The Quality of Quiet

quiet isn’t really quiet
it screams over deaf ears
in a forest of fallen words
quiet is solid, thick enough to cover the grandest of canyons, but subtle
effervescent in the tiniest of dew drops at dawn
quiet isn’t “crickets”, that’s ignorance
but quiet may be cryptic to the ignorant

quiet holds up sacred space between the abused woman and drunken husband sprawled across the couch
quiet is not a haven, it is a resting place
quiet knows things, not worth speaking to the hidebound
quiet is collectable, but sometimes only
jagged eggshells embedded in your feet
quiet can hurt

quiet doesn’t always like itself and longs for invisible strings to be plucked into meticulous, enlightening melodies that lift spirits instead of eyebrows
quiet is the tea bag in, thoughts steeped from depths untapped, poetry poured out
it stretches infinitely, briefly pausing for birdsong and rumble of thunder

quiet is often unwanted but persists, can be easily broken by the weakness of intolerance or the strength of the benevolent
quiet has a steady breath
and then…
quiet is the ultimate end

At dVerse Poets Pub, Kim has challenged us with writing a poem on the quality of a different thing (noun, verb, adjective) using the same format as Les Murray’s poem, The Quality of Sprawl.

Image: Michelle Beauchamp

Haiku: Simplicity of Nature

springtime convention

birds whisper lessons of life

we need to listen

desert sun leaves diamonds

in unexpected places

sweet summer garlands

sky sketches for me

brush-strokes blend, bend and suspend

where do colours go?

Do you have a poem to share? You are welcome to join us over at dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST. It is my pleasure to be your host.

Images: Michelle Beauchamp

Nature’s Games

little pond, you play well

with sea foam clouds

painting their portraits

on your pretty glass skin

don’t you know?

you are a window

it is only the sun

holding up mirrors

illuminating the depth

of your shallow little heart

who’s playing with who?

For Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Merril is our host and she has offered us a variety of ways to incorporate the theme of windows. This one also happens to be a quadrille.

Prosery: For Glenn

Close-up – feet resting on frame of a too-high stool. Planes taxi laggardly across the tarmac. Somewhere between the first and last sip of a mediocre margarita, I read the news. In the world of virtual poetry prompts and comradery, there are diamonds.They sparkle with such bravery, tenacity, and brilliance, you wish you could bottle it. That was Glenn Buttkes.

The void was instant. A black hole, a piece ripped, an abyss of words unwritten. Stunned, I still questioned my tears. Did I know Glenn? No. Sound-clue– annoying sound of straw for last drop of over-priced tequila. Thoughts wavered. Yes. I knew Glenn. We met beyond horizons of logical space, between the darkest lines of prose and poems, in the comfort of common beliefs, under the moon…. and on the moon. I met him when the seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart.

It is my pleasure to host Prosery at dVerse Poets Pub. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

The line we are including in our prose is from a poem by Valsa George

“The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart” – “Winged Words”

Big Words

Papa don’t preach
I’ve managed forty years without you
the diligent daddy lessons
presented punctililously, with
fancy words like “indubitably”

Papa don’t preach
I’ve lived a good life
not the one you dreamed but
one forged from the voids
you left when you were here
and when you were gone

They told me “your daddy loves you”
as you laid there dying
“your daddy is proud of you”
as they laid you to rest
I say I have my daddy’s hands
and my mother’s heart
I say I didn’t dance with my father
or I don’t remember

I remember steel grey eyes
tenebrific, acheronian
longing for something
I’ll never know

Puman is our host for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. She has asked us to write about fathers and include at least three song titles from a given list. You can join in here.

Note: Today I turn 62. I was 22 when I lost my father to a heart attack. He was 48. He liked big words.

Between Frames

before me, colours bleed
like ancient ink
soaking papyrus skies

persimmon sits, shiftless
when did you boldly gush
against apocalyptic orange?

time is muted, cloud-muffled
I strain to see movement
but you are still to the naked eye
I must wait
sunsets speak slowly

Sunsets over Las Cruces, New Mexico – M.Beauchamp

Sunsets over Las Cruces, New Mexico – M.Beauchamp

We are adding the word “shift” or a derivative to our 44 word poems.

