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

 

 

 

 

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

Southwest

 

you are my green chile

kokopelli dream

soft sound of hiking boots

tapping on sandstone

my sun, uninterrupted

blessing mesas

the aqua blue of desert skies

set against canyons calling

in sacred language of silence

scents of cedar, earth and peace

you reset me

 

 

 

44 words is a quadrille, our original poetry form at

dVerse Poet’s Pub.

Merril is our host and the given word is “set”. Feel free to join in.