Night View from 7N

Outside, an evening still-life
city sounds gone.
Color wheel spun to day’s end,
the stuff of coloratura
no more.
Within the darkness,
a multiplicity of light.

Tree leaves
individual by day
morphed imperceptible,
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.
Milky illumination
blending into hazy ebony.
Outside my window,
a continuum of grace.
My urban amen
as I slip into sleep.

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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!

Blessings

When the cacophony of news blares deafening dreadful,
‘tis time to still one’s feet, one’s hands, one’s mind.

Seek the beautiful, but for a moment.
Listen to stillness and you will hear the quiet.

Contemplate the beside you ~
     the chair upon which you sit
     the cold-hot water you may choose to drink, to draw
     the texture of cloth which warms your skin
     the view through glass panes that alternates,
     day to night to day again
     the love you carry within your heart,
     from those who have held your hands.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

Then slowly rise and move deliberately,
into the good.

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It’s Tuesday and that means Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Paul is hosting and tells us about a book, Anam Cara, by Irish poet/philosopher John O’Donahue, which includes a number of “Blessings” poems. Paul asks us to write a blessing, adding “and may our words create ripples in the pond of the world.”  Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come soar with us! Photo taken a number of years ago on our Baltic cruise.

My Dad

My dad was a quiet man. He wasn’t an exuberant fan of any pro or local sports teams. But I do remember him sitting on our fake leather hide-a-bed couch, watching Cubs games on our blonde console TV. Televisions in those days were cumbersome pieces of furniture. My mother stacked Readers Digests on top of ours.

I never saw my dad swing a baseball bat, but he wielded a mean croquet mallet. It sent many a competitor’s wooden ball sailing into our neighbor’s yard. And rather than joining the popular winter bowling leagues, he stayed late after work, one night a week, competing in a checkers club. He also loved pinochle and rummy. He taught me all these games, using very few words. And he never let me win — until I really did. I never participated in sports. But I did become a high school and college debater. I wonder how much the man of few words had to do with that?

tall oak canopy
acorn roots itself below
reaches for new heights

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Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn asks us to write about sport. A haibun is a piece of prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. Generally, the haiku must be about nature.

 

The Bed

We fancied ourselves antiquers in those days. In reality, we bought used furniture at farm auctions, garage sales, and dusty second hand stores.

In its day, it was called a sleigh bed. We spied the slightly warped high headboard and frame propped up against a wall, and bargained for a price we could afford. Back home, our daughter was fast approaching the age to move out of her crib into a “big girl bed” and my parents were with us for a visit. We enlisted my father’s help. He sanded then painted the headboard white and stenciled it with blue tulips and red hearts. Our daughter slept with that design above her head long after my father died. Until she left the nest and began her college years.

robin gathers twigs
nesting haven grows crowded
wind tussles emptiness

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Grace is hosting Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Haibun: one or two paragraphs of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. She introduces the Japanese tradition of kintsugi, asking us to write about finding beauty in broken pieces or imperfections. Photo: headboard from the side. This is my daughter, many years ago, being awakened by a surprise birthday party from her friends.

The Old Lamp Lighter

Lamplighter of yesteryear
resides light years away.
Nightly strolls relocated,
he illuminates the stars.

Written for dVerse where I’m hosting today, asking folks to write a poem that contains the title of a Billboard Magazine #1 hit recording from the year they were born, or their early years of growing up. The Old Lamp Lighter, recorded by Sammy Kaye and His Orchestra, 1947. Below is a drawing my 10 year old grandson did for this post.

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Helen Cecile

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! 

Nahed Enid’s Growing Garden

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.