kim is our pub tender as we serve up some haibuns about birthdays.

dVerse Poets Pub

Haiku: At the Lake

 

blankets of blues

summer in sapphire and teal

I breathe between hues

seven ride the waves

still nuzzled in mother’s wing

paddling seasons past

gliding on thermals

freedom to speak or squawk while

clouds only whisper

It is Open Link Night at

dVerse Poets Pub.

You can link up ONE poem of your choice.

I am your host and hope you will join us. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST

 

 

If He Is The Homeless

 

 

Then we are the heartless
His eyes, cimmerian pools
Conscious waters we dare not tread
His words, rendered null and void
And so he holds the sign
Of failure, defined
As if guilty of existence
Beaten by this steel wool system
Of surface scratchers
Mirrored and jagged
Buffing them up
To send them back out

Dead people live on this street
Like the gray of pigeons, pecking
For rations of sweet sanity
Between dagger eyes
And swift kicks
Tears siphoned back from the edge
Hold more truth than sorrow
Tiny little diamonds
Of the highest clarity

Squinting, scanning for prospects
The sun exposes his lines
A tally of  tragedies
His glance, as empty as pockets
Races past the la-de-da
Seeking one heart, unbiased
One heart that drops the dollar
Without assuming it’s next exchange
And as it free falls to the pavement
He struggles to remember
How it felt to not be treated
Like a modern day leper

 

 

 

Sharing a previously written piece that seems to resonate even stronger during these times.

Today you are invited to be LIVE via video for the first hour of OPEN LINK NIGHT at dVerse Poets Pub.

After Thursday ’s OLN, we will have our two-week summer break.

The dVerse bar will reopen on July 13th.

Aspirations

 

” and the realization of the aspirations of the marginalized communities”

~Anmol (Alias HA)~

 

 

that would be me today

caught off guard by the door

opening way too soon

the virus too wandering and wicked

society too sheepish to see

that just cuz ya want somethin’

shouldn’t mean it should happen

I don’t even talk like this

but today, that would be me

standing in the margin

feeling nothing but alone

in a fight for those who

cannot speak because they too

are the marginalized

they haven’t even

learned…. to…. speak…. yet

 

 

A late submission for Amnol’s Poetics over at dVerse.  He has given us much to write about including protest and inequality but it was his own words that inspired me.

I made the very difficult decision of resigning from my job today mostly because of my belief that childcare and preschool programs should not open this soon, expecting very young children to abide by strict safety measures and self distancing practices. I have joined others in advocating for many weeks now, over 23,000 people to be exact….for the sake of thousands of children and yet, in some abstract picture, we still become the minority.

 

Image credit: pixabay.com

 

On Your Birthday

 

Announced today, we can hug.

In the park, you watch a tiny chipmunk scamper up a tree.

A cool breeze blows through your longish, white hair.

I watch you smile.

 

clouds move for the sun

time slips through silver threads

nature’s drum beats on

 

 

A Quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub.

Write a poem of exactly 44 words including the word “drum”.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. Happy to be your host.

Exfoliation

 

 

the sun seems oblivious

as I peel petty layers

fruitless, useless pieces

washed witless from the rain

my blank slate skin

 thirsty for stories, unwritten

I feel the shells of me slip, cold

lying translucent at my feet

I am without, yet with all

 

 

A 44 word quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub.

Linda is our host and the word is “slip”.

You can join in too!

 

Hey You COVID

 

you win

drafting me unwillingly

one more warrior

in a choke

….hold

I. could. die.

simply thinking about

the risk

you’ve offered me

on a silver platter

like the devil, sly

with guileful grin

but this fool isn’t your fix

I choose

to live

 

 

I am an RECE ( Registered Early Childhood Educator), “Educator” being the key word. Infants, toddlers and preschoolers learn through hands on exploration, purposeful play and socialization. In the midst of a pandemic, I will soon be expected to return to this environment where social distancing is not possible and little ones require close contact. I am not a health care worker but will be expected to assume the same risk. At 59, I am forced to decide between safety or an income. It haunts me daily.

 

 It’s Quadrille time at dVerse. De is our wonderful host.

The word is “fix” to be included in a 44 word poem.

 

image credit: pixabay.com

 

 

 

Steady Stream (Scream) of Consciousness

 

pixabay.com

 

 

Will I find the dream again? Somewhere in this new realm reeking of reality? I feel like I’m treading on the nothings of my days. Guilty of nothing. Achieving nothing. Feeling everything but nothing. Watching moments pass shamelessly into nothingness. Is that a word? I don’t even write this way. Horizontal thoughts wishing to waterfall once more. At least I’ve kept my not so subtle sense of alliteration throughout the aberration. Alas (what?) my poetic skin is paling, failing. Hmm…internal rhyme intact and that is whacked. Maybe I should slam. These words are not my jam. Who am I?

 

 

Sharing with dVerse Poets Pub. It’s Open Link Night! I am your host.

Originally written for PANDEMIC POETRY

Find us on Facebook

 

In Mid Flight

 

 

 

 

stillness speaks

like a bird with a broken wing

the way of song, essential

the freedom to fall, forgotten

heaven is for real

we are but a coke machine glow

between darkness and light

 

 

Written for dVerse Poets Pub.

