Discombobulized,
she was like that.
Wound up tight tremors,
taut sprockets of the mind.
Spring-like nerves compressed
temper flares spewed.
Church hands folded, twitched,
flailed by noon.
Even keel sailing
turned runaway train.
Expect the unexpected,
she was like that.
Kim is hosting today’s quadrille ( a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to use the word “spring.” Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Were you waiting for me?
Back corner of her studio, smiling
gathering dust midst jewelry displays
shadow boxed art.
Did you jiggle a bit?
Swing your beaded cord braids
glint a wink from googly metal eyes.
Functional Art the sign said.
Amalgamation of discards
someone’s this and something’s that.
Old charms (you do), hair fobs
paintbrush skirt and flower heart
forever wire smile.
You caught my eye that day
and here you are with me
forever now my muse.
Written for prompt in my online poetry class with Holly Wren Spaulding. We are to write a poem of address – as in addressing someone or something. This is a wonderful piece of art work entitled Growing My Garden by Nahed Enid: bought at Nahed’s studio in at the Dockyards in Bermuda. She makes me smile every morning as I sit to write and read.
36,000 square feet
2,500 photographs
900 artifacts.
Stared. Imagined inside
dark train cattle car.
Craned necks looking up
vintage portraits, village faces.
Gaped at 4,000 shoes
haphazard heap, all sizes.
Sat at the end,
exhausted by 36,000 square feet
2,500 photographs, 900 artifacts.
Gruesome cold history
what was, compiled
artfully displayed.
And then . . .
her arm around the elderly man
stumbling, sobbing
short sleeved shirt, indelible ink.
I know, Papa, I know.
Written in response to an online 21 day course I am taking, day 7 prompt. I took my first poetry class two years ago from Holly Wren Spaulding and am enjoying working with her again. We toured the museum the first year it opened. Seeing this elderly man, a holocaust survivor, at the end of our visit shockingly reminded us of the holocaust’s reality. Photo from the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC. Posted for OLN Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop in to imbibe some words from creative folks across the globe!
Feather dust star strewn night,
spread sparkle sheen to darkest place
and shine the earth with hope.
Written for misky’ twiglet prompt, “shedding dust.” The words are used to motivate a thought, fragment, idea…the shorter the better.
Blueprints in a cacophony of color
design my living loving house.
Angleless corners round flowing rooms,
textured floors pad souls on soleless feet.
One winding willow tree, rooted in love
grows up through every floor.
Climbs beyond skylight so all will see,
budding tiara atop our greening roof.
Two forms of light magically illuminate.
I-believe-claps activate sun in every space.
Twinkle twinkle little star releases scrim,
sparkles day dreams, night time’s too.
Inside is outside in my paneless house.
Plantings nourished from within,
grow and bloom beyond the sash.
Our family lives with open doors
and all are welcome here.
Sara hosts Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to build a house within a poem. My imaginary house is influenced by seeing the Hundertwasser House in Vienna many years ago. Friedensreich Hundertwasser, Vienna artist and architect, 1928 – 2000. Painting on top left is Hundertwasser House in Moonlight, color lithograph based on the original by Karl Goldammer, 1995. Photo on right is the actual Hundertwasser House, public housing on the corner of Lowengasse / Kegelgasse, Vienna. Third image is his painting: The 30 Days Fax Painting, 1994 and gives you a sense of his style as a painter. He defied the straight line and believed in the poetic quality of inhabited space: irregular alignments of windows, the spatial integration of trees and wavy lines in his urban plans. Uneven floors and undulating rough cast walls, tree-roofs, bearded windows, and tree tenants were features of his architecture.
Rural Iowa and fifteen acres of land. Three rusty metal cross-bars hold taut clothesline flapping white sheets and cotton diaper cloths. I stand on tip-toe, reaching high to pick low-hanging fruit. Branches sag with their weight. Nearby, the garden waits. Beet greens wilt, red-veined, atop vegetables grown too plump beneath the soil. Feathery dill goes to seed as crazed zucchini plants maze through cukes and pumpkin patch.
In the distance, I see dust rise before I hear the car. George is returning from city life to our quiet country home. A space to live simply on the land.
rolling hills of green
beribboned by dusty roads
corn silk dries in sun
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Toni is tending bar and speaks to us about the Japanese tradition of foresting — simply walking through the woods, unplugged, relaxed, listening and smelling what is true. Our Haibun must be one or two tight paragraphs of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. She asks that we write about a time we simply enjoyed the out-of-doors or a natural place. She wants us to relax with our readers — offering a post of calm.
for putting in.
Rarely
taking out.
Three corroded pennies.
One pale yellow
Tupperware bottle cap.
One hair comb.
Strands
stuck in teeth.
One black and white
cracking
turned grays
dime store photostrip.
Sachet
absent scent.
Seven holy cards.
Lipstick bottom
almost empty
vibrant
red.
Tumbled
left behinds.
Bits
of
her.
Written for day 3 of my poetry mentor’s March 21 Day Challenge online poetry class. We are to write a poem of short lines with many stanzas.
I.
sprigs of green peek out
crocus, tulips, daffodils
ready to spring forth
II.
shedding winter coats
pregnant bellies everywhere
spring phenomenon
III.
lily pad squatter
spring-like legs tense, eyes take aim
SPLAT, misjudged its mark
Stones lean precariously after years of neglect. Some cracked. Others bedecked by lichen. Tall wild grasses and spindly trees surround antiquity. Tourists hike the nearby road, unaware. Disconnected to what was. But the Earth knows. She periodically sheds tears, some frozen in anguish, others gentle in their falling. Her memory forever graced by those embraced within her folds.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today’s prompt is to write prose poetry. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. This is a special place in cyberspace where poems are shared and read. Come join us!
Everyday, somewhere
irreconcilable change.
Endings pivot to less beginnings
emptiness beside waking self.
Everyday, somewhere
someone’s last dawn
awakens another’s grief.
Photo taken in Provincetown, MA, on Cape Cod.
lillian the home poet 