Warrior, intrepid spirit
woman of heartfelt substance.
For two years
you wore a mantle of prayers,
held fast to hope and faith.
Rest now, dear friend,
your spirit on angel’s wings.
For surely your downright obstinacy
in the face of overwhelming odds
has earned you the right to soar.
My friend, Louise, lost her two year battle with ovarian cancer Sunday night. She fought so hard to live. She will be missed by so many.
Let’s make sweetables.
Shape red licorice twists into infinity.
Toss heart-candies onto a scrabble board,
ouija them into Always Mine, Valentine.
Ganache our love and sip bubblicious.
Let’s spoon the night away.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today I’m tending bar and asking everyone to “have a heart.”
I am your global child.
Barefoot puddle splasher
hand outstretched, ghostly smile,
sunken-eyed innocence.
I live in your cities.
Under bridges, in alleyways
on your streets.
Blessed are those . . .
which those?
See me. Hear me.
Offer me
a morsel of hope.
Quadrille (44 words, not including title) for dVerse where Kim asks us to use the word or a form of the word “ghost.” DVerse, (the virtual pub for poets) opens with today’s prompt at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Shards tumbled, churned.
Misshapened shapes
amber, green, clear.
Once broken, glint in sun
smoothed by roiling seas.
Are these but reminders
of those who washed ashore?
See me. Know me.
Value lies
in that which is made anew.
Bermuda sea glass. Bermuda was originally an uninhabited island. All Bermudians are either immigrants or descendants of immigrants. There are no indigenous peoples.
Yarnalicious.
Blueberry, ripe plum
lemony snazzle yellow
pinkorange sherbet.
I touch and squeeze,
trying to decide.
She stands on the precipice
life before, a memory
life after, a question
life now, a quest.
In the shadows,
she seeks hope.
Photo taken some years ago in a beautiful church in Tallin, Estonia. Update: My dear friend Louise lost her two year battle with ovarian cancer on Sunday, February 12, 2017. She was a woman of incomparable spirit.
All they needed
was a gardener’s catalogue.
They should have known.
Tumpet vine,
also known as trumpet creeper.
Common colors, orange and orange red.
Some consider the plant invasive.
Drops hundreds of seeds
sending up suckers.
Keeping size under control
with aggressive pruning
is often necessary.
If allowed to grow,
can easily take over.
Extremely difficult to get rid of.
Containment
is a
consideration.
Prevent the plant
from reseeding
in other areas of the landscape.
Tumpet vine
can work its way
under shingles
and
cause damage
to foundations.
They should have known.
Stanzas 2 through 9 are quoted from two on-line garden sources. Shared with dVerse OLN, the virtual pub for poets where it’s open link time – share a poem of your choice today – no prompt. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come imbibe some words or pour your own!
He scent her,
over a cup of tea and slice of sole.
His moistened fingertips touched her lips,
lemon balmed her into paroxysms of love.
Twiglet #10: scent of lemon. Misky posts a twiglet every Tuesday: a short phrase, a word, to prompt a thought, a flow or a memory. Artist credit: Girl Holding Lemons by William-Adolph Bouguereau, 1899 -found in wiki art.
First grader. Never mulled
no twists, just straight up.
Shaken on the playground,
meets bully spirits with bravado.
Some day, she’ll pass the bar.
And she’ll be the one.
We’ll toast her as she takes the oath.
Hail to the Chief.
Posted for dVerse Tuesday Poetics where De asks us to “mix it up a bit” by using terms having to do with the bar / pub scene, drinking terms. IE in Predilection’s case: mulled, twist, straight up, shaken (not stirred), spirits, bar, and toast. The trick is, the poem cannot be about the drinking scene! A fun prompt. Hail to the Chief is the music played at the inauguration after the presidential oath is taken, and thereafter when the President of the United States is introduced. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop on over and imbibe some words!
Surrounding reality melts as I seek the comfort of sleep. In that half-aura, lying with eyes closed, weight of quilt on chest, I work to release tense shoulders, facial muscles. Within my mind’s eye, weightless arms rise, outstretched. I float above my body, cares released, and soar into the night.
heron, tense, alert
dives hungry into dark sea
soars with silver fish
Björn hosts haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Photo credit: Bird Sirin by artist Sergey Solomko. We’re asked today to find artwork that does not illustrate our haibun, rather compliments its meaning. Haibun: short prose, not fiction, followed by haiku. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.
lillian the home poet 