Join us at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille Monday.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST

Spirit Bird

Image: Michelle Beauchamp

he arrives at dusk

fearless of nightfall

holding / space

between sun-starved winter days

and fate of sleepless nights

time flakes, falls like snow

boundaries of worlds weaken

I soak in tints of twilight

de-icing darker thoughts

they melt in the glow

of scarlet feathers

For dVerse Poets Pub.

It is my pleasure to be your host for Quadrille Monday as we share poems of 44 words.

The given word is “ice” or a derivative.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST

Chromatic

you stole me from Tuesday

swept me away to Wednesday

now here we are

sipping on a cocktail

of present, past and future

when we sat, swaddled

under the cherry moon that

hovered over shadow-painted mesas

I forgot my battlefield earth

and the sound of my aching heart

do you know the color of night?

I think you do …

ice-blue hues of frozen time

blush-strokes, shades of bliss

undertones of you

shining through

Written in response to Lillian’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. She has challenged us to include in our poems, the names of movies that have won the Golden Raspberry Awards. There are 13 to choose from. I used the following – Cocktail, Under the Cherry Moon, Battlefield Earth, Color of Night, and Shining Through.

Lillian has also asked those who frequent our virtual pub to fill out a questionnaire regarding Open Link Night LIVE. Your input is appreciated. Thanks!

Haibun: Unfazed

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.

Un-Whirled View

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

Late Night Snack

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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

 

 

 

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

 

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.

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

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.

Microgravity

-Dandelion – Beverly Dyer

 

time slips deep

into season’s end

autumn spins tales to me

       you

spin tales to me

we are seeds

catapulting

through the cosmos

at the speed of lies

majestically reckless

spinning further and further

from the light

      spinning further and further

from the truth

         spinning further

     and further….

 

 

For “Poetics” at dVerse Poets Pub, I am pleased to present the work of

Beverly Dyer

Join us in a collaboration of art and poetry!

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

Image: Etsy.com “Dandelion” by Beverly Dyer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Water Play

 

waves are winking, teasing

making my heart sing silly

each one feeding the void

I am soaked, featherweight

vulnerable, alive

this infinite lake

will swallow you whole

if you let it

I let it nibble

 

 

 

 

 

A pier in Lake Michigan. Key word “in” as the Great Lakes hit record high water levels. 

Join us for Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub.I am your host. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

 

Maybe It Is

 

My heart-voice lays low

Silent, frozen to the wall

Your actions, so perennial

Chatter again with my head-voice

A royal tête-à-tête over tea

I take mine black…and white

“You’re so vain”

Plays in the background

I bet you think this poem

Is about you

 

 

 

A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub.

De gave us a “voice”, the word to include in our 44 word poems.

Image credit: pixabay.com

 

 

 

Ecocide

 

 

“I am doing this because you adults are shitting on my future.”

“I don’t want you to be hopeful. I want you to panic. I want you to feel the fear I feel every day. And then I want you to act.”

– Greta Thunberg –

( Youth Climate Activist)

 

 

Does it take a child to save the world?

Or do we just wait for the big miracle

While earth stands stoic

In a silent sob of glacier tears?

Oceans choke on the overflow

Poli-puppeticians choke on their lies

We could die!

Yet we leave the mission to our young

While we sip the last grape

Feel sorry for the last polar bear

Stranded on the last slice of sea ice

 

 

In response to Anmol’s very thoughtful poetic prompt, “On Climate Crisis”.

You may be interested in more information about

  Greta Thunberg.  

Join us at

dVerse Poets Pub.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Terra Firma

 

From the Depths of Earth – Nancy Smith Fine Art

 

I have peddled my pain

to the wind

sifted and sorted my sins

burrowed down deep while

the storm passed

 

I am earth-toned and wild

nature’s own child

sun-smitten

star-bright and steadfast

 

made of blessings and blunders

I refuse to go under

this life was born of my rubble

I am not trouble

 

I am evergreen whispers

dewdrops at dawn

weaves of ivy out of control

sassy saplings, trees of old

I am whole

 

Originally written for “Women Speak”, a project by Nancy Smith.  I was inspired by her beautiful painting, “From the Depths of Earth”. To see more of her work, visit 

nancysmithfineart.com

Join us for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub! I am your host.  