Bjorn has asked us to dust off some books to create some “spine poetry”.

 

Burgeon

 

I am a seed

without a season

buried deep

in the cold compost

of my dreams

flood thirsty, time flushed

endless roots reaching

for the reason I rise

but I will not wilt

in recycled soils

I am hidden

only to surprise

the sun

 

 

It’s Quadrille time at dVerse. Pen us a poem of 44 words including the word “flush” or a derivative. I am your host. Doors open at 3 p.m. The prompt is open all week.

 

 

 

Image credit: pixabay.com

 

Life Takes Off His Mask

 

and my normalcy stands naked

against alien stars

and virgin skies

earth speaks of simpler things

in archaic tongues as

cinders of the commonplace

lie blatantly at my feet

She offers me seeds I don’t remember

I plant them in empty gardens

unbeaten paths

timeless, rich soils, untouched

by my aching body, my weary mind

I kick the ashes

desperate to stir the life I knew

but ashes fade fast

into the light

 

 

 

Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub in response to a quote by Mizuta Masahide

“Barn’s burnt down, now I can see the moon”

In these unfamiliar times, as pieces of our regular life break away, what do you see?

Share your own personal epiphanies in a poem. Doors open at 3 p.m. I am pleased to be your host.

 

 

 

 

Picacho Peak

 

after the climb

I rest

inhaling indigo

of cloudless skies

exhaling all but my soul

the sun is an ocean

wrapping me lukewarm

politely peeling the pieces

fears flaking

sorrows shedding

I lay them out

stone cold on the mesa

to wilt and wither

 

 

 

A “quadrille” consists of 44 words, not including the title. It is a favourite form over at dVerse Poets Pub. This week we are including the word “peel”. I am pleased to be your host. Feel free to join in. Doors open at 3 p.m.

And Now

 

 

when I hear thunder

I remember the end

of what we knew, the day that

polished pearl of a moon told us ALL

there is to understand while

every tree spoke at once and

there you were trying to silence them

with your arms flailing like a madman

thinking the earth spoke your

language as clouds rolled in laughter

because we all (should) know that

universal truth cannot be heard with

deaf ears and so many

tongues a twisted, so then

we sifted through the ruins

of you and me

searching for truths

that had buried themselves alive

but I’ve never once forgotten

that day or the decay

and the way it ended

and

started again

and ended

 

For Amaya’s prompt, “MTB: The Death Sentence” over at dVerse Poets Pub.

A very unique and challenging prompt.

Oh

 

wednesday

you are the lump in my throat

my week-ness

nestling so comfortably

glowing, gloating

famed but feckless

fiddling between my thens and nows

cutting my life into uneven sections

of reveries and regrets

oh wednesday,

who gave you the honour?

 

 

 

In response to Sarah’s Poetics, “What Day is it Anyways?”

 dVerse Poets Pub

 

 

 

 

Let Me Burst Your Bubble

 

 

 

what you don’t know

will hurt you anyways

because truth

is the only reality

the liar knows the truth

therefore the truth exists

it is never hidden

you carry on without knowing

but you are living within a lie

and that is pain….un-felt

a secret is a perspective

it’s an illusion, my friend

 

 

 

Merril is hosting Poetics this week and she has asked us to write about secrets.

dVerse Poets Pub

 

 

She Wondered

 

“Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.”

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carol

 

 

 

and to wonder is everything

like water to the earth

nourishing you, levitating you

beyond what “is”

high above cinders of the past

into worlds where stars pop

as you poke at the sky

clouds sashay in colours you’ve

never seen but somehow

you know well

spirit animals appear

swirling, embracing

speaking your truth

joy is the flight path

of dandelion fuzz

the gleam of dragonfly wings

sorrows, unknown

slip deep into sunsets

dawn becomes another gift

another day to wonder

 

 

So happy to be hosting this week’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub, where we are using the “last lines” of books to spark our poetic muse. You are welcome to join us at 3 p.m. EST.

Image credit: pixabay.com

This World

This world is a heart
fed from the nuzzle of a mother’s breast.
Its murmur is a father’s gentle song,
one whose arms reach out before a fallen
tear can bury itself in the sand.

Its arteries are our highways, as
opaque as they are to the earth beneath,
without them, are we not pigeons without wings,
moths without a moon?

The blood is love. But blood isn’t love.
No, if we take in one as our own,
it does the same. The world took us in
so long ago.

 

Join us at dVerse Poets Pub as we imagine our own world.

The sky’s the limit..or is it? It’s my pleasure to be hosting this week’s Poetics.

Doors open at 3 p.m.

Image: pixabay.com

Euphony

 

the world is in our hands

is it not a gift?

a blank sheet

to compose symphonies

of grace,

one cosmic chorus

born of our own untainted hearts?

let us not be mute

but join in songs of light

when evil seeps

through cracks

 

 

A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub.

De has given us the word “crack” to incorporate into our 44 word poems. Join us!

Image credit: pixabay.com