This Iowa field, this Iowa day. I stand in the midst of flowers green grasses waving, sun’s warmth soaking my skin. Double hollyhocks stand tall. Gaillardia faces blush, edged in sherbet yellow ruffles. Ethereal clouds float lazily, cotton ball fluffs like white misshapen dots on seersucker blue sky. Newly painted barn gleams surrounded by emerald shrubs, trees and hills. Ah yes, Iowa, you are indeed the heartland, loved by so many.
Why is it women bear the blame? Eve, in the garden of Eden picked fruit from that forbidden tree. With juice dripping down her chin, she offered its flesh to Adam. Adam took the bite, yet bears little blame.
Persephone, stolen away by Hades, hungers for light in the underworld. Eats six pomegranate seeds only to learn she, not Hades, bears the blame for autumn and winter’s chill.
Who writes these tales? Codifies them into myths believed? Ah men, they are the shapeshifters. I call on thee to reposition these stories, reveal the weakness of Adam the cunning treachery of Hades.
Take up the flowers, the scepter too. Power in the womb, provider of the world. Power in the breast, nourishment for all. Power in the mind, our acuity revealed. I call on you, deny your herstory no longer. Claim your rightful place at the table, and it’s not in the middle of the men.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Sarah asks us to be inspired by the myth of Persephone and write a poem that is somehow related .
Persephone is the daughter of Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, fruit and grains. She was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld. Ceres searched for her, leaving the crops to fail. Zeus, king of gods and father to Persephone, intervened and ruled that if Persephone had not eaten anything in the underworld, she could return to Ceres, above ground. Persephone had eaten six pomegranate seeds. Zeus consequently allowed her to return above ground for only six months of the year, thus creating the seasons. She is above ground for spring and summer, spreading flowers and seeds. She is below ground for autumn and winter, thus causing the demise of crops, flowers, etc.Image from Wikimedia Commons.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
All photos from last weekend….and what a joyful time we had at a marvelous VRBO farmhouse in Virginia!