There is a beauty in the withering . . .
as if through sheer will power
life endures in fragility.
Color long faded
veins protruding
curling inward . . .
Death shall not win
until snow blankets the earth
to comfort its fall.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Mish is hosting and asks us to write a poem in which we find beauty in the ugly. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Potter by trade
she worked the wheel.
Hands wet,
shaping clay –
wishing her life
was as easy to mold.
Photo from Pixabay.com
Demolition man.
His explosions
too often
too close to home.
Photo from Pixabay.com
Package somewhat frayed
wrapping creased, well worn,
shelf-life unknown.
Sensibility
seems supercilious.
Color me fuchsia, chartreuse
and buttercup yellow bright.
Spot light my abilities
and watch me, join me.
Tap dance into footlights.
Ignore splayed feet,
creped skin.
Laugh yesterdays past.
Smile me todays
and watch me grin.
Video from April – a tap dancing lesson with my granddaughter!
Farm house apple trees,
harvest never picks them clean.
Fruit rots ‘neath baring branches,
bees buzz drunkenly in mashed pulp.
Sickly sweet scent hovers,
annual fall perfume.
Gina is our guest host for today’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to write about a scent we remember. Apple Me Too Many is drawn from my memories of living in a farm house on 30 acres of land in rural Iowa, from 1974 to 1976. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Hats . . .
so many in a lifetime
exchanged with curves in road.
Strapped on through squalls,
gently worn on balmy days
stored on shelf when out of style.
Mother-hat,
adjustable as needed
blessed to wear.
Daugher-sister hats
occasions departed,
retired too soon.
Yourlove-hat
once perky, so with-the-times
never veiled.
Labelled vintage now
slightly creased with age,
worn with gentle smile.
Yourlove always,
shining in my mirror.
Mother’s treasured knick knack,
miniature rotary telephone.
Two metal pieces, one with delicate dial,
still turns by clumsy finger tip.
Second piece balances on first,
receiver, small enough I’m sure,
to span from fairy’s mouth to ear,
to listen and to talk.
Mother’s treasured knick knack,
best friend’s gift in ’37.
Yellowed fragile note,
pristine cursive of the day.
My dear sweet Helen,
Always remember,
girl talk makes our days go faster.
Love from Franny, forever.
Mother’s treasured knick knack
sits on dusty shelf,
beside great-grandmum’s cameo brooch,
glass hat pin
and wound-to-tight music box.
Worthless items today,
to you.
Priceless to me.
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Sarah is hosting and asks us to be mindful about a particular object….any object. Pick it up, examine it, write anything that comes to mind from it…and then from those thoughts, write a poem.
You are harborrific.
When squalls appear,
dark clouds that threaten hope
creating an eclipse hard to swallow,
you are my comfort place.
I love our passion.
But mostly . . .
I love lying beside you.
Our hand-touching-hand
breath-slowing-to-sleep
end-of-day soothing, calming
togetherness time.
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, I’m asking folks to consider the word harbor. Use harbor or a form of the word in your quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). I’m looking for harborlicious poems — taking a bite of poetic license with the word is allowed — as long as we see the word. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Pastry chef by trade,
she specialized in delicate souffles
risen to perfection.
Until he stormed out that night,
slammed the door hard –
and everything collapsed.
He spun a sugar-coated tale.
Bright lights and sequins,
adoring crowds.
Come join me and be a star!
So I went.
Believed that sweet talking ringleader . . .
and his beguiling eyes.
Spot lights fell on sawdust stages
again and again in tawdry towns.
Love is blind – too late I saw.
Following him, I lost my way.
He prances about, cajoles the crowd.
I traipse ’round makeshift bleachers
sans sequins, sans fame.
Get your cotton candy here!
I am the busker
for his spun-sugar tale.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Sarah hosts and wants us to go to the circus! Pub opens at 3:00 PM Boston time. Come join us!
lillian the home poet 