In the waning days of autumn
nature sheds its hilarity.
Crimson red, halloween orange,
and golden yellow leaves shrivel,
lose their vim and fall.
Farmers’ fields, stripped of crops
seem eeirly clold and barren.
I seek warmth, light and respite.
Candles lit, afghan wrapped,
mulled wine and book at hand,
I hibernate.
I am, afterall, a creature of nature.
Slowed by age
and sensitive to seasonal biorhythms.
Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
You should have known,
pumpkins do rot.
Center stage, porch light blazing,
oohed and aahed at by passersby.
Bright eyes lit from within.
But candle burns, continually drips.
Insides shrivel, eyes begin to droop.
Carved in grin begins to sneer.
Inevitably the brouhaha ends
crowds thin, candle burns out.
Orange flesh sags, collapses from within.
Maggots begin to appear.
You should have known,
pumpkins do rot.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse so we can post any one poem of our choosing. No required topic, form or length.
nature’s cancan skirts
vivid orange, gold, crimson red
leaves delight the eyes
windows opened wide
fresh breezes ruffle curtains
pumpkins on display
witches roam the streets
moms and dads with little ones
door to door for treats
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Dora’s prompt is entitled Tripping the October Light Fantastic. She asks us to write a poem about October. Photo from last October in Boston’s Public Garden.
When I think of aging
visions of nature appear poetically,
ready to be written across the page.
But my hand tremor sets script askew,
not unlike a preschooler’s
first attempt at printing their name.
Nature’s brightly pink ruffled peony
once perkily perched, quite the showy thing,
gleamed amongst garden’s greenery.
Now droops beneath residue
of last night’s thunderstorm,
struggling to hold its bloom.
Newborn gangly foal tries to gain its footing.
Youthfully romps through riotously colored fields,
bluebells and golden columbine waving in the sun.
Years later, put to pasture,
stands swaying slightly, head down,
eyes clouded, wildflowers a dull blur.
And I myself, mark changes in my body.
Steps slowing down, sometimes falter.
Veins protruding on my hands.
I reflect more and more
on what was, and what is,
and what is to come.
Perennials dance in spring’s fresh air,
stand proudly through their season.
Then wilting, lie down to disintegrate.
But their stock is strong, their lilt not forever gone.
Perennials bloom again and again and again,
one generation gifting its beauty to the next.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitting for possible publication in the dVerse 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!
Sunrise absent
darkest damp instead.
Steady drizzle chills
steel-toe grey clouds above.
Burrowing owl stands alone
hoot-silent, alert.
Sharp eyes search
near barren treeless ground.
Hungry, ready to sprint should mole appear.
Return to earth-dug warren,
mimic rattler’s tail
should coyote rush to kill.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and De is tending the pub. She asks us to include the word “hoot” in the body our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Photo of this burrowing owl was taken last week at the Living Coast Discovery Center in Chula Vista, CA. The burrowing owl is a small, primarily terrestrial owl. Generally about 9 inches tall, they have a short tail and long legs. They eat large insects and small rodents. They nest in burrows, often repurposing a burrow or tunnel abandoned by other animals. They are known to mimic the sounds of a rattlesnake to ward off predators such as coyotes and badgers.
Brightness fades.
Sooty clouds slowly shove aside
light-weight cumulus puffs.
Birds disappear. Eerie stillness descends.
Suddenly winds whip tall grasses.
Leaves whimper as trees bend.
Branches snap.
Forecasters definitely wrong.
Mother Nature no longer subtle.
Hints replaced by blatant bombastic warning.
Take shelter.
Now.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and Mish asks us to use the word “hint” (or a form of the word) in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image from Bing Create.
. . . powerful winter weather,
bone-chilling wind.
Don coats, hats and gloves.
Outdoors . . . sleet, freezing rain.
Polar vortex beginning, remaining.
Ensure anyone in need shelter.
Image created on Bing Create.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today, Punam has us thinking about newspapers. “You can write a newspaper blackout poem. You can use the headline from your local newspaper as a springboard and write a poem on it, or you can simply write why you love or hate reading the newspaper. Your poem should have some link with the newspaper.”
I’ve done a “blackout poem” from an article about the weather in the San Diego Union Tribune, Sunday January 19th edition. See photo below …circled words are the ones I’ve used to create the poem….using them in the order in which they appeared in the article.
Darkness dawns,
star-dots peek through sky’s scrim.
Moonless night serene,
lulled to sleep by wave’s quiet lapping.
Raucous cormorants
rudely accompany sun’s rising.
Wings slapping, loudly thrumping
against ocean’s waves.
Herd-like,
glistening wet black bodies lift,
hover low then soar.
Migration has begun.
Listen carefully, my love
as we walk on cool stone slabs
curving through the woods.
Naturalists laid this path
so others could forest bathe,
basking in its mesmerizing calm.
Leaves rustle in cooling breeze.
Spring waters gurgle
somewhere beyond the trees.
Yesterday’s rains
still moisten fern fronds,
brightening their myriad shades of green.
White-breasted nuthatches
flit between branches.
Their low-whistled notes
accompany our slow meandering pace.
Hand in hand we walk through serenity,
our hearts, our spirits, melding into one.
Written for OLN Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, I’m hosting the pub and folks are free to post any poem of their choosing OR write a poem inspired by one of two photos I’ve provided, the above being one.
NOTE: and if you’d like to see many of our poets in action, come join us LIVE on Saturday morning, August 17th from 10 to 11 AM New York time. Click HERE, and then click on the link given for Saturday’s session. You’ll be connected to audio and video for our live session. Feel free to stop by, just to watch and listen, OR, if you’re so inclined, to read aloud any poem of your choosing. We’re a very friendly bunch. The more the merrier!
lillian the home poet 