Her suppressed feelings: cacophony of colors ready to explode.
Written for OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, I’m hosting and folks can post any poem of their choosing…no required length, format, theme, etc. OR they can write a poem motivated by the painting above: “Mme Kupka among Verticals” painted by Frantisek Kupka (in public domain). It’s displayed at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.
NOTE: come join us Saturday, January 17th for our LIVE session (audio and video) from 10 to 11 AM EST. Go to https://dversepoets.com for the link to join us live. Come read a poem of your choosing or come to just sit in and enjoy. We usually have folks from across the globe…all in English. We’re a very friendly bunch!
Hope for the wrongly convicted. False confessions coerced confessions eyewitness misidentifications forensic science errors public defenders inexperience.
Cell doors clang shut futures stunted tears long since evaporated possibilities suffocated except the Innocence Project has my name.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Melissa asks us to consider the song, “Folsum Prison Blues”, written and performed by Johnny Cash. The first four lines of the song are “I hear the train a-comin’, it’s rolling ’round the bend And I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.” Melissa asks us to write a poem inspired by the song….and by Johnny Cash actually going to Folsum Prison and singing to the inmates. The Innocence Project is an organization that works toward the release of prisoners who are wrongly accused and imprisoned for crimes. To date, their organization has succeeded in the release of 250 innocent prisoners. The Exonerated Five (formerly the Central Park Five) are some of the more famous individuals who benefited from their work. Image by Daniel Vanderkin from Pixabay
He lost one wife to family genetics. Her parents and siblings suffered fatal heart attacks before the age of sixty. He woke one morning to find her cold body next to his. Thank God he passed away before his eldest son suffered the same fate.
He lost his second wife to religion. A devout, and some would say overly zealous Christian Scientist, he watched her cold symptoms worsen. After arguments that went nowhere, he stood by as she prayed her pneumonia away. He held her hand as she died.
If we are all actors upon a stage, Grief enters with or without directional cues. A sudden drop-in as if let fly from an overhead catwalk. A slow unraveling as clues and evidence appear, until the perpetrator is revealed and the curtain falls.
We – the family, the friends, the audience – ultimately leave the theater with only playbill in hand. But Grief hangs on to the one left alone. It may dissipate ever so slowly, but the void remains. And at times, sometimes unexpectedly, it grips the heart like a vise. Grief, a character in every script, is simply masked at times or hovering in the wings.
Nature airs her grief. Loud thunder sounds her anger, soft rain weeps her tears.
A haibun dedicated to my dearest uncle. His “story” is in the first two paragraphs. He has been gone many years now. I loved him dearly. Also dedicated to my dear friend, Mary Nilsen.
Haibun: a Japanese form consisting of prose (usually nonfiction) followed by a haiku that contains a nature reference.
It always rises. In rain or snow, whether you see it or not. Hiding behind clouds, invisible under a putty grey sky. It’s there blessing the new day. Its rays smiling upon you, gifting hope even on the stormiest days. If only we believe.
It’s quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, De asks us to include the word “smile” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo by Anandu Vinod on Unsplash
Abracadabra because I want a magician’s wand to change what was into what was not and what could be. Defy divisiveness, effects of hatred, and speaking of the “us” versus the “other”. Forge ahead to find new paths. Gather those who want positive change. Hand in hand with hope, honesty and just intentions, may we begin to just listen. Truly listen knowing we are all located within the same sea of humanity. Listen and listen more. Open our ears and hearts. Make a concerted effort, not numbing the pain of others into oblivion. Prayer is not enough. In the quest for healing, we must reflect on what could be and make it so. It may seem tenuous until we verbally and actively validate the worth of all God’s people. Xenophobia is not an option. You and I, if we’re honest, also have roots in other places. Zest and good will toward all humanity: may it be our Resolution for 2026.
Written for Meet The Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re asked to become Abecarians: Create a poem of 26 lines where each line begins with a letter of the alphabet and the letters are sequential. I’ve written from A to Z. Not the first letter of the first word in each line. Image from Pixabay.com
People are different. Color, ethnicity, gender, religious beliefs, language, citizenship, culture.
Gather them all in one place, in concentric circles facing each other, holding hands. Each circle defined by a trait.
