He stands, shoulders stooped,
face wizened over years,
holding his ancient pocket watch.
Engraved words,
palmed almost to nothingness.
His great-grandfather’s name, birth date,
barely a whisper on gold.
Who to gift with this heirloom?
Unmarried, no heirs.
His to carry to the grave.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to include the word “pocket” within our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title. Image created in Bing.
Forty days, forty nights,
escapist pleasure journey.
Biblical allusion not intended.
Worm of guilt
bored occasionally into mind.
Guilt of the privileged sort.
News cycle ignored.
Earth’s scenery, our view of choice.
Oceanic patterns, lulling waves.
Occasional roiling seas
cause drunken-like weaving
walking ship’s corridors.
Icelandic land of fire and ice,
revealed its secrets
in midst of deep rift.
Two tectonic plates still shift.
Greenland’s hospitable coast
contrasted with glaciers and ice sheet.
Cold shoulders in the distance,
flaunt their daunting interior.
Bay of Fundy’s highest tides
reveal Nature’s pummeling forces.
Ocean’s height belligerently batters
river’s flow in opposite direction.
Maine’s light houses,
generational directional beacons.
Nova Scotia’s history laid bare
in Gaelic village of yore.
Forty days and forty nights,
pilgrimage complete.
Domestic work claims attention,
simplistic refreshing of our abode.
More difficult November task,
refreshing our country as well.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn asks us to write a poem dealing with a pilgrimage of sorts. Poem and all photos refer to and taken on our recent 40 days and 40 nights trip that included Iceland, Greenland, going above the Arctic Circle, Nova Scotia, New Foundland, Bay of Fundy, Quebec City, and Maine. Incredible scenery….incredible to be away and appreciate the land and so many diverse people.
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.
