Dunes of Time

Sand granules shift in shoes
sweat stained belly, dripping hair.
Up and over and down and up
and over and dune after dune.
Some with coarse stubble grass
some ridged from recent winds,
steps sink deeper every step.

Alone with memories,
faces shift like heat shimmers
mirages in my exhausted mind.
One more ridge.
Burning feet stop cold,
pupils dilate, tear ducts long dry
begin to burn, arms lift in shock.

White ripples rise up enmasse,
cacophonous beating wings above my head
thousands swerve. Amorphous sound wave
disappears where blue meets blue.

I stumble, slip down this last sand mound
shocked by their intensity, here then gone.
Lying in cool waters, face to glaring sun
I understand now. They are all gone.

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Published in response to Quickly’s Winter Doldrums: focus on a remembered moement when you seemed to enter into another sense of time.

How May I?

Where is this place your camera stills?
I want to step inside, kaleidoscope left behind,
a monochrome to soothe the soul.

Bedspread created long ago,
thread-circle trails of small stitches
smoothed by generations’ rest.
Wooden cupboard beside the bed
holds graceful, long necked pitcher
inside smooth china bowl,
poised to share cooling waters
rinse woes from worried hands.
Single curtain draped in gauzy folds
lacks taut crease, pressed edge or hem.
Pulled gently to one side, reveals stone wall
somehow softened through old glass panes.
Flowers blossom just beyond,
lines blurred between petal, stem and earth.

No black, no white, no bright cacophony.
The serenity I will surely feel,
if I could step within.

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Photo Credit: Kaz Gosper. Thank you Kaz for allowing me to write a piece about this stunning photo from your trip to the Port Arthur historic site in Tasmania. I truly enjoy following daysandmonths — Kaz’ site where she shares her absolutely stunning photography. Please drop by and enjoy her work!  Also sharing this piece with dVerse Poets Pub, open link night #164 where Gayle tended bar last evening!

Battering Be Gone

On the edge of my seat
waiting for the world to twirl
days to churn, months to plod,
lean in and listen to me.

Bring me to that place,

the sea of tranquility
oasis in the desert of hate
respite from words spewed
like foaming waves upon the shore.

Where people listen
see beyond semantic walls
smile, consider, reflect
as conscience takes a pause.

Take me there, now.
Please

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Photo taken in Bermuda in 2015.

 

 

Channeling

He lived on the streets. His junkie parents couldn’t deal when the infection went to his ears. He could sign though. Well enough that petrified folks gave up their money to the frightening, grunting teen.

Today’s cold was numbing. He entered the church and spied the antique clavier. He found himself sitting, eyes glazed, watching his fingers fly over the keys. What the? And somehow, music filled his head. Loud, crashing crescendos of…

The cop’s shove knocked Ludwig off the stool. The angry gesture sent him sulking back outside. He stopped to listen, straining. Nothing. The mute world stared back.

hh-spinet

Word Count: 100   Although it’s Wednesday, this piece of flash fiction is for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers. Photo Credit: Jan W. Fields.  Ludwig van Beethoven (1770 to 1827) was almost totally deaf in the last decade of his life. Many of his most admired pieces were composed in that last decade. Would that a homeless young boy might have his talents and we would never know.

In Response to Death

I shall be more than a visitor upon this earth.
Cities and countries stabbed with green push pins
in a yellow brittle map upon the wall.
Dog-eared journals full of must-sees checked off in red.
Christmas cards sent round the world
Best Wishes from lillian embossed in gold.

When I die, my life shall not flash before me
like quick bold lightning, jagged and gone.
I shall keep everyday images seared in my heart.

Eraser smudges on valentine red, paled with years.
The familiar slant of my daughter’s hand,
scribbled note stuck on refrigerator door.
The love of my life, head bowed, dozing in his chair.
Our white house, its wide open yard
where we chased fireflies on warm Iowa nights.

Visitors tread imprints upon the ground
disturbed, then gone with the slightest breeze.
My death shall leave my laughter and my grin
my dancing spirit and my quirky ways,
some of me in those I leave behind,
having lived and loved upon this earth.

Ah serentiy

For today’s Poetics on dVerse, the Poets’ Pub, Mary asked us to write a poem in response to another poet’s work. I’ve chosen to respond to Mary Oliver’s When Death Comes. You’ll notice that my first line cues off her last line.  History:  I wrote the first “edition” of this poem as my very first assignment in a poetry class I took in February 2015. Mary Oliver’s New and Selected Poems Volume One is the first poetry book I ever bought. This Pulitzer Prize winning poet, motivated my first attempt in the start of my poetry writing. This new version is quite quite different. I like to think I’ve improved in my creative writing attempts over this past year!

 

Dementia

Memory spiders twirling thoughts.
Nurse-white whisper shoes
sidle by. Clocks in freezer
stopped time when I knew me.
Thawed too fast, so they came
in loud tapping shoes.
And we danced ourselves into lucidity,
spotlight shining bright.
I remember tomorrow
like it was yesterday.

FullSizeRenderQuadrile 1 for dVerse Pub for Poets. Word count 44, using a form of the word dance – as in dance into a condition.

Stellar Transition

Magic beans lie atop the fallow ground
rooted by tears those many years ago.
His death, unexpected
after one hundred glorious days.

She’d waited patiently,
gossamer hair now grey.
And when the monsoon rains did come
they matched her grief in magnitude.

Rivers engorged
became fast running seas.
Earth drenched in new hope,
the magic began to grow.

Tendrils became vines
became trees became redwoods,
and blushed at her ascent.
Last steps on lightning’s jagged stairs.

His fingertips reached down for hers,
thunderous clouds turned calm.
And a new blaze was born that night,
third star to the north of Sirius.

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Photo Credit:  Michele de Notaristefani

Knitting for Love

Like our life, a meld of tangles and the beautiful.
Skeins of wool.
Layer upon layer, unwound and wound again, shaped anew
redefined for you.
My arms, for warmth ‘neath heavens above,
reflect our love,
as we stand, dreams shared, taking hold of
us in this sparkling path of moonlight.
We blend together, you and I, like bright
skeins of wool, redefined for you, reflect our love.

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An Ovillejo written for dVerse. A Spanish form of verse, ovillejo is a 10 line poem: rhyme scheme aa, bb, ccd, dd and the final 10th line must be lines 2, 4 &  6 verbatim.  Lines 2, 4 and 6 are short, remaining lines long. Whew!  Like doing a sudoku in poetry!!!  Photo Credit: Ula Kapala