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
How did we get to this place?
When did ice become so much more
than a cube you put in a glass?
When did it become routine
for a president to continually lie?
For masked agents to roam our streets,
break into homes without a warrant?
I mean, I know people don’t agree on everything.
We’ve had two political parties since the mid-1800s.
But when did the abyss become so long and so deep,
that Congress members no longer work across the aisle?
I don’t have a plan to strengthen immigration policies.
But I do know “strengthen” does not mean
assaulting people based on skin color and accents,
or gassing peaceful protestors.
Close to being an octogenarian,
I’ve held signs aloft at demonstrations.
I often raise my pen to paper,
exercising my poetic “license”
to challenge the status quo.
It’s what I can and must do.
I will not tread water in this whirl pool.
Tell me, what are you doing
to change the tide?
Photo taken at a demonstration in Boston Commons.
Written in the style of Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. I’ve used the last four lines of her poem, The Summer Day, for inspiration.
“Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
I believe Mary Oliver, if she were alive today, would be asking the same question I ask at the end of my poem. In that way, and attempting to employ her style in my poem (although I’m certainly no Mary Oliver!), I try to honor her. Here is her poem:
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean —
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Her suppressed feelings:
cacophony of colors
ready to explode.
Written for OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, I’m hosting and folks can post any poem of their choosing…no required length, format, theme, etc. OR they can write a poem motivated by the painting above: “Mme Kupka among Verticals” painted by Frantisek Kupka (in public domain). It’s displayed at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.
NOTE: come join us Saturday, January 17th for our LIVE session (audio and video) from 10 to 11 AM EST. Go to https://dversepoets.com for the link to join us live.
Come read a poem of your choosing or come to just sit in and enjoy. We usually have folks from across the globe…all in English. We’re a very friendly bunch!
He lost one wife to family genetics. Her parents and siblings suffered fatal heart attacks before the age of sixty. He woke one morning to find her cold body next to his. Thank God he passed away before his eldest son suffered the same fate.
He lost his second wife to religion. A devout, and some would say overly zealous Christian Scientist, he watched her cold symptoms worsen. After arguments that went nowhere, he stood by as she prayed her pneumonia away. He held her hand as she died.
If we are all actors upon a stage, Grief enters with or without directional cues. A sudden drop-in as if let fly from an overhead catwalk. A slow unraveling as clues and evidence appear, until the perpetrator is revealed and the curtain falls.
We – the family, the friends, the audience – ultimately leave the theater with only playbill in hand. But Grief hangs on to the one left alone. It may dissipate ever so slowly, but the void remains. And at times, sometimes unexpectedly, it grips the heart like a vise. Grief, a character in every script, is simply masked at times or hovering in the wings.
Nature airs her grief.
Loud thunder sounds her anger,
soft rain weeps her tears.
A haibun dedicated to my dearest uncle. His “story” is in the first two paragraphs. He has been gone many years now. I loved him dearly. Also dedicated to my dear friend, Mary Nilsen.
Haibun: a Japanese form consisting of prose (usually nonfiction) followed by a haiku that contains a nature reference.
Image by Vilius Kukanauskas from Pixabay
Abracadabra
because I want a magician’s wand to
change what was into what was not and what could be.
Defy divisiveness,
effects of hatred, and speaking of the “us” versus the “other”.
Forge ahead to find new paths.
Gather those who want positive change.
Hand in hand with hope, honesty and just
intentions, may we begin to
just listen. Truly listen
knowing we are all located within the same sea of humanity.
Listen and listen more. Open our ears and hearts.
Make a concerted effort,
not numbing the pain of others into
oblivion.
Prayer is not enough. In the
quest for healing, we must
reflect on what could be and make it so. It may
seem
tenuous
until we verbally and actively
validate the
worth of all God’s people.
Xenophobia is not an option.
You and I, if we’re honest, also have roots in other places.
Zest and good will toward all humanity: may it be our Resolution for 2026.
Written for Meet The Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re asked to become Abecarians: Create a poem of 26 lines where each line begins with a letter of the alphabet and the letters are sequential. I’ve written from A to Z. Not the first letter of the first word in each line. Image from Pixabay.com
He or she or it peers out from window’s side.
Black obsidian-like pupil
orange incandescent iris.
Half there, half hidden.
All knowing? Fearful? Oblivious?
Seer by unearned reputation
among feathered fowl.
I arrange alphabetical letters.
Create single words, strung-along thoughts
gibberish with mismatched curves.
Leaked ink stains fingers,
dribbles dots on embossed paper
smears black blotches.
Accidental undefined punctuation blobs.
What seers roost among us?
Spew artificial intelligence scenarios.
Indulge everyman, everywoman,
every androgynous human.
Note the ever present “man” in that word.
Want it? Steal it or create it. At the cost of many
for the pleasure of few.
That all seeing obsidian eye?
Taxidermist’s handiwork unfinished.
Half-body only.
Nothing else behind the window.
What you see? Rancid carnage,
stuffed roadkill. Alternative reality.
This is all we get.
““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting the pub’s Open Link Night today, as well as dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM EST. Folks can post any poem of their choosing, no required length, form, or topic OR write an ekphrastic poem, one that is motivated by one of three “window” images I’ve provided, or any “window image” of their choosing. Owl image above from Pixabay.com
Join us LIVE on Saturday, October 25th, between 10 and 11 AM EST!!
Want to see and hear poets from around the globe read their poems (all in English)? We’re a very friendly bunch! Come join us to sit in, read a poem of your choice, and/or join in the conversation. Click here and then click on the Zoom meeting link provided (video and audio). Hope to see you Saturday, October 25th between 10 and 11 AM at our LIVE session!
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.
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.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay
Scam artist ~
preyed on teenage girls.
Sarah was smitten.
Invited to the party,
good and plenty ripe
with handsome bachelors
all waiting to score.
Twenty years her junior,
mints in his pocket
to wash away whiskey breath,
he sidled up to her.
Join me outside?
I’m not into alcohol
not into these wild parties.
She believed him.
Chatted gamely as they left.
Went to his penthouse hotel room.
Next day, found by the maid.
Strangled, disheveled, damaged.
But he was long gone.
On the kitchenette counter,
unopened Oreos package, glass of milk,
Duds and Suds business card
propped up by the toaster.
Handwritten message on the card:
I like ‘em young. Listen to their dreams.
All of ‘em wanna be sugar babies,
I just make it happen.
Catch me if you can.
Love to all,
Mr. Goodbar
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and listing 27 candy bars/candies and asking folks to include at least one in their poem. If the candy includes the word “bar/bars”, those words can be eliminated…but the candy name must be used exactly as it is. No words can be added between the words in the name.
Apologies for the darkness of this poem….sometimes my words go to the dark side. Perhaps it’s all the Jeffrey Epstein stories in the news right now. I know this is a frightening poem, even though it uses the following candies: Good and Plenty, Junior Mints, Milk Duds, Sugar Babies and Mr. Goodbar. I do not mean to make light of the Epstein files and their relationship to #47. It is a horrible story and one that must completely be released to the public. Again, apologies but the poem just came from my pen. My first poem for this prompt is MUCH HAPPIER!
Image made on Bing Create.
Rooftops cold, lifeless.
No sharing. No caring. Dead
metaphorically.
Values depleted.
Hopper’s view of the future,
stark warning. Resist.
Jarring emptiness.
Where were you when it happened?
Democracy failed.
Today Sanaa hosts OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We can either post a poem of our choosing OR post a poem related to the image above.
Edward Hopper’s City Roofs. Image courtesy of – https://www.wikiart.org/en/edward-hopper/city-roofs
lillian the home poet 