Ode to the Muse

Briny foam deposits anonymous relics,
tumbled sea glass, ceramic shards.
Deposits of what once was
spurred imagination to pen.
Vast expanse edged by the granular,
waters creased afar by horizon line.
I miss thy rolling waves,
my salt-kissed lips, now bare.

Lids closed shut, head bowed.
Mortar, brick and cement sight lines
erased by self-enforced darkness.
Pigeon lined window ledges unseen,
gulls imagined delete traffic squeals.
Oceanic Muse, realm of Neptune,
despondent without thy grace.
Oh that I might return to thee.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. It’s Tuesday Poetics and today Ingrid asks us to consider the Muse. She tells us that direct invocations of the Muse are rare in modern poetry. She gives us several choices on how to go about writing a poem today that considers the Muse.
For me, I’ve always loved the ocean. The photos are from one of five winters we spent in Bermuda where the waters are incredible shades of blue and green. We often hiked along the Old Railway Trail which provided many views of the ocean’s splendor. We continue to spend two weeks every fall in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. Our rental unit is right on the ocean’s shore. Today I sit in our Boston high rise condominium, realizing how much the ocean is my Muse.

Third Time’s not the Charm

Working in the kitchen, she ruminated on the unfairness of it all. Three times passed over. For men with less experience! She propped open the instructions for how to shuck oysters. Get oriented with your oyster; nestle it in a towel. Really???? What idiot wrote this? She stabbed the knife tip into the hinge. What a jerk she was for staying. Rotate the knife blade and separate the top shell from the bottom. She dug in the knife. Twisted it. “Are you upset?” he’d asked. Stupid dull blade! The oyster shell blurred. I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife into your gut. Oh how I wish you were nestled in this towel right now! She slammed the shell down on the counter in disgust. I’m done. She picked up the phone and dialed his private line.

Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Lisa introduces us to the writer Zora Neale Hurston. We are to write a piece of prose that can be no longer than 144 words, sans title, and must include the line I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife from Hurston’s “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928). Image cropped from a photo at Pixabay.com.

Haiku and Tanka Garden Travels

i
Provincetown summers.
Tasty salty upper lip,
mango tinted dawns.
Blue hydrangeas, hollyhocks,
honeysuckle and moss rose.

ii.
Color profusion.
Blarney Castle garden walk,
nature’s floral art.
Ireland is so much more
than the luck of shamrock green.

iii.
Singapore orchids,
pride of National Garden.
Soft delicate blooms,
violet to deepest shades,
azure-veined whites and more.


iv.
I sense Japan’s calm,
forest bathing in deep greens.
Celebrate her spring
strolling by cherry blossoms.
Petals rain gently in breeze.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is the second day of our dVerse 10 year anniversary! Our prompt is to think about the word “garden” and see where it takes us. I took that literally. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Photos from our travels.

Oh those Oldies . . .

Play me that jukebox, baby,
you know the buttons to push.
Hit Marvin, cuz we know
you want to get it on with me.
I know, you can’t stop loving me.
Push the Ray button, honey.
Hold me real close.
Maybe I’ll be tempted.

dVerse is back after our two week summer hiatus! Written for dVerse’s Quadrille prompt which must use the word “juke” or a form of the word, within a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, opens at 3 PM Boston time! Come join us!
PS: I remember going on high school dates to get a burger and cherry coke, and plugging quarters in the jukebox, picking out our favorite songs.


h


In the midst of rain

I sit in the early morning
near rain dappled leaves,
contemplating . . .

Even in the midst of showers
or thunder storms,
the sun shines.

It is simply obscured by clouds . . .
but it will reappear.

Video taken last week at our family reunion in Warrenton, VA …. from the porch of our rented farmhouse.

The Gathering

Love and laughter abound
from youngest to oldest, three generations.
Memories shared, stories told, memories made.
The circle of love goes around and round . . .
. . . we are blessed to still be aboard.
Thankful for every day.

Traditional cousins’ bench shot. In the top one, youngest is 2 and on the bottom, she’s almost 10!
Fifty-one years…..thankful for every day.
Hail hail, the gang’s all here….
Our much loved children and grandchildren.

All photos from last weekend….and what a joyful time we had at a marvelous VRBO farmhouse in Virginia!

Give me some . . .

gloriosity
sunshineeeeness
popsicles, fudgsicles
sprinkler dashes
tasty juicy tomatoes
sweet butter dripping corn on the cob
kernels stuck between my teeth.
That’s summerliciousness!

That’s our grandson who is now 14 and ready to start high school next year. Most joyous photo I’ve ever seen of someone eating corn on the cob! Happy summer everyone!

Abandoned . . .

. . . from another time.
Seemingly parked
in a god-forsaken place.
Resting place to rust,
deteriorate more.

This image.
Or someone’s once loved one
sent to somewhere
that is out of sight,
out of mind.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and directs us to twelve images at Glenn Buttkus’ photography site, South Sound Minimalist Photos. Glenn is not only an excellent photographer, he is a fellow dVerse poet!

We are to use one of his twelve photos as inspiration for our poem. I chose photo #7: Old Rusty Truck which Glenn describes as “The isolated Model T truck bears the weight and pride of a hundred years of rust, becoming prairie art and sentinel.” Interesting how once the photo (or the poem) is set to paper/blog, the interpretation is in the hands of the viewer/reader. I saw the photo as quite sad and hence this poem.

Messy? Who me?

Summer’s delight.
Ice cream time in smudgekin’s world,
that’s a toddler’s chocolate delight.
Chocolately face and fingers too,
lick by lick by lick
by drip by drip by drip.
Slow salivating yumminess
then nose-in-cone finale.
Mama says “look at me!” Click.
Then clean-up time.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where Mish is hosting and asks us to use the word “smudge” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo from Inside Source.