Shuffle me the possibilities,
a wild card
a kaleidoscope shard.
Shuffle me the possibilities,
history for a better view.
photo in public domain
Life
Slipping Away
I was a flower
dew drop petals waving to the sun.
I was tall. Hopscotched on chalk
balanced one foot, then two.
I am brittle sans bloom.
Seed scattered.
Roots slowly rot,
losing ground to this horrible disease.
My Choice
Crimson me
solitary vibrant leaf
bright among the detritus of fall
Crimson me
rising sun ‘neath lone streak of cloud
splashing daylight into roiling ocean’s blue
Crimson me
hand-tied twisted rambling tail
flying high with diamond kite in sky
Crimson me
red rose beribboned bright
silent love song from stoic gone rogue
Palette of smudged pastels and oils
color me in life’s brightest hue
more than a blush, a sheen
I choose patina
to shine, to soar, to sing
I choose to live in love
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Victoria is tending bar today and reminds us how important the role of repetition is in our lives. As it can be in poetry. So today we write using repetition – a phrase, a line; a sound or a syllable within a line or stanza.
Photos are from Bermuda and Cape Cod, except for the rose which is in public domain. B
Defarge She is Not
She be a knitter and weaver of love,
needles held surely in confident hands.
Magical work with rainbows of color
wee dresses, wool caps, and warmest afghans.
Strands of affection twist patterns supreme,
yarn disappearing at quickening pace.
Fingers so agile, loop thread over thread
artist sans easel, her lap as her base.
She smiles at her world and when she does err
pauses, examines and looks to assess.
What has been done? Rewind. Amend. Restart.
Good pattern for all, for life of success.
Late for dVerse Tuesday’s Poetics. Kim asks us to write a poem about an artisan, using the form/style of the famous Irish poet, Seamus Heaney. I chose to emulate Heaney’s poem Follower: written in stanzas of 4 lines, each 10 syllables in length. Also, two of the lines in each stanza rhyme — most often ABCB. This was a real challenge for me. Which is why I’m posting on Wednesday for Tuesday’s Poetics! I do enjoy a challenge…and always learn when I’m dealing with rhyme which I find the most difficult aspect of poetry. You’ve probably noticed that I mainly write in free verse. The title refers to Madame Defarge, the villainous woman in Tale of Two Cities who sits and knits, seemingly innocuously. In reality, she is knitting into the garment, the names of those to be executed.
Wish
Fantasy me.
Pull the moon within my reach
sprinkle stars in my palms
open my eyes to untold mysteries.
Let me journey through life
unabashed and brave.
OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Come join us and share your words or imbibe the thoughts of others. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Photo is in public domain.
Hoyle Be Damned
This ain’t kitchen bridge.
An arrangement of tricks,
points scored below the line.
Kibitzers watch dumbfounded.
Self-sufficient suit
forced into dummy hand.
Duffer without finesse,
unbalanced distribution
trumps again and again
to win
the grand slam.
A second poem for Dverse, Tuesday Poetics…using the word “bridge.” Apologies to Hoyle’s rules for bridge…..and yes — metaphor applies. For those of you unfamiliar with the card game of bridge: kitchen bridge is a social game with little emphasis on skill; all of the following are terms used in bridge and may be found in the Hoyle’s book of bridge terminology/rules: tricks, points scored below the line, kibitzers (nonplaying onlookers), self-sufficient suit, dummy hand, duffer (bridge player of inferior ability), unbalanced distribution (has to do with the cards in your hand), trump, and grand slam.
New Year
script of unlined sheaves
vellum void
must write/right itself
more ad lib seen/scenes
life in present
learn from past-tense
new year
ingenue reborn
Past/Present/Future Tense
disappointments drained
happiness residual clogs sieve
new filter awaits on shelf
ring in the new year
Dementia Drowned
Today is brewing, steeping.
Clouds blur within my head.
Grass pricks feet like shards
or linoleum with eyes.
They’re supposed to be on faces.
And that song, Tiny Bubble, goes with a ukulele.
It’s yesterday again, or Tuesday tomorrow.
I shall pad to the upstairs water closet.
Run ocean waves until steam rises like fog
and drains clog with long dulcimer hairs.
I will slip under the sea
to become an anemone.
No one can miss me.
Because i have not been here
for a long long time.
Transplant
City lights blink like fireflies, regardless of season. High rise windows shine where brick meets sky in a busy horizon.
Ten thousand steps a day are easy here. Church, mosque, supermarket. Post office, synagogue and hardware store. Restaurants serve Italian, Chinese, Ethiopian, French, Japanese, Greek, seafood, pizza, tapas, ribs. Department stores, yarn shop, coffee shops, and burger joints. Museum of Fine Arts and African American Meeting House. Beauty and nail salons, barbershop, shoe repairs, dentists, doctors, optometrist and palm reader too. Freedom trail and river stroll. I am carless in the city. Well-worn walking shoes upon my feet and a cornucopia of things to do.
Iowa girl
fifteen acres
first-picked tomato
dripping down my chin.
Transplanted to cityscape.
I still carry heartland habits,
greeting surprised strangers
as they pass me by on city streets.
Written for dVerse, the virtual poet’s pub, where Bjorn is hosting Haibun Monday and suggesting a modern take on this form — put it into a city poem and the haiku that follows the prose may or may not be about nature; may or may not follow haiku form. Pub opens at 3 PM…come visit other’s views of city life! Photos taken from our 7th floor deck in our highrise in Boston.
