Go forth to seek old friends.
Rise to the occasion as you step into your past.
Play at remembering faces until a
spark of recognition ignites, and memories
flow as smiles grow.
Crush each other in hugs, abandon inhibitions.
Defy years that added stiff knees, sagging skin and sometimes balding heads.
Love simply that you stand with one another, however changed by time.
Wander campus, so different but somehow still the same.
Shine in celebration of life, fifty years later still here . . .
and here again.
Victoria is host at today’s dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to consider the world of pop art: think Andy Warhol’s Campbells Tomato Soup Cans. Several suggestions for poems arise from her prompt, including using a product as the subject of a poem. This cereal box resides within our kitchen cupboard so I’ve used its words to begin each line of my poem. And oh yes…..the Class of 1969 at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois was indeed an original and unique one. Photos from this past weekend’s 50th college reunion below. What a wonderful time we had renewing old friendships and taking a walk down the proverbial memory lane!
I shall not go quietly.
Monocolors about to shift
enabled by passing time.
A last hurrah.
Flashing reds and golds
kicking up my heels,
swirling dervish as I let loose.
Revelry earned by business suits,
years of accountability
must-dos and many don’ts.
I shall dance the can-can.
precisely because I can
My name may not be Autumn,
but watch me go out
in a blaze of glory.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Bjorn asks us to write using metaphor. Photo cropped from one in Pixabay.com.
Oh dear sweet child
and parents too,
listen to what I say
and do as squirrels do.
Spring time they play,
summers they work.
Winter time’s rest
is always the best
because gathered nuts
gifted by trees,
are stored for later
so they won’t freeze.
The lesson to this bushy tale,
my sweet and darling little dear,
is live like the squirrel
and there’s nothing to fear.
Enjoy all the good times
but work hard too.
Talents used wisely
make blessings accrue.
Amaya is hosting Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We are to create a child’s nursery rhyme motivated by one of several Franz Kafka (modernist German writer) quotations provided in the challenge, remembering that children like rhythm and rhyme.
The Kafka quotation that motivates this Bushy Tale is “God gives the nuts, but he does not crack them.” Photo at Pixabay.com
Beneath blood-red sunset
she met her ex.
Tinction blotted sky
with angry cloud canopy,
festered over sea.
She should have known.
His, not hers.
His passion revealed in fists.
Her dignity recouped,
but at a price.
Sky now cement blocks.
Posted to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Linda asks us to use the word “extinction” or a form of the word, in the body of a quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Extinction does appear in Lifer. Do you see it?
The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines tinction as the act or process of staining or dyeing: coloring matter.
Photo taken in Provincetown, Cape Cod.
sunrise red softens
sky stains blur gorgeous pastels
tint sea pearly-pink
curmudgeon sea gull
squawking, scolding, guarding catch
flaps wings, screaming MINE
stealthy no more, gulls swoop in
garnet red sunset
crimson canopy save gull
streaking across sky
Photos from the past two weeks in Provincetown….all as seen from the deck of our annual rental. No photo-shopping….these are the real colors as we saw them.
Ptown, at the very tip of Cape Cod, has been a muse for many an artist as well as literary giants including Mary Oliver, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, Norman Mailer, Eugene O’Neill, and John Dos Passos.
When it’s very still
and my soul’s at rest,
I see shadows nearby,
An ethereal background
hovers . . .
seemingly through them.
As if a thinning fog.
Shadows of people,
all of them gone.
But here they stand,
their profile or back to me.
My brother, leaning in.
My father with wavy hair.
My mother, skirts lifted,
swaying to music I strain to hear.
Time intrudes and eyes focus,
reality presents itself.
Wedges its way into my mind
until I question what I saw.
But everybody sees shadows
on bright sunlit days.
They dance beside us,
follow, or lead the way.
So who is to say these shadows,
appearing to me when I am alone
are not at least as real
as those we see on sunny days?
Perhaps these shadows also lead me.
