Lately, there’ve been too many days when I want to escape somewhere to a place where news does not exist. No headlines. No statistics. There is so much horror around us. And our “around” is no longer just our neighborhood. It’s the world.
Some days, I want to pull inward to savor the good I know exists. That’s difficult to do when images of Ukraine and murdered school children invade my thoughts. I feel guilty even writing this. But I wonder, could the twenty-four/seven news cycles exist in a thirty/seventy topical format? Surely at any given time, there are thirty percent of the things happening across the world that are good? These are the things they don’t tell us. I think we need to know about them. Maybe then we won’t be so debilitated and would be motivated to turn prayers into action.
Image: me ruminating some years ago. Although for the prose above, there should not be a smile on my face…..or perhaps I’m thinking about the good?
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Lisa asks us to include the line “These are the things they don’t tell us” in a piece of prose (not poetry) that is no more than 144 lines in length, sans title. The line is from Girl Du Jour, from Notes on Uvalde.
She enjoyed a staccato existence, never a sustained note ecstatically percussive. High on life, she jived from one gig to another town after town, no stage too small. Showmanship and flair, nothing static in her repertoire. Gender be damned, she was a one-man band.
Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Mish is hosting and asks us to include the word “static” within our poem. Note: I ecSTATICally included static twice!
Do not concern yourself. Only twice in a Blue Moon: that’s what the sages say, the peacekeepers, historians, the literati and oracles too.
Only the Harbinger keeps watch, collects viable bodies of evidence. Tracks events pointing backwards to repetition of historical eras, measuring time needed for a Blue Moon.
Adolph Hitler’s evil ran rampant, stacked skeletal remains in godless towers as ashen clouds floated to the skies. It was during the time of the Blood Moon, a horrific sliver of time gone by.
Only the Harbinger understands the Blood Moon is but the crescent stage in the life time of a Blue Moon. It is the beginning soon buried within the tides, too often forgotten in the ebb and flow of time.
Completion of a Blue Moon is near. The Harbinger has placed its warning voice in the human of its choosing. As sunflowers wilt and blood is spilled that chosen voice bids you listen now.
The innocents lie dead in our streets and still this evil invades our land. A different man, but mark my word, he is the evil we face today, many of our people, fighting to their death.
Can you not hear me? How can you not understand? Twice in a Blue Moon is now.
Writing for two prompts today:
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Merril is hosting. She’s created a list of names of actual English country garden roses and asks us to use one or more of them either in the body of our poem or in its title. “Twice in a Blue Moon” is actually the name of an English country garden rose!
NAPOWRIMO, Day 19, asks us to write a poem that begins with a command. Photo is from Pixabay.com
I choose flat dress shoes instead of stiletto heels. My balance isn’t what it used to be. I choose a romance novel or best seller. Headlines raise my blood pressure and I don’t want to take another pill. I choose strolling the well-worn path. Young people can push the boulders up hill. I choose biting into a blushing velvet peach, sectioning an orange takes too long. I choose creating my own sunshine on a cloudy rainy day. I choose to be me. My age, right here, right now, with you by my side.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Sarah asks us to consider anaphora: a rhetorical device that consists of repeating a sequence of words at the beginnings of neighboring clauses, thereby lending emphasis. She gives us a list of verbs to choose from for the word we’d like to repeat. I selected the word choose.
Friday night and the lights are low. Tinseltown dimmed, marquees dark, Broadway shut down. Performers encased at home, mouths agape. No words. No melodies. No sound escapes their parched lips. Feet stilled, faces bare. They sit, not in the wings, but on couches and chairs. No audience. Just the cat curled up on their feet, surprised to find this comfort in these hours. The night the music died and the curtain fell, subways ground to a halt. This, the night Covid came to town.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics and delving into Sweden’s musical archives. I’m asking folks to include one line, and one line only, from the lyrics of ABBA’s Dancing Queen. The line must be used word for word within the body of the poem. You can find the lyrics to Dancing Queen, as well as some fun information about ABBA, in my prompt at dVerse. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time and full prompt will appear then.Image from Pixabay.com
. . . put on roller skates and careen down the esplanade along the Charles River. Grinning, looking straight ahead. Faster, faster, and faster still. Wind blowing back my hair, tearing my eyes until the real world blurs and I am flying with wheels as my wings.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the vitual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today, asking folks to use the word “careen” within their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
The esplanade is a wonderful green space in Boston that in part, runs along the Charles River. It has a very long walking/bicycling/rollerskating path along the river itself and is only about 2 city blocks from where we live. It goes for miles and we often take walks there. For those of you who watch the Boston Pops 4th of July concert on television, the hatch where they perform is on the esplanade itself, just off the river. Photo from Pixabay.com