What shall I write this early morn,
when night has barely turned to dawn?
Of hope within my soul,
to see the gull soar past
beyond my window’s pale,
toward ocean’s rhythmic shore.
Of wind chimes’ sound,
their echoes from afar.
kissed aloft by breezes soft.
Drifting from mind to mouth,
‘tis a prayer upon my lips.
Tears but dew upon my cheek,
I whisper joy-stained words
thankful for every day.
It’s Open Link Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poetry writers. That means you can post a poem of your choosing — no prompt today. Grace is tending the pub and invites all to stop by!
sing a song of happiness.
Care and love shall spin their bliss
dawn shines new, more brightly too
when all join hands and share the light
sing a song of happiness.
Make our world a kinder place
My granddaughter, Marika, age 9, made up a tune for this and sings it in the video below.
Sung by Marika, age 9 (my grandaughter). A quadrille (44 words) written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today De is giving us the prompt word, “hope.”
I’ve also posted another poem which uses all 42 words (including hope) in this quadrille series: Film Noir Take 42.
Sing to me softly of innocent dreamers,
babes in loving arms
carried to a better place.
Schooled in hope, promised opportunity
if they dare to walk tall
within the sight lines of humanity.
May their songs never cease.
It is in the unconditional love
that we revel,
trust, feel our worth
and our souls.
the leaving that approaches relentlessly.
Live and love now,
for there will be a day
without a morrow.
Thankful for every day.
Would that I could call you back
take up seeds and sow them deep
roots so strongly based on earth
even angels could not
escape with you enfolded in their wings.
This is my dreamscape.
You, alive with hope,
for many tomorrows.
For dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It’s Quadrille Monday and we’re asked to use the word “dream” or some form of it, in a 44 word poem.Also published today, Film Noir, Take 38 which uses all 38 words given as prompts thus far in our current quadrille cycle. Hope you’ll click on the title and read it too! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Photo: This is my dear friend, Louise. She died in February 2017, after battling ovarian cancer for two years.
In the neighborhood where we raised our children, there was a beautiful weeping willow in the front yard next door. Our children loved to have picnic lunches beneath its low bowing branches. Other times, all the children in the area gathered and played tag, running in and out of the green lacey-leafed cascading curtains, sometimes tripping on the roots that made the ground lumpy beneath its shade. Laughter abounded around the tree.
The only day it earned its name was the day the arborists came. They sawed it into pieces. Drilled out its heart-stump, and carted it all away. My children watched the scene in horror and cried their hurt that night as we sat at the dinner table. Mother nature wept her disappointment in a summer evening storm. Strands of weeping branches littered our street, until the street cleaner arrived early one morning and swept all evidence away.
birds sing sweet sorrow
weeping willow cracks in grief
earth disrobed by man
Thursday is Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Gail is hosting and asks us to come imbibe some words and post one poem of our choice – no prompt given. We’re a friendly bunch. Come enjoy!
My mother and father were very different from each other. She was volatile and outgoing. He was quiet and non-demonstrative. A draftsman by trade, he had neat block printing. His basement workshop shelves contained Skippy jars of nails, nuts and bolts, each with its content duly noted on labels, printed in his steady hand. My mother was brought up in the Catholic Church in the days of “sister school.” I was told that at a young age, the nuns wrapped her knuckles with a ruler when she tried to write with her left hand. Consequently she became a right-hander with almost illegible script.
Our Christmas tree is a memory tree. On the bottom branches, I hang gift tags from years gone by. “To Lillian, Love Mom” written in her horrific handwriting. I also hang wooden ornaments made on my dad’s jigsaw, inscribed on the backs in perfect block letters, “Love Dad.” Nostalgic during the holidays, I occasionally peruse my 1947 baby book, not so much to look at the old black and white photos, but to see my mother’s script which fills the pages. The ramblings of a young harried woman, writing about daily life with me. It takes time to decipher, but I feel her presence more if I can make out the words.
My dad’s perfect printing. My mom’s wild scribbling. They fought, they loved, they played pinochle together. I treasure each for who they were and who together, made me. And I wonder, when I’m gone, will anyone keep these mementos? Or will the ink be so faded, they will be lost to time.
exhuberant colors vased
bonsai, controlled art
Written for dVerse Haibun Monday. Today Victoria is hosting and asks us to explore the Japanese art of Wabi Sabi – the art of revering authenticity, appreciating imperfections, slowing down to appreciate rather than perfect. The haibun form begins with non-fiction prose and concludes with a haiku. The haiku must deal with nature.
Lily of the valley and lily-clouds,
soft cotton poofs on high
occasionally tinged sadly
as raindrops teared the sky.
White gloves held pocketbooks
as ruffled anklets met mary janes.
These were my lillian summers,
years gone by.
That’s me with my beloved brother and gramma and grampa. Written for Misky’s Twiglet prompt, “lily cloud.”
Outside, an evening still-life
city sounds gone.
Color wheel spun to day’s end,
the stuff of coloratura
Within the darkness,
a multiplicity of light.
individual by day
indistinct within their larger shape.
Lunar glow, specks of bright,
office window flickers,
shadows in grays.
Not black or white.
No monochrome this.
Softened lines and curves.
blending into hazy ebony.
Outside my window,
a continuum of grace.
My urban amen
as I slip into sleep.
We’re Looking Out/Looking In at dVerse today. I’m hosting Tuesday’s Poetics and asking everyone to consider the windows in their apartment/home. They can either look in or look out; look at the view or the window itself. And then write a poem that somehow deals with that window, metaphorically or in reality (poetic license allowed, of course!). Each writer is to do two things: 1) post the photo of their window or view from their window; and 2) write a poem motivated by that photo, using the word “window” in either the title or text of the poem. And by the way, dVerse just celebrated their 6th anniversary yesterday!! dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, opens at 3 PM Boston time today. Come on over and post your “view” and/or just take a peek with us! All are welcome!