Ancient eucalyptus tree. Pock marked bark-skin, peeling, barren in places, adds beauty to greening canyon.
Elderly man in thick glasses, blue-veined hands hanging limply, shuffles across street. Driver sits, hand poised over horn.
Musing, I ponder our value system. We should learn from nature.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where the word to use (or a form of the word) in our exactly 144 word poem sans title is “muse.”
Photos taken yesterday from our patio, which opens to a beautiful canyon. We’re in an apartment rental in sunny San Diego until early March, escaping Boston’s winter (as in 11.2 inches of snow on Friday!).
buttercup crown under stocking cap of ivy vine. Rose petal leggings, freesia shawl, lily-of-the-valley boots. Winter clad, she joins thousands of fairies gathered on mountainsides, hidden by evergreen fronds. Spirits bright, they wait for spring, their fairy lights aglow. Winter’s secret no one knows.
De is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to include the word “crown” or a form of the word (not a synonym of the word) in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
Mother Nature chagrined, shrouded in grey low-slung sky. Rains gush, pummel sideways as she weeps beyond control. Strong oaks uprooted, her scalp bared in raw splotches.
Gales punish the unrepentant. We the offenders struggle bending at right angles from the waist, plodding toward imagined escape. Our feeble umbrellas abandoned, their broken ribs litter the sodden path.
Has her sun forsaken us, our sins too great? Depression’s black hole inverted, is this vortex our fate? It drowns even the most optimistic, hope abandoned in storming grief. We fear the apocalypse has begun.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Idea for poem came from yesterday — waking up at 6 AM and finding trees outside our windows blowing like crazy in the midst of a Nor’easter that lasted for almost 12 hours. It downed many trees across the area. Many acrossBoston and surrounding area lost power from pummeling rain and wind gusts up to 80 mph. We remained safely indoors. Photo is in public domain in Pixabay.com and is not from Boston.
**I am a positive person – really I am! Sometimes I have no idea why the pen turns to the dark side.
Gull claims its spot, lone protruding rock on submerged jetty. Preens itself then waits expectantly. Sliver sun peeks out from low slung cloud, turns near darkness into luminescence. Bathed in rouging blush, water glistens in dawn’s appearance. Gull preens again, swathed in nature’s spotlight. My contented sigh, applause enough as curtain rises on a new day.
Photo taken this morning in Provincetown, on the very tip of Cape Cod.
Lilac aphrodisiac, scent my world. Your goodness blossoms blessed with sweet delicacy. From palest to deepest shades, side by side on Lilac Lane. Each alone exudes the beautiful, together you blend as one scene. I walk slowly, senses awakened. Serenity wafts, and in the moment, all is good in my world.
Written for Open Link night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I am hosting, inviting all to post one poem of their choosing: no prompt, no required format or genre. Come join us – pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Images from our walk at the Arnold Arboretum in Boston a few weeks ago – to see Lilac Lane – and from Pixabay.com.
She writes of the sacred land, red earth cherished by Creek Nation.
Moencopi Rise, Round Rock, Four Corners, a dreaming place of bears. Her words are songs of praise to ochre soil, parched sand, grey rocks, and dust spattered plants. Her faith in the whole, revealed in full and sliver moon steady and flickering stars.
Prayer is manifest as horses gallop through hills. Words written in linear lines paint images revered by generations. Her poetic spirit soars. An eagle spreads its wings, magnificently embracing the bluest of skies.
She is those who were before her, caretakers of Mother Earth all.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late for the Tuesday Poetics prompt given by Laura. She asks us to consider poems to a poet. I decided to write an ode to poet Joy Harjo.
JOY HARJO is a member of the Creek Nation. She is a screen writer, poet, and teaches creative writing and Native American Literature at the University of Arizona. She has received the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Native Writers Circle of the Americas, and the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. Harjo served as United States poet laureate from 2019-2021, and was the first Native American to serve in the position. Image from Pixabay.com
Sunny daffodils, wave your ruffled heads. Delicate cherry blossoms loosed by spring breeze, softly, silently, rain pink petals upon all below. Candy-cane red and white tulips stand tall beside double-layered pinks and yellows. Soon bleeding hearts will dangle gently over sweetly petite lilies of the valley. And lanes will burst forth with lilac blooms, myriad shades of purple perfuming the air. Bedazzle me, Mother Nature. I am so ready for your greening, most especially after this long reclusive year!
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we go LIVE at 3 PM Boston time and folks have the opportunity to visit, put faces and voices with author’s names and read aloud if they wish. Come join us! Link is on the dVerse site, at 3 PM Boston time.
Photos all taken around our building here in Boston, at the Public Gardens and at the Harvard Arboretum….in past years. Spring is still trying to green this year!
lilac buds compressed scent withheld, blossoms bashful spring has not yet sprung
Written for Day 2, National Poetry Writing Month where the challenge is to write a poem every day in the month of April. Photo taken in the Harvard Arboretum on Lilac Sunday, Mothers’ Day 2020.
Temper tantrum entrance. High winds blow boisterously thermometer drops. Temptress sun winks coyly as crocus cower beneath cold soil. Impatient we are for spring.
