Across the page my pen does fly
If, not, why
A pathway straight to and from my . . .
He, she, I
. . . Brain
I tell my story, tell again
First, next, then
Revise and edit with my pen
House, place, den
Written by Stella Hallberg, my granddaughter, who will soon be 11. She and I trade poetry prompts each month. She decided we would start the year with the same word, scheherazade. This is her poem….as she wrote it. No edits by me. It fits beautifully with Bjorn’s prompt for today at dVerse. He asks us to recognize the importance of silence in poetry. Silence can be illustrated with various punctuation, including the ellipsis . . . which Stella uses in her poem. Stella explained to me “The syllable pattern is something I might have made up. I did 8, 3, 8, 3, 1 twice, but at the end I added 5, 4. Do you like it?” Yes, Stella, I do! 🙂
My first eighteen years ~
we enjoyed picnics
family celebrations and holidays.
Cacophonies of raucous laughter and glee.
Hiatus years, different byways ~
address books with edit over edit.
Catch-up Christmas times
marked by postage-due,
aging faces afloat in photo cards.
Reunions of late, any time of year ~
increase in frequency.
Convene in funeral homes,
adjourn with casseroles
served over memories.
Still shadows walk beside me ~
aunts, uncles, cousins.
Will I be the last?
Sole survivor of happy clan,
left to sit with photo albums,
colors fading beyond the years.
Motivated by Misky’s Twiglet prompt, “still shadows.” A twiglet is a short phrase meant to motivate thoughts. Photos from many many years ago when we often gathered with aunts and uncles and cousins – we had so much fun together in those days when the entire family lived nearby. Now, sadly, all the aunts and uncles, my folks and brother, and some of my cousins, have passed on from this life. Others live far from me. Family is always dear — no matter how far and no matter if earthly or not.
one christmas mass past
my hands clasped, so smooth, so young
hers riddled vein-blue ~
snow covers ground, gently still
my hands hued with age, missing hers
Our Christmas tree is a memory tree. The bell from my mother’s tree, when she was a little girl. The Santa my brother made in first grade. He was nine years older than me and died far far too young at fifty-one. The airplane from my father’s tree when he was a little boy. Christmas brings so many memories of cherished times past with relatives, friends and family. Merry Christmas, everyone!
Tanka form: 5 lines, syllables of 5-7-5-7-7. There should be a “twist” or change that occurs between lines 3 and 4.
I sit silently this early morn,
scenes from yesterdays
flickering through my mind.
Their childhood. My childhood.
Her sliver-thin sugar cookies,
his wool overcoat and black galoshes.
These scenes from Christmas past
remembered through the hush of time.
Light shafts begin to intrude,
cast shapes upon the floor.
Today encroaches as the rising dawn.
Reluctantly I stir,
take up requirements of the day
but a promise I do make.
On Christmas Day, in early morn
I shall return to these shadows,
to this quiet place of calm.
I shall recall again the way it was,
the ones who were, those many times.
And I shall whisper to my memories,
Merry Christmas to all.
This score’s for you.
None of that silent reading please,
move your mouth and loose those chords.
This gig is made for jumpin’ jive
words like notes, should come alive
Drum set movin’ stickin’ strong
keh-nock that rim
keh-nockin’ smooth and stickin’ strong.
Brushes swishing smoothing so
brushing brushing softly go.
Brushing cymbals smoothly now
brushing brushing, soon to splash.
Two feet pumping work the set
bouncing, grooving rhythms’ beat.
High hat moving by the left,
bopping bass drum boomed by right.
Trumpet blaring bleating high
sax is sobbing, crooning low.
Clarinet steps up to lead,
fingers pop and swing that reed.
Trombone arm moves in and out
and o-o-o-o-zing down,
gliding in and sliding out.
Pedal pumping, player plunking
blacks and whites bring pure delight.
Fingers fly then magically join
chords crescendo, conclude the jam.
So come my friends and keep it movin’
snap your fingers, sway your way.
Don’t just sit there silently still,
find your groove to rock your day.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics over at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. Asking folks how they feel today. Suggesting that they find their groove somehow and create a poem of any form, that uses the word “groove” or a derivation of the word. Come join us! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.
I am with you still.
embued within the sky
floating midst the clouds
cool mist above rushing waters.
I walked this earth
stacked small rocks
in special places.
Grieve not for me,
Between your steps
feel me still.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. And we begin anew. Week 1 with 43 more to come. Today, Quadrille Week 1, the word to use within our poem is “rock” – or a form of the word. Come join us! A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words…sans title.
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.