Sipping bordeaux, afternoon delight. She, the queen of hearts, oblivious. He, her soul’s sustenance, sits restless in the tangles of foment. His love, her peace and windrush. His lust, her quicksilver.
Poetry is a testament to noticing. Journal upon the table, pen hesitates, writing stammers, then suddenly stops. Eyes look up, gaze high. SentinelEiffel Tower looms overlooking this changing scene.
Her hands shake, tears form. Looking at him, she knows. This seasonal song has no coda, final movement complete. He nods slowly, touches her hand, whispers I’m sorry and leaves. For her, the summer is done.
Written for Tuesay Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril gives us a list of names given to roses and asks us to write a poem including at least five of the names. We cannot use the word “rose” wtihin our poem. The rose names are Afternoon Delight, Bordeaux, Brass Band, Cayenne, Desdemona, Ebb Tide, Eiffel Tower, Golden Gate, Mermaid, No Surrender, Peace, Penny Lane, Queen of Hearts, Quick Silver, Restless, Sea Foam, Summer Song, Tangles, White Wings, and Windrush. I’ve included the ten that are in bold print.
Image AI generated on Bing Create.
“Poetry is a testament to noticing” quoted from Poetry Unbound, 50 Poems to Open Your World, by Padraig O Tuama, Irish poet and theologian.
These days seem to preclude a circle of love. Iced out. Proliferation of guns. Political strife. Mathemeticians associate Pi with a circle 3.14159 and on and on . . . seemingly out of reach.
Some cite three-hundred-sixty degrees. Others lecture three points required. So many different opinions can the circle be truly delineated?
How to create a circle of love then, much less define the shape itself. Perhaps when two people embrace? When a family of four gathers round a campfire?
Elderly person sitting alone waits for a visit, never to come. But guardian angels gather round faces remembered, comfort in faith.
Circles take effort to make. One person reaching out. More than mathematical equations, perhaps circles are matters of the heart?
NAPOWRIMO Day 27. Prompt: Write a poem in which all the verses contain the same number of lines (whether couplets, triplets, quatrains, etc.) and in which you give the reader instructions of some kind.
In our family, the tradition since our children were very young, has been to sing The Circle of Love as our table grace before our suppers. Hence, the pondering on what is a circle; and how to make a circle. Click here for a recent poem about our Circle of Love tradition. Image by Speedy McVroom from Pixabay
Summer of letters. Days of thinking slowly, rolling words around until they landed just right. Days of ink to vellum, sometimes blurred by tears. Hidden away for so many years. Flowers beneath ribbon ties, now brittle and dry. Love never consummated, memories still blush.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. It’s Quadrille Monday and De asks us to include the word “flower” or a form of the word, within the body of our poem of just 44 words, sans title. Image created on Bing Create.
I seek a trip to calm. A land called Calm where love abounds all people are valued leaders seek to unite children skip confidently to school. Where lies are confessed, not repeated bragadociously on the news. Who can help me find that land?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and we’re asked to write a quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) that includes the word “trip” within the body of the poem. Image from Pixabay.com
parched petals litter tabletop tears cling to eyelashes skeletal tree limbs crack as blizzard careens from sky
sunrise announces joyful day as cherry blossoms bloom yes bedazzled by love bouquet gifted, she smiles
seasons and emotions change age wizens beauty Your love, her always
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting our Quadrille Monday and asking folks to write a poem of EXACTLY 44 words, sans title, and include the word “petals” (or a form of the word) in the body of the poem. A synonym will not suffice.
Six minutes a widow. The sun kept shining, the clock kept ticking, but your heart stopped. Absolutely stopped.
I remember my screams, ambulance sirens. They rushed you away from me. Ushered me into a private waiting room. I waited for forever it seemed.
Then that humming, beeping room. Monitor glowing with moving lines. Lines becoming peaks and troughs and blips. Shroud-like sheeted, eyes closed. Your face obscured by ventilator and tubes.
My God, so many tubes. Family somehow there, tethering you to earth. Doctor talk. Jumbled words to me. “. . . his brain . . .may not wake up…not the same..” No. No. NO.
Forty-eight hours later your eyes popped open, staring fear. Nurse told you firmly, wiggle your toes. Move your right hand, now your left. Moments of sheer joy.
We came home end of that week, you, the real you, cognitively you. But we were changed forever. We live life more slowly, love more deeply, thankful for every day.
Written for dVerse , the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitted for possible publication in their anniversary anthology.
Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight, delectable scents float ‘cross starless sky. In wild flowered mountain meadow they lie, hearts entangled, breathing as one. Alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder their floral bed this night. Their dreamscape, their anniversary quilt, embraces their love, embodied again.
When dawn rises, their spirits must dissipate. Soft sobs and dew drop tears float upon the wind as each becomes, once again, solitary luminous clusters. T’will be one year hence, before they meet again. Anniversary of that storm laden night, decades ago, when they stood upon this very summit, thunder roaring disapproval of their match.
Looking out across the abyss, alit by lightning’s garish flash, they defied their families’ opposition. Hands clasped, deepest kiss still fresh upon their lips, they leapt into the arms of eternity. Premature extinguishment of life, the gods ruled punishable every night but one, in every coming year.
Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight, delectable scents float ‘cross the starless sky. One night in every year, for centuries on end, they may live and love again. Lie together, in wild flowered mountain meadow amidst alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder, hearts entangled, breathing as one.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting OLN and will host dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM, New York time. We are free to write a poem of our own choosing OR use the quotation “Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight . . .” from Pablo Neruda’s poem A Lemon. The quotation is actually longer, I’ve only used this portion of it for my poem.
If you’d like to join us for the LIVE session on Saturday (video and audio), May 24th , just click on this link at 10 AM New York Time…..and you’ll find a link to join us! We’d love to have you read a poem of your own….or feel free to just sit in. We’re a very friendly bunch!
Eros lives among us. Sweet crushes blush teenage acnied cheeks, struck by arrows dipped in cotton candy.
Arrow tips plunged in passion fruit aim at fertile hearts. Friendships turn to lust.
Ancient arrows, patina dulled potency still strong, add zing to elders’ love affairs.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De is hosting Quadrille Monday and asks us to use the word “zing” in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Image created on Bing Create. In Greek mythology Eros is the offspring of Aphrodite, and is the god of love, passion, and fertility.
Crepe paper streamers, I used to string them for birthday celebrations. Now I have crepey skin.
Shiney brunette hair blow-dried just so. Now grey, held back with barrettes, away from eyes with sagging lids.
I used to chase little ones in games of duck-duck-goose, hike glaciers and dance till dawn.
Morphed by scores of years, still I smile. Time slows my pace, cherished memories accrue.
I occasionally put on hiking boots, they just don’t trek as far. And I do dance, but not nearly as late.
Most importantly, still I love. More deeply, more completely with every passing day.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to write a “despite and still” poem. Photo taken two weeks ago on the heliport of Celebrity’s Constellation during our 24 night back-to-back cruises, including a TransAtlantic from Barcelona to Tampa, Florida. Thankful for every day.
lillian the home poet 