Still I rise
writ Maya Angelou,
ParaOlympians say too.
Said John Lewis while making
good trouble and Martin Luther King
as he dreamed aloud that day. Say organ
donors and recipients. Smiles Albus Dumbledore
on the big screen every time we see Fawkes reborn.
NAPOWRIMO Day 20. Prompt: Write a poem that includes an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase. Image from Pixabay.com
In his dodder of thyme,
the current head DC gardener
continues to uproot and rip out
Justicia, Honesty, and roses of all kind.
As if they were the weeds.
In their place he sows and propagates
Crown Imperial, Wormswood, Snakesfoot,
King-cups and Creeping Cereus.
This prickly pear of a man
is in no way a humble plant.
More like a mouse-eared-chickweed
forever noshing on Fool’s Parsley,
basking under the shade
of his pruned Judas Trees.
Outside his sphere, weeping willows
flail in dire need of gentle balm.
They must find a new sage, soon.
Both Burpee and the
Farmer’s Almanac warn
the upcoming planting season
will be a crucial one.
NAPOWRIMO Day 19. Today’s prompt: Using Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers, write a poem in which you muse on your selections of flowers names and meanings from her extensive list.
*** All of the flowers and plants I’ve used from her book, are italicized in the poem. I’ve kept the capitalization only on those that are actually used in the poem as the plant/flower itself. Reference is paid to the Old Farmer’s Almanac and the Burpee Seed Catalogue.
IMAGE of the Jacqueline Kennedy Rose Garden at the White House, courtesy of the National Park Service website.
Sun shimmers through forest’s canopy.
Moon cuts path across ocean’s abyss.
Infant’s mouth opens to circle small,
pink tongue slides in and out and in again.
Girl grins, pumping swing as pigtails fly.
Puddles appear inviting all to splash.
Child’s momentary shock as bat hits ball,
then small feet fly to first.
Thick carpet of pristine snow
invites children of all ages
to lie down, swooping arms.
Create guardian angels among us.
Folks sway in jazz club,
hear saxophones mellow out.
Watch nimble fingers create piano riffs,
brushes rhythmically swish on snares.
In the midst of ever present news,
cacophonies of catastrophes.
Find space to feel lightness,
safe harbors for hope.
Sound muted.
Cacophony of silence.
Words spilled on a page,
sentenced to death.
Alphabet stews
bleeding false truths.
Democracy verbified.
Present tense
slanted to the future,
diagrammatical correction needed
Guide to collective nouns.
Bloat: hippopotamuses
Murder: crows
Bed: sloths
Shiver: sharks
Scourge: mosquitoes
And
Petrified: today’s Republican Congress.
Sound muted.
Cacophony of silence.
This is the saddest story
I have ever heard.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Punam provides us with a number of opening lines from various books and writings. We are to take one of the opening lines provided, and make it the closing line of our poem. We must use the line as is..no addition or subtraction of words. The line I’ve chosen to use is “This is the saddest story I have ever heard,” from The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford. Image by John from Pixabay
Abracadabra
because I want a magician’s wand to
change what was into what was not and what could be.
Defy divisiveness,
effects of hatred, and speaking of the “us” versus the “other”.
Forge ahead to find new paths.
Gather those who want positive change.
Hand in hand with hope, honesty and just
intentions, may we begin to
just listen. Truly listen
knowing we are all located within the same sea of humanity.
Listen and listen more. Open our ears and hearts.
Make a concerted effort,
not numbing the pain of others into
oblivion.
Prayer is not enough. In the
quest for healing, we must
reflect on what could be and make it so. It may
seem
tenuous
until we verbally and actively
validate the
worth of all God’s people.
Xenophobia is not an option.
You and I, if we’re honest, also have roots in other places.
Zest and good will toward all humanity: may it be our Resolution for 2026.
