Cairn

I am with you still.

My spirit
embued within the sky
floating midst the clouds
cool mist above rushing waters.

I walked this earth
stacked small rocks
in special places.
I cared.

Grieve not for me,
stand quietly.
Between your steps
feel me still.

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It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. And we begin anew. Week 1 with 43 more to come. Today, Quadrille Week 1, the word to use within our poem is “rock” – or a form of the word. Come join us! A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words…sans title.

Street Muse

Her name was Passion.
Artist’s muse
she lived on the palette.
Primary colors
nostalgic pastels
essence of blended oils.
Brushed with arrogance
sometimes haphazardly,
a thin veneer.
Other times,
piled thick with exacto knife
layer upon layer
covering pain.
Stared at by street lovers
dog catchers
and people pissers,
sometimes the canvas bled
as her tears disrupted the guise.

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Created for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today I’m hosting and asking folks to use one of five pieces of street art (illustrated in the prompt) as motivation for a poem. All five images are in public domain at Pixabay.com  This is my second post for the prompt. See also Magic Awaits You .

Magic Awaits You

Feeling weary?
Kind of dreary?

Dial R-Oh-6  Oh-31
for fanciful fantastical fun.

Never let your troubles steep
just take a liberating leap.

We absolutely guarantee
balloon-high spectacular glee.

Exchange your world of hullabaloo.
Drive to zabba-dabba fabulah-new.

Come on and make some whoopee,
risin’ up in the jazzy jaloopy!

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Having fun today 🙂  hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. I’ve posted five examples of street art for folks and ask them to pick one and somehow write about it. Images in public domain at Pixabay.com. Only requirement is that folks post the accompanying image.  Click here for second street art poem with different image. I couldn’t resist doing two — the second has quite a different tone!

We’ll be visiting Valparaiso, Chile in January and look forward to seeing the street art there — which is what motivated this idea for a prompt.

Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come walk the streets with us!

 

Iowa Scene

Thirty acres of Iowa farmland surrounded our country house ~ the first home we ever owned. We tended a huge garden, had six apple trees, and rented out the rest of the land to a nearby farmer.

It was a magical place in all seasons. Spring time brought apple blossoms and the sound of tractors moving up and down the fields. Our summer garden overflowed with zucchini while wind-blown sheets flapped on the clothesline. Fall harvest coincided with our consolidated high school’s homecoming parade around town square. Winter storms left corn stalk stubs peeking out from a blanket of white snow. And if we were lucky, we might spy a migrating snowy owl, perched atop the fence post next to our old wooden barn.

blizzard blows in night
red barn awakens to white landscape
snowy owl hoots in delight

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Victoria is hosting Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. A Haibun is a Japanese form of poetry that includes one or two paragraphs of tight nonfiction prose followed by a haiku that must include a seasonal reference. Today, Victoria tells us how the Japanese associate the Kigo, Fukuroo with the season of winter (Kigo is owl; Fukuroo means the snowy owl). We are to write a haibun about owls. Photo in public domain from pixabay.com

 

Ode To My High School Gym

 

Home to . . .

blue onesied teenage girls
delicately batting badmintons,
and pimpled boys man-upping
in raucous dodge-ball games.

Crew cuts and ratted Aqua Net dos.

School assemblies.
Seats assigned by homeroom,
alphabetical misery.

Six-foot hoopsters.
Full-skirted
ball gown under-frames
and the tall gangly ball-shooting kind.

Hand-wringing game-ending cacophony,
and teenage clutching
Johnny-Mathis-crooning
sock-hop last chance
he-has-to-be-the-one dance.

Crepe paper.
Gathered in strips,
duct tape hand grips
bouncing in pompom cheers.
Stretched————————–
transformed to ceiling
with hanging mirrored ball
above parading bouffant heads.

Embarrassed girls
side-lined on folding chairs
watching nervous girls
lined up in pretended calm,
waiting to learn
if they would be the one
adorned in prom queen crown.

Fifty years later,
we stand on your creaking boards.
Is it possible? Is this the space?
Old age does not become you,
our once hallowed place.

