Love me some spring!
In my steps on this morning’s walk
in bursting magnolia trees
mama goose fluffing her nest
forsythias smiling bright
and ruffled waving daffodils.
Love me some Spring!
NAPOWRIMO Day 15. Prompt: Write about love in some other way than romantic.
Photos actually from my walk yesterday along the Charles river. And I should add, Happy Birthday #18 to Rika!
I stand tall and proud.
Yellow petals round my face
mirror my namesake.
I sway in summer breezes,
turning always to the sun.
NAPOWRIMO, Day 9. Prompt is to write a poem in the voice of an animal or plant. Photo taken some years ago in Provincetown, on the very tip of Cape Cod.
Tanka: a Japanese poetic form with 5 lines in the following syllabic pattern: 5-7-5-7-7. Some say it’s a Haiku that has more to say!
Mother Nature’s flirtatious ways.
Lightning flashes, crocus buds,
lilac blooms that scent the air.
Dew droplets on pink rose petals,
fall colors as she bares her leaves.
A silent caress of soft falling snow.
Most audacious of her alluring ways?
Her cunningly sly, seductive wink.
Unlike a camera aperture’s click,
more like a Texan gal’s slow drawl.
Her alluring, magnetically titillating
total eclipse of the sun.
NAPOWRIMO Day 4. April is National Poetry Writing Month!
Prompt for today: “Craft your own short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season. Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.” Sorry folks: I don’t do rhyme. But I did write about a weather phenomenon: a total eclipse of the sun.
Photo of lilacs taken some years ago at Harvard University’s Arnold Arboretum on their annual Lilac Sunday.
Dew drops on petals.
Nature’s evidence of rain
or her sweet soft tears
singing Cry Me a River
for humanity’s deaf ear?
Written for NAPOWRIMO (National Poetry Month) day 1’s prompt. We’re to write a Tanka: an ancient Japanese poetic form composed of five lines with the syllable content as follows: 5/7/5/7/7. “It’s like a haiku that decided to keep on going!”
Photo taken last month in San Diego. “Cry Me a River” is an American song first published in 1953 and made famous in 1955 when recorded and sung by Julie London. Justin Timberlake’s 2002 hit “Cry Me a River” is not at all musically similar. London’s version is known as a torch song….listen below!
Moonlight shimmers softly.
Snowfall recently ceased, shrouds trees,
covers small town’s street.
Traffic absent save one car’s tell-tale tracks.
Owner, probably settled in reading,
nods off by flickering fire.
Lone man savors silence walking slowly.
Two dogs on extended leash,
content with no distractions
pause only to sniff the cold.
Winter’s quiet stillness reverberates
in late hours of this night.
I’m hosting OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Open Link Night means writers can post any one poem of their choice: no required format, rhyme scheme, topic or length OR they can write to the optional prompt I’ve given. The optional prompt? To write a poem motivated by the painting above, entitled Hushed And Still by artist Simie Maryles. The scene is representative of Provincetown, MA on the very tip of Cape Cod.
To learn more about Simie Maryles and see more of her paintings go to https://simiemaryles.com/artist/simie-maryles NOTE: writers only have permission to use Hushed and Still for their poetry.
It always rises.
In rain or snow,
whether you see it or not.
Hiding behind clouds,
invisible under a putty grey sky.
It’s there
blessing the new day.
Its rays smiling upon you,
gifting hope
even on the stormiest days.
If only we believe.
It’s quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, De asks us to include the word “smile” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo by Anandu Vinod on Unsplash
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.
lillian the home poet 