Holograph, barely here.
I talk like a moth flitters to light,
shadow boxing.
Grin and bear it.
Buck up.
It’ll get better.
Pearls of wisdom faintly heard.
Like oil bubbles’ thinly veiled colors,
disappear in darkness.
Skim me not.
Help find the me.
Please.
Quadrille (44 words) written, including the word grin, as prompted by Bjorn for dVerse.
Red cocked rooster struts
bellicose bawdy brawler
fowl stench in the pen.
Photo Credit: Felix Hernandez. Category should really be political satire in the form of a haiku.
Posted for Open Links Night at dVerse, Poet’s Pub. This is a great gathering place for folks who like to write poetry. Different prompts during the week — different “bartenders” who carry on a conversation and provide the prompt. Thursdays is akin to open mike night….and anything goes. For those of you not in the USA, the political presidential primary races are quite in the news right now.
Paiutes called them Legend People turned to stone by Coyote. I call them mystical.
Silhouettes evolved from ancient seaway. Columns of ochre and orange-pink. Water, ice and gravity had their way with you. Slot canyons so narrow the head strains up for blue. Shadowed red when sun slants in. Thin rims so high there is nothing but everything beside. We tread in awe among these hoodoo pillars. This place of craggy, sharp-edged, smooth, fantastical shapes.
Rocks eroded tall
time escaped in canyons deep
we like specks of dust.
It was Haibun Monday at dVerse, the Pub for Poets. Rajani is tending bar and asked us to write about a travel experience. Haibun is “richly woven prose amplified by simple yet profound haiku. In its traditional sense, it connects to nature and travel. Photos from trip to Bryce many years ago.
Fireflies held aloft, cupped softly
between two hands. Flicker on…
off…on…off…under darkening skies.
On…off…dim…dimmer…
flutter palms’ release.
Dance free, bright within the night.
Could it be that easy,
as simply letting go?
Photo Credit: Tracy Stansel
Razor edged wire, threatens no more
pock marked walls show soul’s erosion
wind, humidity and whipping post,
rotters in this Devils’ Isle.
Faceless among spirits’ wails,
I roam this prison centuries freed.
Death’s release forced my choice
and I am staid midst crumbling stone.
My crimes were but a patriot’s wish
allegiance not to putrefied wigs,
but to the poor and scrabbling ones
who sought but food and voice.
I swear to you, the sun cared more
within these exiled walls,
than in London’s teeming lanes
and me upon bended knee.
I watch you, with eyes no more
buildings turned to crypt
by guards decrepited, paneless,
upright never then, and failing now.
I see those who cannot see me
workers, reclaimers and visitors alike,
bodies who will never understand
restoration shall never be.
Motivated by dVerse Poet’s Pub: Victoria tending the bar asked us to think about Me, Myself, and I…..or Is It? and write a poem in the first person. This piece is inspired by both the ruins and the history of Bermuda. Photo is at the Royal Naval Dockyard — the Casemates, built in 1839 by British convicts. These buildings were first used to house militia and later became a prison. Some restoration work has occurred — the climate here takes its toll on the old and the new.
They lost their true selves
changed beliefs with shifting winds
chameleons at heart.
Photo from yesterday’s walk: a Jamaican Anole. Species brought to Bermuda in 1905 in a futile attempt to control the Mediterranean Fruit Fly. I’ve not seen any fruit flies — so perhaps it has done its job? Reminds me of a chameleon…although these are its permanent colors.
Asail for Jamestown, weather struck an evil chord.
Young ones lashed to timbers, screamed in terror.
Women, hands clasped, lay flat rolling with the pitch
prayers heard by gales of wind, sent from hell.
What reef was that below? That jarring impact?
Yesterday’s aquamarine, myriad shades of blue
now boiling black sea wall, impossible to climb
sails reduced to shreds, precious cargo lost.
Legs like spindles flailed in white caps
wide-eyed heads and struggling arms schooled
instinctively to shore, collapsed on sand
knowing not this somewhere land.
Awake at dawn, miraculously all ashore
but up and down the sands, bits of her, everywhere.
She is beyond sail. But we are not.
We are a hearty group, this the royals knew.
There are no Others here. No conversions
or wars divert our attention. We live
amongst fowl and fish of many shapes
and harvest abundant cedar trees.
Birds, unused to four limbed walker-talls,
never learned to fear. And so we pet and grab
and spit, until their raucous calls, cahow cahow,
forshadow their impending doom.
We are users now, building for tomorrow.
Tall cedar limbs bend and crack as they grow less
our hopes grow more. The sails shall rise
and we shall once again, ride atop these seas.
1610 ~
The time has finally come. Farewell this land
your gifts to us immeasurable.
And I wonder as I write, who next
shall see this beautiful isle
beneath the skies that never end.
Photos from Bermuda — the myriad shades of blue! Written for dVerse..Kelly tending bar at dVerse asked us to write a narrative poem, somehow including a bird — in commemoration of Harper Lee’s recent death, author of To Kill A Mockingbird. This is (with some liberty) the story of Bermuda’s discovery — totally by accident. The island was uninhabited when discovered. Sadly, the cedar timbers once so plentiful, are all but gone. And the Cahow, once thought extinct, is now making a comeback with help from naturalists here.
Ma cherie, mon amour, au naturelle
like dew drops upon rosebud petals,
champagne bubbles tickling my nose.
Sweet crème fraiche atop fresh picked berries,
whip cream dollups daubed scoop by scoop
on thick chocolat pâtisserie.
Quite simply put, my dear,
you are my ganache.
Quadrille (44 word poem) for Monday’s dVerse, and today, De Jackson our bartender at the pub, asks that we include the word “bubble.” Photo Credit: Enrica Bressan.
The power of naming
you are…this is…they are…that
scepter in your hands.
Blinds pulled shut
vertical and clicking,
cover rotting sill.
Peach-fuzz flesh
smooth-a-licious,
hides crawling worm.
What lies within
the house, its fruit
hidden from view
imperceptible
until we bite.
Sharing with dVerse, Poets’ Pub for their open link night. Bjorn is tending bar tonight! If you love poetry, check out this wonderful concept!
lillian the home poet 