I’m hosting Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and folks are invited to post any poem of their choosing. These photos taken this week in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod….and they got me to thinking about shadows.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
. . . that greets each visitor. A grey clapboard shack-of-a-building at the wharf’s edge. Ferries dock nearby. Disgorge day-trippers to this Cape Cod town. Three rusted, but still operational fishing boats, are moored nearby. A far cry from the fleets tethered to a myriad of docks, back in the fishing and whaling heydays here in Provincetown.
Larger-than-life black and white portraits of Portuguese women are affixed to the shack. They Also Faced the Sea is an art installation, a tribute to the patience and suffering of those who waited. They had no way of knowing when their men would return, until the sailing ships reappeared on the horizon. They waited for their husbands, brothers, and sons. Coastal storms battered their simple homes. Kettles filled with hearty stew simmered as families prayed, then ate at roughhewn tables. One empty chair often haunted their meals. Thunder would roll in and they would silently worry. Was he battling this storm? Would the mast hold . . . or would he be swallowed by a churning sea?
Portraits on a wooden edifice. Reminders of those who still wait . . . still pray.
autumn breeze cools shore
gulls wait, savor shift in wind
as clams, crabs, float in
It’s Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Sarah asks us to write about “waiting” — I’ve chosen to do so in a haibun (three succinct paragraphs of prose – cannot be fiction – followed by a traditional haiku).
We are in our last few days of our annual two-week visit to Provincetown. I took this photo on our trip into Provincetown and we’ll see this wonderful art installation again as we leave on the ferry back to Boston on Saturday. This is at MacMillan Pier – photographs by Norma Holt and art installation by Ewa Nogiec. It has watched over the Fisherman’s Wharf portion of the pier for the past 10 years.
It’s been years . . . years engrossed in toddlerhood, PTAs, junior high whims and the highschool weaning – mine, not hers. Knowing she’d leave for college. How’s that possible?
I’m really the single mom now. Dropped her off and just kept driving. Back in time to Provincetown. Famous for literary genius and rollicking good times. My first taste of love had sand above his lip. Took me to places that whipped the breath of my soul. Summer seeds of passion. Literally. Back at University, my belly grew. Summer faded and she became my life.
The beach is different in late September. Standing by the ancient wharf’s remains, deserted by history. All these memories were left here with the trees’ ancient pilings. But I found my true compass in Sandy. No regrets. Someday, I’ll bring her here to see where she began.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Merril hosts our 4th Prosery session, a new form created by dVerse. It is “flash fiction” (of any genre) that incorporates a line from a poem — and is not more than 144 words long. Merril selected the line “These memories were left here with the trees” by Jo Harjo, the new U.S. Poet Laureate. This is fiction.
Photo taken on our Provincetown walk earlier this week. There are a number of pilings from abandoned wharfs here — in its heyday, Portuguese immigrants settled here and created a vibrant fishing and whaling center.
Provincetown was a summer home to many of America’s intellectuals, artists and writers including Eugene O’Neill, Norman Mailer, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, John Dos Passos, and of course the beloved Mary Oliver.
Provincetown is at the extreme tip of Cape Cod.
Layers of putty grey clouds hover on the horizon. Empty masts jut upward from small boats bobbing in waking waves.
Look right: off in the distance, pale blue sky meets roof tops of white clapboard buildings; the town, a twenty-minute walk away. Look left: eyes squint as water glitter-gleams. The sun appears then disappears, valiantly trying to break through slow moving, darkening clouds. A lone gull perched on jetty’s peak, preens itself then sits, nature so statuesque, as waves slap against stone, lap into shore.
Morning pauses, weather waits . . . deciding on its temperament for the day.
early September ~
dalliance between summer
and crisp autumn days
Posted to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Frank asks us to write a poem that includes descriptive detail.
My haibun (prose followed by a traditional haiku that includes a seasonal reference) is about what I saw this morning, sitting on the deck of our annual two-week rental in Provincetown. Photos document the view! Provincetown is at the very tip end of Cape Cod.
was like being an upholstered couch
situated in the middle of a room.
Catching rays of sun on good days
from lovely curtained panes,
being shredded on the wall side,
used like a cat’s scratching post.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Laura hosts Tuesday Poetics.