daze

somedays
I want to skip
through burnt orange
crimson red
fresh fallen leaves
not trudge
with aching limbs

somedays
I want to dance
through cumulous clouds
float in dandelion puffs
not grounded
by flattened soles
empty souled

somedays
never always
absolutes press
somedays
never always
I simply
pass through

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Thursday is OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. That means – no prompt. daze was originally written for June 7th’s dVerse MTB prompt, provided by Bjorn. He asked us to write a poem using “negativa”. A poem whose meaning is derived from what is not, as well as what is. I missed that deadline….so posting daze now. Photo from pixabay.com.

Scattergory Me . . .

. . . solitudinous people person
purposely pollyannish
collector of dear days
one man woman
circle of love rippled wide.

Color me
a waving turning sunflower
old-fashioned holly hock
dancing daffodil
never lily of the valley down.

Find me next season
on your darkest nights.
I shall be the newest star
east of that famous north one
or west . . .

you’ll find me
because you’ll understand,
even in death
my geography skills
will still be severely lacking

. . . but I promise,
I’ll be there.

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Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Amaya reminds us that last Thursday was the 199th anniversary of Walt Whitman’s birth. She asks us to write a poem somewhat in the spirit of Whitman’s Song of Myself….something personal as in an ad to someone who knows us well…to meet us perhaps, at a later date. I should add, after rereading my poem here, I am healthy, well, happy and expect to live for many many more years! 

Role Reversal

She coddled me.
Me but a young thing,
slip of the wisp.
Pampered my almost every wish.

Lately ‘tis inside out.
She, skeletal slip of the wisp.
Crepe skin
craving coddled touch.

Lipstick smeared wide,
clown visage
with vacant eyes.
Lit by absent apparition.

Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where the word prompt is “coddle.” Quadrille: poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Fictional poem, but all too true for so many.

in the silence

Sa ta na ma . . . sa ta na ma . . . lying on my back, arms easily at sides, eyes closed, I move inward. Sa ta na ma . . . sometimes sitting cross-legged, hands in prayer-position at my chest, eyes closed, I slide inward. Sa ta na ma . . . rhythmically said within my mind.

sa . . .the beginning, infinity, all that ever was, is or will be
ta . . . existence within infinity
na . . . death, transformation
ma . . . rebirth, regeneration, joy within infinity
Eyes closed, relaxed, at ease. Sometimes there light. An aura. An absence present. I move within me, with all.

snow owl perched in field
colors absent nature sees
silently feels me

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Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today we’re asked to write about sounds we hear within ourselves. Haibun: one or two paragraphs of prose, cannot be fiction; followed by a haiku that includes a seasonal reference.

She Melts

blue ice                                             cold as cold can be
cleft from frozen earth                 abandoned
floats alone                                      drowning
so deeply down                               in sea of despair

deplorable evidence                      scarred inside and out
man’s neglect                                   his indifference
temperature rises                           her tears flow in melting fear
frequent fissures                            pulled asunder
disaster nears                                  she dies more each day

 

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Paul asks us to write a contrapuntal poem. The term is taken from the musical world and means counterpoint…a piece of music with two or more independent melody lines.
Read this poem three ways (IE three melody lines if you will).
1. left column only
2. right column only
3. from left to right in total – as in all the way through the first line, ignoring the big spaces between the columns; then all the way through the second line etc.
Iceberg photos from out trip to Antarctica. Eyes photo from Pixabay.com.

Tale of the Hats

Two men, not brothers
married two women, not sisters.
One man brother to one not-sister.
If you’re counting, that’s four in all.

Christmas means a family gathering
cousins and those two not-brothers,
Bob the wee man, wicked funny
Bud a big man, comic not,

Laughter, carols, dinner done,
friends and family sit to leave.
Expectantly they wait,
tittering they anticipate.

Bob and Bud step forth all clad
coats, galoshes, mufflers too.
But to hats the family looks
as Bob and Bud, snicker not.

Bob stands small, beside big Bud.
Simultaneously they seriously say,
We’re ready to go dears
as all guffaw at what they see.

Bud looks sheepishly at Bob.
Bob’s small hat sits daintily,
perched
on top of Bud’s big head.

Bob cannot see Bud,
his eyes covered by Bud’s big hat
sitting precariously balanced
atop two pencils
protruding from Bob’s ears!

hat-157581_1280

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Mark Walters guest hosts Tuesday’s Poetics. He asks us to write humorously about something humorous from our lives. The Tale of the Hats is absolutely true! My Uncle Bob (very small head and a very fun-loving guy) and my dad, known as Bud, (a much more serious guy) exchanged hats every year at the end of our big Christmas gathering. Uncle Bob made sure he had two pencils in his coat and they’d come out looking absolutely ridiculous! No matter how many times they did this, we always laughed and laughed. Family lore now….I miss them both. 