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Frank hosts dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, asking us to write an ode (poem of praise). No required form, meter or content. Photo: from my 1965 senior year high school annual, Waukegan Township High School in Waukegan, Illinois. Prom court….I was on a folding chair 🙂 And yes, there’s a metal hoop skirt under that second gown. You had to be really careful when you sat down! In the actual photo, you can see the basketball court lines on the gym floor. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.

Simplicity

Slip on spectacles;
do not seek spectacles.
Seek slightly furrowed brows
tear drops forming in their duct
delicate veins on clover leaf
cloud wisps tinctured in palest pink
puddled reflection of toddler’s yellow boot
catsup melding into whole wheat bread
smiles of mirth ‘neath crinkled eyes.
Slip on spectacles to see the good.

In the spirit of the poem, no photo or illustration included.
Motivated by a prompt from Holly Wren Spauldings online class…a list poem. 

Death Be Eternity

I stand
feet solid upon this earth.
What then
when ashes float
upon ocean’s tide?

What of my spirit
my energy
my soul,
clamoring for release
from embers’ dust?

Shall my essence
melt amongst the stars?
Dissolve into tincture of dawn?
Swirl within some galaxy
unknown to earthly man?

Mingle through generations,
welcome those yet to come?
Somewhere beyond this realm,
somewhere
out there beyond?

Perhaps this earthen home
is but a way station
weighed down by skin and bone,
awaiting release into a dominion
of absolute timelessness.

An otherworldly universe,
glimpsed only by the dreamers,
those who peer
beyond this spatial dwelling place.

A perfect storm of turbulent gases

Photo Credit: ESA/Hubble;  European Space AgencyNASA, and J. Hester (Arizona State University)

Posted for dVerse where I’m delighted to host Tuesday Poetics, asking everyone to look up!  Write a poem inspired by one of four photos, taken and released by the Hubble telescope, included in the prompt. Jump into the photo, imagine its world; write about space or not. Simply be inspired by the image and see where it takes you!

dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

NOTE:  I emailed the Hubble site from which the four available images come. Permission was given for this prompt, providing each poet includes the exact photo credit as listed on the site and thus copied to my prompt. 

 

Film Noir, Final Act

Cue dream journey.
Breeze flickers, curls, skips, dances.
Creaking ghosts kick clouds,
grin, giggle, twist, shimmer.
Whispered sounds spring free,
echo, bubble, balloon.
Still lull spills open,
sparks storm, jars bliss.
Drizzled rose-red blood-shadows
pepper dawn, scar green leaves.
Fear spices breath.
Hope melts.

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De hosts dVerse today. We must include the word “kick” in a Quadrille: poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.  Quadrille Mondays occur every other week. Each quadrille series includes 44 Mondays: a different prompt each Monday. We need only include that week’s prompt in our poem. WE ARE NOW AT THE END OF THIS SERIES, MONDAY #44!  This post includes all 44 words given in the series thus far: kick, creak, hope, spice, freebliss, dreamfear, flicker, pepperdance, bubble, grin, lull, melt, shimmer, twist, skip, green, breeze, spill, rose, journey, jar, leaves, open, shadow, cloud, spark, cue, breath, scar, curl, whisper, dawn, ghost, giggle, drizzle, still, echo, sound, storm, spring, and balloon.  ‘Tis the final act of the Film Noir series. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time.  Come join us!

Thursday’s Prayer

What shall I write this early morn,
when night has barely turned to dawn?

Of hope within my soul,
to see the gull soar past
beyond my window’s pale,
toward ocean’s rhythmic shore.

Of wind chimes’ sound,
their echoes from afar.
Harmonious song
kissed aloft by breezes soft.

Drifting from mind to mouth,
‘tis a prayer upon my lips.
Tears but dew upon my cheek,
I whisper joy-stained words

thankful for every day.

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It’s Open Link Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poetry writers. That means you can post a poem of your choosing — no prompt today. Grace is tending the pub and invites all to stop by!