I sit in darkness, blanket-wrapped against damp chill. Squawking gulls pierce my quiet, spar over fish carcass washed ashore. Dawn will present herself shortly, streak sky angry crimson-orange or smudge it gently in soft puffs of pastel pink. How will she start my day?
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and ask writers to include the word “present” or a form of the word, in the body of their quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.
Photo taken at dawn in Cape Cod’s Provincetown some years ago.We treasure our annual two-week visit to Ptown. I often wrap up in a blanket on the deck, in that chilly dark time before the sun rises, hold a coffee cup in my hands to stay warm, and watch the day dawn over the ocean.
‘Tis early dawn and all around no bird song floated down the hill O Nature! All thy seasons please the eye ring out wild bells to the wild sky. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright between dark and daylight a fragment of a rainbow bright.
Fair daffodils we weep to see the violet loves a sunny bank they grow in beauty side by side into the sunshine. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods there through the long, long summer hours the melancholy days are come.
Where, where are all the birds that sang? The warm sun is failing. Freshly the cool breath of the coming eve in the west the weary day electric essence permeates the air. Yet one smile more departing distant sun How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank. There are moments in life that we never forget.
Written by Lindsey Ein and read aloud at OLN LIVE on Thursday, Sept. 19.
Every line of this poem is from a line in a poem by a poet. Here, line by line, are the poems and author:
Line 1: Flowers: Thomas Moses Line 2: The River Path: Whittier Line 3: The Seasons: Grahame Line 4: Ring Out Wild Bells: Tennyson Line 5: Vertue: George Herbert Line 6: The Children’s Hour: Longfellow Line 7: The Rainbow: J. Keble Line 8: Daffodils: R. Herrick Line 9: Proposal: Bayard Taylor Line 10: The Graves of a Household: Mrs. Hemans Line 11: The Rountain: James Russell Lowell Line 12: Solitude: Byron Line 13: June: Bryant Line 14: The Death of Flowers: Brya Line 15: A Hundred Years Ago: Anonymous Line 16: Autumn: Shelley Line 17: Healing of the Daughter of Jairus: Willis Line 18: In Reverie: Harriet McEwen Kimball Line 19: An Acrostic: F.A. Line 20: November: Bryant Line 21: From The Merchant of Venice: Shakespeare Line 22: Remembrance: Percival
All of the above poems are from “Favorite Poems Illustrated”: 1880’s, given to my Aunt Josephine Brown in 1881. Image from Pixabay.com
Boldly may we walk, yet resolutely, carefully. Minding the soul of Mother Earth, respecting her fragility. Oceans rise in anger. Assault shorelines, swallow homes built too near. Heat past simmering patience. Melt polar ice, bleach coral reefs, threaten aquatic life. Can we appease her?
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, we’re to asked include the word BOLD, or a form of the word (not a synonym) within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image from Pixabay.com
NOTE: OLN LIVE will be on Thursday, January 19th from 3 to 4 PM EST . . . AND . . . on Saturday, January 21st from 10 to 11 AM EST. Come to the dVerse home page on Thursday and/or Saturday and click on the appropriate link that will take you to the live session. All are welcome across all time zones! Come to simply listen and meet poets from around the globe OR come and read a poem of your choice. We’re a very friendly bunch so we hope you’ll join us at one or both sessions. Mark you calendars now!
Some days I’d like to be in the midst of fog. Where mountains, yesterday tall and imposing, disappear today. Where ethereal moist clouds descend to earth, enveloping her in softness. Bring me serenity, as mist hovers over land, hides imposing granite walls too difficult to climb. Soften my being with the lightest of rain that pours not, rather drifts in swirls round my head, my eyes, my limbs. Take me to that weathered landscape where nature cajoles hatred into oblivion, and we simply marvel at beauty we did not recognize before. Take me there, if not in reality, then in dense dreams of solace, just for a little while. I crave escape.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, from 3 to 4 PM Boston time, we shall gather face-to-face via GoogleMeet at OLN LIVE! Link to join can be found here at 3 PM or shortly thereafter. Just click and come join us! You’re invited to read a poem of your own…or simply sit in and listen…we’re a friendly bunch and it’s quite fun!