Written for Meet The Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re asked to become Abecarians: Create a poem of 26 lines where each line begins with a letter of the alphabet and the letters are sequential. I’ve written from A to Z. Not the first letter of the first word in each line. Image from Pixabay.com
People are different.
Color, ethnicity, gender,
religious beliefs, language,
citizenship, culture.
Gather them all in one place,
in concentric circles
facing each other, holding hands.
Each circle defined by a trait.
Note: circles have no beginning or end.
He who joined first disappears.
She who joined last disappears.
All are integral to their circle.
Herein lies a truth of geometric principle.
Concentric circles differ in radii
but have the same center point.
And what is that same center point?
As Maya Angelou famously wrote,
“We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.”
The center point is our humanity.
Sadly however,
truth is not constructed reality
when the builder is a demolitionist.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today I am hosting: go to https://dversepoets.com to see the prompt this poem is motivated by.
. . . thrive in this topsy-turvey world.
I shall walk upside down, toes in the stars,
leaving diamond shaped footsteps in the sky.
When down is up and in is out,
I shall put my forearms in earth’s rich soil
wiggling my fingers like squiggling worms.
I will be a handstand acrobat
padding through sunflower fields,
pollen dusted elbows attracting bees.
When the sun sets,
I shall ride the moon
kicking stars into nova showers.
I shall hum joyfully in my out-of -tune way,
find greening in deserts, sunlight in shadows,
and I will always smile with hope.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
You are my sunrise
as are friends, family,
birthdays, holiday celebrations,
graduation festivities
hot fragrant coffee
smiles from passersby
crescendos in concertos
hugs and kisses
toddlers stomping in puddles
charitable donations
springtime flowers
random acts of kindness.
Sunshine, a constant,
even behind the clouds.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m tending the pub and asking folks to include the word “sunrise” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
In all the chaos across our world, the sun still rises every day, even when it resides behind the darkest of clouds. For me, that is representative of hope – the idea that love and goodness are always present – even in the stormiest of times. Sunrise photo taken in Provincetown, MA – at the very tip of Cape Cod.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
There is a man among us
who struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
leading others who listen blindly.
His words, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing that is truth.
What is past is prologue.
Poets shouldst therefore heed the Bard,
his timeless words meaningful yet today.
There have been many great men
that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them.
But how is one to label this man as great?
Perhaps in the way of Satan’s greatness
controlling some, luring others.
After all, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
Oh what men will dare to do!
Let no such man be trusted.
What of those who follow, whose integrity be lost?
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
There’s small choice in rotten apples.
In these chaotic times,
what is our fate, my friends?
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny
but in ourselves.
For each of us can add to the light,
hold our candle high in windows across the land.
One will become many, and many become a multitude.
In light’s refraction, his rabid followers stagger.
They shall greet fear in their mirror.
Positions no longer secure
as multitudes greet them shouting “SHAME”.
Truthtellers stand in solidarity,
voices raised, we cannot be ignored.
THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!
The Bard penned:
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot;
And thereby hangs a tale.
Loud enough, persistent enough, we must be the solution.
Hands that right the scales of Justice.
We must take control of the tale.
Destiny be in our hands.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril hosts and asks us to consider fate. She suggests we could, for example, consider Frost’s or Shakespeare’s words on fate. I’ve chosen to refer to the Bard himself, within my poem. All of the bolded lines are quotations from Shakespeare. Let the Bard speak to you in these chaotic times!
All images except the scales of Justice are from recent demonstrations I’ve participated in. The scales of Justice image is from Pixabay.com
A new day,
sun shining spreads its warmth.
Rays of hope still glisten
on foam capped waves.
Steady tide
still rhythmically constant
beneath visible turbulent churning.
Autumnal brilliance shed.
Trees bared to skeletal frames
understand new seasons will arrive.
Therefore, I choose
to model hope, love and civility.
Our next generations
need us to believe.
Written on this day, after the 2024 election. Image from Pixabay.com
lillian the home poet 