 

 

Return

 

 

Follow me, child

Phoneless and free

Where earth sings

Songs of your roots

Ancient and pure

Pluck stars from indigo skies

Put them back into your eyes

Decorate your pale skin

In leaf shadows and sunlight

Relish in the riches

And blessings of nature

 

 

 

It’s Quadrille Monday and Kim is our host. She has offered us the word “rich” to incorporate into a 44 word poem, not including the title. Join in the fun!

dVerse Poets Pub

As Stars Go Dim

 

Hope eludes her. Night embraces her. Like an old friend, it takes her by the hand to search for the light. Illusive. Dawn becomes the deadline for this decision, the last one she will make.

 

ink-shadows seduce

the sun rises unnoticed

over faded flower

 

 

 

A quadrille haibun for dVerse Poets Pub

image credit: pixabay.com

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255

 

Before

 

Before you die

sit here, snug in my eyes

where love circles you

endless and time-capsuled.

Paint me pictures of you

in shades of words

I have never heard.. before.

Write me letters in the wind

when all I hear is the storm,

leave your kisses in the clouds

to fall like feathers with the rain

Please don’t ask me to explain

Before you die

sit here, snug in my eyes

 

 

For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub.

Come join us! Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

 

 

 

 

 

Strings Attached

 

I look at a Facebook photo of a baby sleeping on the indentation of a guitar as his young father strums it quietly. I remember playing the guitar against my protruding belly when I was pregnant for each of my sons. More than sound, this was a bonding between two worlds, still unknown to each other. Love flowed through layers of skin and muscle with every note, every lyric carefully crafted from the wonder, anticipation and unity. This was and is my poetic hum.  I ponder the picture again, slightly worried about this tiny bundle nestled rather precariously in the crook of a wooden instrument. Could she slip off? Possibly…but only into loving arms.

 

love moves beyond walls

love is a constant murmur

love never silent

 

Written for Poetics ~ your poetic hum,

a thoughtful prompt by Gina at dVerse Poets Pub.

Join us!

 

Image credit: pixabay.com

https://www.faithpot.com/guitar-baby-naptime/

 

Captured

 

And now she waits on corners, sold

Purity pilfered and pried apart

Silenced by the sting of biting cold

Slapping hands and tainted hearts

 

Purity pilfered and pried apart

Stone clouds creep over indigo skies

Slapping hands and tainted hearts

Repeat – she thinks she’d rather die

 

Stone clouds creep over indigo skies

Bentley slows, and window rolls

Repeat – she thinks she’d rather die

Desperate dreams of an undercover mole

 

Bentley slows, tinted window rolls

Hollow eyes attached to scum

Desperate dreams of an undercover mole

To save her soul, to take her home

 

 

Written for Poetry Forms at dVerse. This is an imperfect pantoum, which has the following pattern of repeated lines….ABCD, BEDF, EGFH, GIHJ.

The statistics for human trafficking are astounding…an issue not limited to particular countries or to females. It breaks my heart that humanity still struggles to evolve.

https://humantraffickinghotline.org/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

De Novo

 

The view is woodsy from my favourite part of the couch. Streetlights are still on as dawn sheepishly reveals itself outside my window. I resent January with it’s epic entrance, bursting with expectations. It falls short in the shadow of Christmas and I see only grey. The dulling pavement of my street is a reflection of the skies above. Neutral and speechless. Blank and waiting. One grey squirrel clambers up and down the giant maple. I tap on the window. He looks at me curiously, then continues on his quest for hidden peanuts. Someone has been feeding him. I admire his fluffy tail and his simple life. My solitude is broken by that car with the noisy muffler and I wonder why Santa or someone similar did not replace it. I take another sip of tea, breathing in the new year.

 

sun in cloud coma

ashen earth begs for first snow

squirrel pays no mind

The Petrichor

 

 

Turquoise skies blend into ebony

Over mesa horizons

Clouds give a glorious wink

Before caressing canyons

Raindrops tease in random spurts

Glossing earth’s parched lips

Dust rises in protest

Then succumbs to the deluge

Dampening desert dreams

I inhale the petrichor

And the moment

 

Its Quadrille time! Write a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. De is our host and her chosen word to include is “wink”. Join in the fun at dVerse Poets Pub.

Image credit: pixabay.com