Ah, belladonna, how formidable art thee. Thine power used since Roman times. Claudius and Augustus, dead, wifely potions lethal with thee.
Medieval women placed drops of thee in their eyes. Became alluring with wide-eyed innocence, capturing a gentleman caller’s proposal curtailing his gigolo lust.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Kim asks us to use the word “bell” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image from pixabay.com
Belladonna is a potent plant. Reserach tells us in Roman times, it did indeed kill Emperors Claudius and Augustus when placed in a potion made by their wives. It is said that Macbeth of Scotland used it to poison the liquor supply of invading troops from England. In medieval times, drops of belladonna were used by women for cosmetic purposes: to widen their eyes to make them seem more alluring. Today, belladonna is used by many opthamologists to dilate pupils for examination.
Quilt me a cacophony of colors, floral me a scene. Roses, lilac, freesia, lavender, gardenia, scents melding into sweet aroma. Featured like fragrant punchbowl on caterer’s gleaming sideboard. Senses tempted to imbibe, I submit. Feast my eyes, inhale deeply, engulfed in garden’s ethereal delight.
Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to use the word “punch” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words,sans title.Photo taken a number of years ago in Ireland.
Claude Monet tiptoed through last night’s deep slumber. Wrapped my dream in glorious blooms, hushed pinks fading into hazy purple iris. Calmed my senses with myriad brushed greens. Dewed my eyes as undulating water lilies nudged me into wakefulness. I sit remembering and smile.
Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to include the word “wrap” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Black earth cracks open begging through jagged, arid lips water, please, drown me with drops of life restoring rain. Tendrils of roots seek my riches to nourish them, to bloom with promises threatened now in dark, dry soil without a drop to drink.
Butterflies and bees will be robbed of the balm they seek. Blossoms will not open, colors will fade to yellow and brown. Lavender will lose its scent, the fragrance of summer begs for life restoring rain. Clouds blow in providing shade but no rain falls from decorator clouds that quickly puff away. We watch the radar but it is like the pot that never boils.
Thunderstorms are possible they say. Rumbles of thunder are heard in the distance, winds pick up, branches fall in dry frustration. Black earth cries out water, please, drown me with drops of life restoring, blessed rain.
Written by Lindsey Ein for OLN LIVE at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Image from Pixabay.com
I see her walking through peonies waiting patiently for the strawberry moon. She, the night traveler in my dreams. She bids me walk slowly, eyes open in my sleep, to explore her natural world. Together we soar on the wings of a hawk as goldfinches sing and wonder precedes us. Approaching Provincetown, we marvel at migrating wild geese making their cacophonous way to their winter’s resting place. As I begin to drift near rising she leads me past fields of goldenrod to a small pond bedecked in floating flowers, lily pads asleep and yet to bloom. Cool winds ruffle my eyelids like rustling leaves in a tree. The lilies break open over the dark water as my dream retreats into dawning sky. I awaken to a certain sharpness in the morning air ready to take up pen, inspired by this woman. She, the night traveler in my dreams.
Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 25. Today we’re to write an aisling: to recount a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land/country on/in which the poet lives.
Mary Oliver moved to Provincetown in the 1960s and sets most of her poetry in and around this wonderful town. An avid walker, much of her poetry comes from her observances of the natural world. I’ve incorporated 9 titles of her poems in my Ode: Peonies Strawberry Moon The Night Traveler Hawk Goldfinches Wild Geese Goldenrod The Lilies Break Open Over the Dark Water A Certain Sharpness in the Morning Air
We’ve lived in Boston for the past twenty-five years and spend two weeks of every year in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod.Photos from our visits to P’town.
Deep into the woods, therein lies peace. Surrounded, enveloped in green, lush emeralds lull my spirit birdsong’s lilt soothes my mind. I crave thy beauty. I bathe in your dappled jades, in your calm.
Written for NAPOWRIMO Day 9. Today we’re asked to write a nonet: first line has 9 syllables, second line has 8 syllables, third line has 7 syllables, etc.
Photo from our time in Ireland a number of years ago.
lillian the home poet 