Perspectives

Arboreal cobwebs.
Ethereal threads glimmer in sun,
intricate patterns
cling leaf to leaf.

Familial cobwebs.
Wisps of the past,
displayed on tables
ready for yard sale.

Charlotte’s cobwebs.
Eager youngsters
admire the spinning,
imagination’s delight.

Gray matter cobwebs,
clammy uneasiness.
Disturbed cluttered thoughts
provoked by age,
exasperated by twenty-four-seven news.

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Self Portrait

She asked me,
what makes you tick?
Early morning cuppa Joe
rockin’ rhythms and ocean waves
fireflies and city lights
tap shoes and flying kites.
Talking to my husband dear
crosswords and travel plans
Rockette kicks and hiking sticks
lemon-anything and JP Licks.
I’m a happiness junkie,
unabashedly adorned
in rose-colored glasses
wearing hope on my sleeve.

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Photo from a good number of years ago. Appeared on the jumbotron at the Boston Pops 4th of July concert — in the days when we got in line at the crack of dawn to insure a close up spot on the Esplanade. This year, we’ll be content to watch it on tv.
Whatever your political persuasion, hope you’ll kick up your heels a bit on Thursday and celebrate the freedoms we enjoy. And to my Canadian friends, hope you enjoyed yesterday, your Canada Day!

Juxtaposition

Some say
art attempts to mimic life
represent what is.
Sunrise, sunset, shifting clouds.
Feelings within, so real and so deep.
Elation, grief, giddiness, disbelief.

Innumerable mediums
used to model, massage,
meld, shape,
perhaps punctuate.
To express what is
what was or what could be.

Juxtaposers of the real
and the contrived.
Can we identify the essence,
make that available to another?
Or does the essence change
by the time or while we try?

That moment of utter despair.
Does it curdle
as we convey its circumstances,
its shredding of our soul?
Can we freeze reality
in paint, or clay; words or tale?

Or is all art
but a flicker of perception,
the artist’s, the essence,
and the observers as well.
Never static,
though made apparently so.

Poem was motivated by a walk in Boston’s Public Gardens last week, when I took the first photo of the beautiful and graceful swans with the Swan Boats in the background. 
History: The Swan Boats have been in operation since they were created by Robert Paget in 1877.  He was inspired to make them after seeing Lohengrin, based on a German tale where a character rides on a swan. In 1877 the bicycle was gaining in popularity so he created the swan boat using a catamaran with benches, powered by pedaling, similar to pedaling a bike. The photo on the right is from the late 1800s. Interesting to note: the swan boats are still operated by the Paget family….and still have the original design. Tourists flock to ride them….and my grandchildren love them! 

 

Down under the bridge . . .

she rolls words round her tongue,
mingled with saliva slurs.
Thick words, rich like dark beef-gravy,
some whispered with spicey-hot plots.

She cooks up campfire tales,
huddled over dumpster fires.
Her cronies, eyes glazed,
listen intently, hands over flames.

Homeless, devastating
s’more-less, too-real scene.

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Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) written for dVerse where Kim asks us to use the word “rich.”  Photo from Pixabay.com

Faith

Her faith burrows into the folds of her being.
Where there is sadness,
there is never despair.
Where there is hurt,
there is never hatred.
Love and hope shine upon her face
as she lives kindly within her days.

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Photo from pixabay.com

Contenders

Sometimes I think . . .
we are all but two legged steeds
ruled by stop watch and finish lines.
Some struggle to keep the pace.
Others never leave the race,
gates open and off they go
pasture be damned.
Some claim the roses
only to have them wither and die,
first place noted on fraying record book.
Has beens, almost and never weres.
Frenetic trotters round the track
until age ultimately claims its due.
Then woe the beast who suddenly sees.
Blinders stripped away
peripheral vision cleared,
too late the lesson learned:
there were others along the way.
I was simply galloping too fast
flying past, eyes ahead.
I should have known,
they were the ultimate prize.

Cruelty, Thou Art Life

Is there a beauty in insipidity,
blending in to all around? Stupidity
amassed beyond the pale,
in group-think, mass-appeal.
Invisibility, thou art cruel
spiteful invalidity.
Tread instead through morbidity
following ancient ways
as Plato did with Socrates.
Follow deeper still
with final sip,
hemlock
release.

Mish is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today she asks us to include the word “sip” within our exactly 44 word poem, sans title. For some reason, I went to the dark side with this one: “insipidity” and “sip.” Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Just Do It

Squint your eyes,
tantamount to willful aperture.
Unsee dissonance, the ugly, the bad.
Visualize instead the good wherever it may be.
Work it. Become it. Traverse only there.
X marks the spot and if you believe, it can be found.

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I’m hosting Meet The Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. At MTB, a particular form of poetry becomes the prompt. Today, I’m asking folks to write an Alphabet Sestet! A poem of 6 lines that uses an alphabetical sequence that appears in the first word of each line. Hence, I’ve used the alphabetical sequence S-T-U-V-W-X in my poem. The first word of each line, begins with the corresponding letter of the alphabetical sequence. Line 1 starts with S; line 2 starts with T; line 3 starts with U; etc.  Any alphabetical sequence may be used: writer’s choice!
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us. It’s easy as A-B-C, 1-2-3 in the words of the Jackson Five’s wonderful early hit! 🙂  Image from Pixabay.com