My Choice

Crimson me
solitary vibrant leaf
bright among the detritus of fall

Crimson me
rising sun ‘neath lone streak of cloud
splashing daylight into roiling ocean’s blue

Crimson me
hand-tied twisted rambling tail
flying high with diamond kite in sky

Crimson me
red rose beribboned bright
silent love song from stoic gone rogue

Palette of smudged pastels and oils
color me in life’s brightest hue
more than a blush, a sheen

I choose patina
to shine, to soar, to sing
I choose to live in love

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Victoria is tending bar today and reminds us how important the role of repetition is in our lives. As it can be in poetry. So today we write using repetition – a phrase, a line; a sound or a syllable within a line or stanza.
Photos are from Bermuda and Cape Cod, except for the rose which is in public domain. B

The Awakening

Tis a holiday morning
to stir, to awaken,
to rise from the chrysalis anew.

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Twiglet Prompt #7:  “holiday morning.”  A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Maybe two. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. The idea is to create a poem or piece of prose using the twiglet as the jumping off point – the shorter the better! New twiglet prompts from Misky appear each Tuesday — join the fun! Photo from our recent trip: at the Australian National Butterfly Garden in the village of Karuna outside Cairns.

Defarge She is Not

She be a knitter and weaver of love,
needles held surely in confident hands.
Magical work with rainbows of color
wee dresses, wool caps, and warmest afghans.

Strands of affection twist patterns supreme,
yarn disappearing at quickening pace.
Fingers so agile, loop thread over thread
artist sans easel, her lap as her base.

She smiles at her world and when she does err
pauses, examines and looks to assess.
What has been done? Rewind. Amend. Restart.
Good pattern for all, for life of success.

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Late for dVerse Tuesday’s Poetics. Kim asks us to write a poem about an artisan, using the form/style of the famous Irish poet, Seamus Heaney. I chose to emulate Heaney’s poem Follower: written in stanzas of 4 lines, each 10 syllables in length. Also, two of the lines in each stanza rhyme — most often ABCB.  This was a real challenge for me. Which is why I’m posting on Wednesday for Tuesday’s Poetics! I do enjoy a challenge…and always learn when I’m dealing with rhyme which I find the most difficult aspect of poetry. You’ve probably noticed that I mainly write in free verse. The title refers to Madame Defarge, the villainous woman in Tale of Two Cities who sits and knits, seemingly innocuously. In reality, she is knitting into the garment, the names of those to be executed.

. . . and their spirits shall descend

like tears gathered in veiled mist.
No loud incendiary words
nor rattling of chains.
Whisper soft,
they cling to mountains
obscure city views,
tall buildings topless
windows moist with deeds past.
They await a new awakening
renewed warmth of will,
a dawn of hope.

Quadrille (44 words) written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today’s word is “whisper.”  Photos: left, taken on our trip to Alaska; right by Jesse Miksic.
May the spirit and hope of Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Barrack Obama, and John Lewis infuse our land.

Hoyle Be Damned

This ain’t kitchen bridge.
An arrangement of tricks,
points scored below the line.

Kibitzers watch dumbfounded.
Self-sufficient suit
forced into dummy hand.

Duffer without finesse,
unbalanced distribution
trumps again and again

to win
the grand slam.

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A second poem for Dverse, Tuesday Poetics…using the word “bridge.” Apologies to Hoyle’s rules for bridge…..and yes — metaphor applies. For those of you unfamiliar with the card game of bridge: kitchen bridge is a social game with little emphasis on skill; all of the following are terms used in bridge and may be found in the Hoyle’s book of bridge terminology/rules:  tricks, points scored below the line, kibitzers (nonplaying onlookers), self-sufficient suit, dummy hand, duffer (bridge player of inferior ability), unbalanced distribution (has to do with the cards in your hand), trump, and grand slam.

 

 

Each night . . .

slipping from here to there,
drifting toward sleep
my hand reaches for yours.

Fearful still,
I will not let you cross alone
this darkening nocturnal bridge.

Fingers interweave. I wait. I listen.
Soft even breaths become my evensong
and I succumb to dreams.

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Hosting the dVerse virtual pub for poets today. I’m asking folks to write a poem that contains the word “bridge.”  So many possibilities!  Come join us – bar opens at 3 PM Boston time.

1950s – haibun memory

There were no cell phones. No super highways. No air-conditioned cars. We rode with the windows down and used paper maps. That summer we drove from Waukegan, Illinois to Cape Cod. My mother often sat with her feet up on the dashboard and her full skirt pulled way above her knees. She hated the heat. “We’re finally there,” my father said as he pulled off the road. I was in the back seat, playing with my Revlon doll. There were small cabins scattered around the driveway and you could barely see the ocean at the end of the dirt road. A man ambled over and my father asked “How much?” I don’t recall the amount or the cabin number we stayed in, but I do remember clearly what the man said next. “Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds stayed here last night.”

sand dunes on Cape Cod
wind swept over many years
memories lost to time

Lady Nyo (Jane) hosts dVerse Haibun Monday and asks us to write about a memory from childhood. Given the recent deaths of Carrie Fisher and one day later, her mother Debbie Reynolds, it seems appropriate to write about this particular memory. In terms of a timeline, Revlon dolls were made by Ideal, beginning in 1955. Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds were married from 1955 – 1959. Haibun: a paragraph or two of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. Photos:  Cape Cod National Seashore near Provincetown. How serendipity that I now live in Boston and since 1998, have spent one or two weeks every year in Provincetown, Cape Cod.