Note: circles have no beginning or end. He who joined first disappears. She who joined last disappears. All are integral to their circle.
Herein lies a truth of geometric principle. Concentric circles differ in radii but have the same center point. And what is that same center point?
As Maya Angelou famously wrote, “We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.” The center point is our humanity.
Sadly however, truth is not constructed reality when the builder is a demolitionist.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today I am hosting: go to https://dversepoets.com to see the prompt this poem is motivated by.
We were raised in families where the television show “Father Knows Best” was also the way of the household. Travel happened twice a year for me: a visit to my grandparents’ home in Florida and a vacation week in the Wisconsin Dells. I always sent her a postcard. It never dawned on me that I lived in a white privileged world and she did not.
I went to college and she left home. She took jobs where she found them. Eking out a living, then moving on. She sent postcards along the way. In 1963, from DC. She’d heard MLK’s “I Have a Dream”. In 1969, from the Catskill Mountains. She’d found love and acceptance at Woodstock. “The granites and schists of my dark and stubborn country have accepted me. My new partner and I can be ourselves here. Come visit!” I never did.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Prosery Mondays are the only prompts where writers are asked to write prose, not poetry. We’re given a line from a poem and we’re asked to insert it, word for word, within a piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length. Today Merril gives us the line “The granites and schists of my dark and stubborn country” from Nan Shepherd’s poem “The Hill Burns”
The Innocence of Youth Unveiled is fiction. It is not autobiographical.
He or she or it peers out from window’s side. Black obsidian-like pupil orange incandescent iris. Half there, half hidden. All knowing? Fearful? Oblivious? Seer by unearned reputation among feathered fowl.
I arrange alphabetical letters. Create single words, strung-along thoughts gibberish with mismatched curves. Leaked ink stains fingers, dribbles dots on embossed paper smears black blotches. Accidental undefined punctuation blobs.
What seers roost among us? Spew artificial intelligence scenarios. Indulge everyman, everywoman, every androgynous human. Note the ever present “man” in that word. Want it? Steal it or create it. At the cost of many for the pleasure of few.
That all seeing obsidian eye? Taxidermist’s handiwork unfinished. Half-body only. Nothing else behind the window. What you see? Rancid carnage, stuffed roadkill. Alternative reality. This is all we get. ““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting the pub’s Open Link Night today, as well as dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM EST. Folks can post any poem of their choosing, no required length, form, or topic OR write an ekphrastic poem, one that is motivated by one of three “window” images I’ve provided, or any “window image” of their choosing.Owl image above from Pixabay.com
Join us LIVE on Saturday, October 25th, between 10 and 11 AM EST!! Want to see and hear poets from around the globe read their poems (all in English)? We’re a very friendly bunch! Come join us to sit in, read a poem of your choice, and/or join in the conversation. Click here and then click on the Zoom meeting link provided (video and audio). Hope to see you Saturday, October 25th between 10 and 11 AM at our LIVE session!
I roam this curving shaded path. Hopscotch through my youth in rompers skinny legs, scraped knees, curly hair. Naively sweet and unaware.
In my myopic teenage years I roam this curving shaded path. Blinders on, friends all important. Time flies, motion undetected.
Parenting years, our sweet children. Together we laugh and love as I roam this curving shaded path encouraging strong roots and wings.
Now approaching eighty years young with less trail ahead, we rest more. Your love, holding the light high as I roam this curving shaded path.
Written for Meet the Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura asks us to write a Quatern. That is a poem of 16 lines, divided into 4 quatrains (4 stanzas, each with 4 lines). Each line must have 8 syllables. There must be a repeated refrain that is the first line of stanza 1, the second line of stanza 2, the third line of stanza 3, and the 4th line of stanza 4. Photo from a vacation some years back.
In the waning days of autumn nature sheds its hilarity. Crimson red, halloween orange, and golden yellow leaves shrivel, lose their vim and fall. Farmers’ fields, stripped of crops seem eeirly clold and barren.
I seek warmth, light and respite. Candles lit, afghan wrapped, mulled wine and book at hand, I hibernate. I am, afterall, a creature of nature. Slowed by age and sensitive to seasonal biorhythms.
Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
lillian the home poet 