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Category Archives: Life

Un-spiced

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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!

Seeds of Childhood

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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.

Dormiveglia

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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

Haibun: Unfazed

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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

dVerse Poets Pub

I am pleased to be your host as we consider the theme of shelter.

Against the Blue

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Image: Mike Scully

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 andwrite 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”.

Port and Starboard

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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

dVerse Poets Pub

Photo: yesterday evening at the beach

His Tree

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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.

Un-Whirled View

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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

Edge of Summer

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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.

Late Night Snack

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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!

Encased

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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.

Moon Trippin’

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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

for Open Link Night -LIVE

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.

https://www.lunarcodex.com

Tell Me Another One

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“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

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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

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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

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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)

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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)

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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”.

Olive Eyes

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

 

 

On Your Birthday

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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”.