for putting in.
Rarely
taking out.
Three corroded pennies.
One pale yellow
Tupperware bottle cap.
One hair comb.
Strands
stuck in teeth.
One black and white
cracking
turned grays
dime store photostrip.
Sachet
absent scent.
Seven holy cards.
Lipstick bottom
almost empty
vibrant
red.
Tumbled
left behinds.
Bits
of
her.
Written for day 3 of my poetry mentor’s March 21 Day Challenge online poetry class. We are to write a poem of short lines with many stanzas.
I.
sprigs of green peek out
crocus, tulips, daffodils
ready to spring forth
II.
shedding winter coats
pregnant bellies everywhere
spring phenomenon
III.
lily pad squatter
spring-like legs tense, eyes take aim
SPLAT, misjudged its mark
Stones lean precariously after years of neglect. Some cracked. Others bedecked by lichen. Tall wild grasses and spindly trees surround antiquity. Tourists hike the nearby road, unaware. Disconnected to what was. But the Earth knows. She periodically sheds tears, some frozen in anguish, others gentle in their falling. Her memory forever graced by those embraced within her folds.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today’s prompt is to write prose poetry. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. This is a special place in cyberspace where poems are shared and read. Come join us!
Everyday, somewhere
irreconcilable change.
Endings pivot to less beginnings
emptiness beside waking self.
Everyday, somewhere
someone’s last dawn
awakens another’s grief.
Photo taken in Provincetown, MA, on Cape Cod.
Dried roses,
brittle as beleagured time.
This yellow, paler now,
graced a funeral spray.
Dew kissed by tears,
gathers patina of dulling dust.
This blood red, from wedding bliss.
This soft blushing pink,
remembrance lost.
Dimentia by decay.
Dried roses,
crumbling petals.
Fading synapses
midst prickly thorns.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It’s time for Tuesday’s Poetics with Mish tending bar. She asks us to write about a memento. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come post a poem or just enjoy imbibing the poetic words of others. Remember, dVerse exists in cyberspace — a virtual pub — so we have poets from around the world post with us! It’s a meeting of poetic spirits – and we call it our virtual pub! Come visit! New prompts on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays — although I try to post here every day.
Harrison Hedgehog
all a dither
in a quiver,
over Patty Porcupine.
How to propose?
The poetic one,
undone,
by a prickly giggly gal.
A note, inside a balloon,
a quadrille.
Then with her own quill,
Patty will pop the question!
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. De is tending bar and asks us to giggle today 😊. Forty-four words, not including the title, that include the word “giggle.” I figure in our crazy world, it’s a good day for a silly little ditty! Photo is of Harrison Hedgehog, in public domain.
he of geology
she of high kick dreams.
Rocked
dance floors
canyon walls
little ones
and little one’s little ones.
Unfinished, aged patina,
we rock on.
Sun struggles behind shrouded sky.
Three rays burst through darkness,
beacons that proclaim
there shall be hope this day.
Photo taken at dawn from deck of our rented apartment in Bermuda. No filters – no photoshopping. It was truly glorious.
When two become one, the base remains two.
When two multiplies to four, the base remains two.
Time invested.
Birthing and unconditional love.
Your child’s everything
until independence blooms.
Time apart increases.
They see more, learn more.
And you step in and out,
never fully immersed again.
And they leave.
You are the beginning two again.
Memories, age spots,
and more love.
Knowing as they become two and multiply,
it is a cycle born to repeat itself.
And the most important arc is the base of two.
That is the constant.
Sharing with Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today there is no prompt. We’re free to post one poem of our choosing, Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
one street after another
plat map symmetrical.
Slide rule log-a-rhythm’s
syncopated beat.
Red-amber-green lights
directing the inane.
Where are the pick-up trucks,
dust-kicking rolling roads,
clothesline flapping shirts,
and front porch swings?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where we’re asked to write suburban poetry today! Looking at my Seascape photos and post, also done today, I think I prefer the sea side to the suburbs!
lillian the home poet 