Make me some songalicious drinks.
One with a marguerita beat.
Make one classical:
limoncello on ice with
bow plucked sugar on glass brim,
meant to avoid a puckered grin.
Finale me with whiskey sour chants.
Light on the sour mix
to end with humdingers!
Quadrille created for dVerse Poets, a virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, De asks us to include the word “hum” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Loved the prompt so much, this is my second poem for it!
Hum-diddly-dee
hum-diddly-dum.
Sing out with glee,
beat that drum!
Add words to your tune,
“sycophants be gone”!
Revile the buffoon,
use your brassiest song.
Come November third
rise up, Land of the Brave.
Drown this theater of the absurd
in a tsunami blue wave!
Written for dVerse, the online pub for poets around the globe. Today, De asks us to write a quadrille including the word “hum” or a form of the word.
Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, that includes a particular word provided in the prompt.
In the midst of strife and stress
I find myself traveling the world,
seeking nature’s quiet views.
Balm for my soul.
Standing far above the sea
I walk slowly beside hand hewn fences
near centuries old barn.
My steps saunter in times gone by.
Wild golden glow blooms brightly
amidst tall grasses swaying in breeze.
White spruce stand tall
framing views of Bras d’or Lake.
Photos to peruse later
insure Cape Breton stays with me.
This peaceful place shall always be
only a journal page away.
All photos taken yesterday, September 9, as we walked the grounds of Highland Village, a historical Gaelic village on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia.
Through the late 18th and early 19th centuries, thousands of Gaels settled eastern Nova Scotia in patterns of chain immigration. Most of those immigrants spoke Gaelic, a Celtic language closely related to Irish. Despite a rigorous climate and landscape, Scottish Gaels adopted to life in Nova Scotia. In this place, we go back in time, and walk through their history.
Earth dons her ethereal pashmina,
mountains veiled in wispy cloud shawl.
She flirts with visitors. Stretches long
until her peaks come into view.
She wears her scars proudly.
Layer upon layer of lava flows,
like a mother’s birthing bracelet.
Her magnificence unmatched.
She testifies to our insignificance,
mere specks in the spectrum of time.
Photo above taken in Iceland this past week. The terrain in this “land of fire and ice” is incredible to see.
This photo taken on an excursion in better weather. Note the “layers” which indicate lava flows, millions of years old.
grey clouds rain slowly
they weep as angels ascend
our hearts ache with love
Written for dear friend, Adda.
Joyful sunflowers
stand proud, basking in sun’s warmth.
Their earth mother cares.
Hungry children cry
parents struggle to feed them.
Government ignores their plight.
Cold shoulders favor the rich.
See the gardener sow,
caring for the soil. It blooms
flowers of all kinds.
Written as we’re sailing the seas on consecutive Celebrity cruises, meeting people from across the globe. So many ask us, what is happening in the US? We just can’t understand it. Why is this being allowed to happen? What are we to say? The above refers to SNAP, Planned Parenthood, Medicare, the Affordable Care Act, Project Head Start — all programs being cut by the current US administration. The metaphorical allusion, I hope is clear.
These are a haiku (5 line poem of the following syllabic count: 5-7-5; followed by a tanka (7 line poem of the following syllabic count: 5-7-5-7-7) and concluding with a haiku.
Agitated wake
churns up, roils ocean’s surface.
Then stretches into
gently glistened smaller waves,
like life’s long past memories.
Photo taken from aboard Celebrity’s Silhouette.
The Tanka form, when a Haiku just won’t do.
The haiku has 3 lines of the following syllabic content: 5 – 7 – 5
The tanka has 5 lines of the following syllabic content: 5 – 7 -5-7-7
She seeks answers in the landscape,
this early nineteenth century woman.
Firmly corseted, demure by training,
constrained by society’s expectations.
She pauses deliberately on crude dirt path,
having followed it through rolling hills
amidst surrounding trees.
Would that she could stretch her limbs,
bloom anew, sway in every fresh breeze.
Remain firmly rooted defying threatening storms.
But she is here. Painted in her times.
Resolutely she turns, walks off canvas,
slowly returns home.
How much joy she would have
if in this moment she could know,
her female counterparts
will change the world.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual home for poets around the world. Today Melissa asks us to consider the artist Henri Rousseau and provides us with several of his works to motivate our poetry. I’ve chosen his painting, La Promenade dans la Foret (The Walk in the Forest) c 1886.
One must take care
when confronted with fragility.
Gardenia petals bruise easily.
Strong hands support the newborn’s head.
Grief must be consoled,
memories gently relived,
tears allowed to flow.
Mother Earth deserves respect,
her beauty preserved.
Empathic understanding
and quiet listening,
truly divine gifts.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Sanaa asks us to write a 44 word poem, sans title, that includes the word “care”. Image from Pixabay.com
Adirondack lady
blankets at the ready
cool evenings to come.
She sits surrounded by woods
lulled by the sound of loons,
listening, smiling with Joe.
Memories seem to visit her lately.
Their early parenting days
punctuated by laughter and love.
She waits now, expectantly,
their child’s mothering days
soon to begin.
Time passes by, disappears,
inexorably moving forward.
Generations born and tendered.
One certainty
in these unpredictable times,
this new little one
will be born into a world of love.
lillian the home poet 