 

 

Bowery Dame

Hey mistah!
What are ya waitin’ for?
Lookin’ for some kix?
Just a fiver for my special K!
That’s a kisser ‘n lots more.
You a sea capn’?
Crunchin’ time
away from the missus?
C’mon and sail my ship!

They called her a total froot loop,
nuttier than a fruit cake.
She owned her corner,
struttin’ her stuff in the Big Apple.
Jack of all trix in her trade!
Arms wrapped in bangles
lucky charms danglin’,
jinglin’ through all seasons.
Frosted flakes her winter glitter,
traded for sweat beads in summer.
Garters held by safety pins,
no chex and balances in her life,
just one day to the next to the next.
Known on her unseemly block
as the My-Fair-Lady dame,
clients banged her for a few bucks.
Yelled out their cheerios
as they straightened their ties,
hopped a taxi,
and went home to their wives.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, and we’re brand name noodling! I’ve given folks three categories: candy bars, cereals, and perfumes. I’ve listed at least sixteen products in each category. Folks are to choose ONE category, and write a poem that includes at least TWO of the product names within that category. . . using them as just words in the poem. 

I’VE CHOSEN THE CEREAL LIST FOR THIS POST: Kix, Special K, Cap’n Crunch, Total, Froot Loops, Apple Jacks, Trix, Lucky Charms, Frosted Flakes, Chex, Life, Cheerios, Fruity Pebbles, Alpha-Bits, Cocoa Puffs, Count Chocula, Harvest Crunch, and Puffed Wheat.  I used the first 12 in this poem.

Also did a poem using the Candy Bar list! Take a peak!

Love Despoiled

Oh, Henry! You’ve caught me
be-twix and be-tween.
Passion whet by champagne,
and Kit Kat Club ambience.
Desire kindled by kindness.
Your patience to consummate
pledge your troth, to wed
and only then to bed.

Until my evening gown mishap.
Bared breast revealed,
milky way to pale mounds
meant to share in nuptial bliss.
When moonlight shafts
soften look of aging skin,
light passion’s fire,
scorch through satin linens.

But shocked I am.
Your snickers, chuckles,
leering eyes, pupils wide.
Your lust apparent, unleashed.
Tongue swiftly swipes your lips
sweat beads drip down furrowed brow.
You, most definitely,
are not my Mr. Good Bar.

Fifth Avenue class and demeanor
slipped away as if a mask.
I see you now, the real you.
As far out of possibilities
as aliens from planet Mars.
Bar or not, I sand beside this stool,
proud woman, intelligent,
genteel and steeled.

Beware sir, I am not
a pay day or pay by night
loose female, giving on demand.
I am not that kind.
I thought you were different.
And so I leave you sir,
clutching cloth to breast
virture intact.

Self respect intact,
yesterday, today,
and through many morrows.
Until some partner shall appear,
unconditional love apparent.
And we shall reveal to one another
our feelings, wishes, and regrets.
Our every view into our very souls.

2011_05_11_11_23_14

I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, and we’re brand name noodling! I’ve given folks three categories: candy bars, cereals, and perfumes. I’ve listed at least sixteen products in each category. Folks are to choose ONE category, and write a poem that includes at least TWO of the product names within that category. . . using them as just words in the poem. 

I’ve chosen to used the candy bar list: Oh, Henry!, Chuckles, Kit-Kat, Snickers, Milky Way, Mr. Goodbar, Mars Bar, 5th Avenue, Pay Day, Mounds, Twix, Charleston Chew, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Krackle, and 3 Muskateers. I used the first 11 in this poem.

AND HERE’s MY POST ON THE CEREAL LIST!

Disillusioned

“apologizing to the other passengers. As if car sickness was a crime.”  page 111, 5th line in 3rd paragraph of The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

“You the sand I’ve crawled across.” page 111, 5th line in 3rd stanza in Jelly Roll by Kevin Young.

Disillusioned

Apologizing to the other passengers
as if car sickness was a crime.
Commuter train to end of line
end comes everyday.
Nauseating life of dregs,
there and back and there again.
Everyday merry-go-round hell.

Cell phone glued to your ear,
apologies for my stench.
I was you until I burned,
abandoned by the man.
You happy across the aisle,
my respect tossed to winds
abracadabra, like magic dust.

Path of self-worth, weed-whacked,
lost soul like tumble weed.
Arid dunes, grain smothers grain,
insurmountable pile.
My brain is a desert skull.
Bleached-bare eye sockets,
parched blind of caring.

And you sit there like him.
You the sand I’ve crawled across.

desert-1761930_1920

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya asks us to bridge the gap: take a book near your bedstand, open it to page 111; copy the 5th sentence/line in the 3rd paragraph. That is the first line of your original poem. Choose a 2nd book and do the same but, this is the last line of your poem. And she admonishes, NO CHEATING! When I saw the  line in The Kite Runner I was ready to pick a different book!  But, no cheating…so Disillusionment is what came out of this prompt.