unfurl hope
march, sing
stand resolute and tall.
Answer the call
to freedom this world,
compassion for all.
A second verbification poem for http://dversepoets.com dVerse today. Using nouns as verbs — sunshine and freedom. Saturday, January 21, 2017. First day of a global movement that has the potential for immense power. Photos from Boston’s Women’ Walk for America which included 100,000+ women, men and children. dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Come join us!
like tears gathered in veiled mist.
No loud incendiary words
nor rattling of chains.
Whisper soft,
they cling to mountains
obscure city views,
tall buildings topless
windows moist with deeds past.
They await a new awakening
renewed warmth of will,
a dawn of hope.
Quadrille (44 words) written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today’s word is “whisper.” Photos: left, taken on our trip to Alaska; right by Jesse Miksic.
May the spirit and hope of Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Barrack Obama, and John Lewis infuse our land.
Littered path
fallen leaves like trodden dreams.
Though the way be narrow
quaking aspen still shimmer gold.
Sun shines through tallest trees
as faith dissipates clouds of doubt.
Lean. Push. Persevere.
March through unmarked trail.
Steps may stumble, pace may slow.
Hope shall light your way.
Poem dedicated to my dear friend. Her two year battle with ovarian cancer inspires so many. She reminds us that every day is a new beginning.
It’s Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Mish reminds us the New Year means new beginnings. She provides paintings of 8 gifted artists and asks us to choose one or more “and let the words flow.” The pub opens at 3 PM Boston time….stop in and add your thoughts or just enjoy the words of so many.
Painting credit: New Beginnings. “Jennifer Vranes is best know for her large and vibrant paintings of Aspen Forests and European Landscapes. Her trademarked technique of using a pallete knife to ‘sculpt’ in thick textures has become a favorite among collectors and Art Galleries world-wide.” ~ About the Artist-Jennifer Vranes~ jensart.com
Sweet fawn, framed by forest clearing
breath vapor hangs in air,
eyes wide alert, stare through snow.
Crystal flakes cling to coat,
velvet brown ears quiver
hear soft cries and crooning sounds.
Hooves muted by drifted snow
young woman and man oblivious
as wet nose pushes stable door ajar.
Innocent deer stands quietly,
sees calves lying in tussled straw
lambs nearby, quietly sleep.
And there, wrapped in woolen shawl,
a small babe with contented smile
held close to mother’s breast.
A simple pastoral scene,
Love and Light born this morn.
Photo credit: Benjamin Earwicker. Title from Isaiah 9:6
Poetic license taken (creativity beyond the traditional story).
White crystalline flakes
cascade from dark skies
falling, drifting quietly,
upon the rural scene.
A lowly ass plods slowly
pulled forward by a bearded man.
They lean forward,
tandem force against the wind.
The young woman huddles, sways,
shifted side to side by the animal’s gait.
Feeling movement from within,
she burrows into her woolen shawl.
Talons sunk in frozen bark
feathered body blending into frigid tree,
the snowy owl stares steadily
at the slow motion scene,
watches the couple disappear
over the hill beyond,
unaware, in the darkness,
of the Light that is to come.
Photo in public domain. Poetic license taken (beyond the traditional story).
Splashes of red brighten everyday winter mood.
Cardinal perched ‘top snow laden branch
holly berries ‘mongst waxy green leaves
stocking-capped girl on ice-covered pond.
Cranberry garland round grandma’s tree
foil-wrapped treats with ribbon-tied bows
cinnamon red-hots on gingerbread men.
And then . . . on a star lit night
Old North’s steeple glows tall and bright
draws us to her warmth within.
History fills this sacred space
softly lit by candlelight,
voices lilt from loft above.
Spirits lift and faces shine,
voices raise as all join in
oh come all ye faithful . . .
celebrate that gift of hope.
Love born this very night,
so long long ago.
Old North. Paul Revere’s church where lanterns were waved that infamous night, immortalized in Longfellow’s poem.
We shall walk to Old North on Christmas Eve when the church will be aglow with candles lit in her brass chandeliers and sconces that are 200+ years old.
Christmas lights flicker
like memories this time of year.
Snow falls quietly
somehow ignorant of her pain.
Dedicated to all those who have difficulty this time of year . . . facing personal challenges, illness, grief, or loss. And remembering those who are no longer with us to celebrate this holiday season.
We rented an Iowa farmhouse in 1973, in the midst of loess hills and cornfields. The acreage included a silo, machine sheds, pigs’ digs, and a large barn with 1876 chiseled into the fading red wooden door. On this particular January night, in the midst of a howling blizzard, we heard thumping at our door. Cat, our inherited outdoor farmcat, sat on the stoop. Bulging pregnant belly of yesterday gone, her teats hung low. We offered a bowl of warm milk as George donned winter gear. He set out to follow Cat and insure her new kittens were safe, protected from the storm. She led him in and out of buildings, round that farm for thirty plus minutes. He finally gave up the hunt and came inside, looking like a freeze-frame from Dr. Zhivago. Mucous frozen mustache. Beard turned prematurely white with snow. We feared the worse. And then . . . some weeks later, on a clear, crisp and sunny day, Cat paraded by our window with a smirk on her face. Six little ones scurried behind.
winds howl, snow pelts earth
nature’s creatures burrow deep
wait for calming sun
It’s haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Toni asks us to write about a night we remember. The haibun form includes a paragraph or two in prose (must be nonfiction) followed by a haiku. Photo is in fact, the old farmhouse mentioned in the haibun. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and imbibe some poetry or share your memories of one special night!
And her spirit shall live within the sea
immortality within its ebb and flow.
Ashes tossed from sandy shore catch wind,
float quietly ‘neath shifting clouds
sink, adhere to anemones
and sail on dolphin fins.
Her smile illuminates in lunar path,
glistens under golden sun.
And generations shall feel her touch
toes stepping, leaping within her waves.
First time in another world,
a magical low-tide place.
Barrier reef, bared each day,
encloses wandering sea turtles.
Alone at dawn, I smile as rounded gentle heads
break the surface, breathe, and disappear.
Stepping gingerly from dividing ledge
I ease myself into cool waters.
Push off, arms spread wide in wonder
head down with snorkel gear.
I float. Watching. Waiting . . .
in this absolutely quiet place.
Magnificent beings glide by,
slow motion ballet of graceful power.
Heads and legs, speckled green-browns,
protrude from massive solid backs.
Finning wide of me, angling below me
as if I am not there, yet I am. Mesmerized.
Occasionally one peers at me,
our eyes lock and I gasp within my soul.
I am afloat, savoring stillness,
experiencing a mystical time.
Kelly hosts Poetics today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to write a narrative poem about a “first.” Photos: the “back yard” of a rental house we stayed at three times in Hawaii, the Big Island. Out of the way, it has its own “pool” of tropical fish, the body of water at the bottom of this photo. Dug by the owners, it has a wire mesh grate that allows the ocean in and out but keeps the amazing tropical fish they’ve stocked it with, within the pool. Snorkeling there was amazing too. I’m standing greeting the dawn…and the next body of water you see is what’s called Champagne Pond which snakes back, for quite some distance on the left, out of sight. You barely see the pile of rocks/barrier, exposed at low tide, separating the pond from the ocean proper. Two small photos, I took with a cheap, throw-away underwater camera. Large one is a postcard. We’ve not been back for many years but it is a “first” I shall never forget.
lillian the home poet 