. . . from another time. Seemingly parked in a god-forsaken place. Resting place to rust, deteriorate more.
This image. Or someone’s once loved one sent to somewhere that is out of sight, out of mind.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and directs us to twelve images at Glenn Buttkus’ photography site, South Sound Minimalist Photos. Glenn is not only an excellent photographer, he is a fellow dVerse poet!
We are to use one of his twelve photos as inspiration for our poem. I chose photo #7: Old Rusty Truck which Glenn describes as “The isolated Model T truck bears the weight and pride of a hundredyears of rust, becoming prairie art and sentinel.”Interesting how once the photo (or the poem) is set to paper/blog, the interpretation is in the hands of the viewer/reader. I saw the photo as quite sad and hence this poem.
There once was a cat named Blue, male cats paid her no ballyhoo. So she sought a new and different view, into a church she flew. Bidding her old life adieu, she met Tom in a red cushioned pew. Playing the long-haired ingenue she purred sweetly to his bashful deep mew. Their relationship grew in this holy venue as they loved and lived in this special pew. And to this day, if you walk through you’ll find in this particular place, a glorious ethereal violet hue.
Written in response to the prompt for Day 16 in NaPoWrimo. We are to “relax with the rather silly form called Skeltonic.” The Skeltonic form has no specific number of syllables per line, but each line should be short, and should aim to have two or three stressed syllables. And the lines should rhyme. You just rhyme the same sound until you get tired of it! Quite an unusual form — but so appropriate on this day in April when Mother Nature fooled us Bostonians with snow almost all morning!
Handknit, hand-dyed scarf. Raw wool dipped in boiled walnuts, transformed to mahogany brown. Steeped in golden rod, yellow yarn gleams. Red wine we often sipped, created rich burgundy section. Scarf left behind, she promised to return. Summer here, woolens stowed, save one colorful scarf.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time, come join us! Today’s word to incorporate into our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, is wine.
Also shared at NaPoWriMo for Day 5. April is National Poetry Writing Month and the challenge is to write one poem every day during the month of April. Photo from Pixabay.com
And yes: I’ve dyed raw wool with such things as walnuts, wine, onion skins, golden rod, and even beets!
Destroy hope? Hope says never. Evil stands for all to see. Seeing it exposed, evil energy energizes truth tellers. Telling all, Truth wins the trifecta. Trifle not with win, place or show show all as one:
Respect. Equity. Humanity. Let it be so.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I am hosting today – pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Writers are invited to post a poem of their choice: no prompt, no particular form. BUT, they must tag or somehow direct their readers back to dVerse so others can share and be exposed to this gathering of supportive and creative writers.
Also offered for NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing) day one. April is National Poetry Writing Month and the traditional challenge is to write a poem every day of April. As I have in many years past, I accept the challenge. This was actually written and posted on April 1; I simply forgot to tag NaPoWriMo.
A note on my post: I am drawn to the idea that this is April 1st, commonly called April Fools’ Day. I am also drawn to the trial of the police officer accused in the murder of George Floyd. Somehow, with my pen scribbling in my journal, this confluence of those two facts appeared. The death of George Floyd caused a national, actually a global movement, recognizing racism. Many took to the streets in the US and abroad, espousing that this is the time for equity and humanity. George Floyd’s death was but one example of racism – albeit the one that woke up many.
Hands gnarled by fishing gear introvert with lonely heart, I’ve sailed the seas many a year. I search the horizon, especially in breaking dawn.
Skies painted tangerine, meld into passionate reds. Converge with glistening waters awakened at first light as well. She’s come to me only thrice.
Some say I imagine her. But I say to you, I’ve cast my eyes upon that face sweetly framed by seaweed tendrils. I’ve marveled at her iridescence, that silver-flecked aquamarine tail.
Once she rose up high as if to greet me, as if to mimic the sun’s rising arc. Her breasts, opalescent soft mounds barely covered by white cap foam, nature in its ultimate innocence.
I gazed until her eyes locked on mine. That one glorious moment etched sublime within my mind, keeps me more at sea than ashore, searching forevermore.
I seek that miraculous convergence when divine dawn breaks early light and she appears once more. She, the sweetest balm in all the world, for my aching lonely heart.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Tuesday Poetics and Laura is hosting. She asks us to think about the poet as a painter. And most especially, she asks us to consider the ekphrastic poem: “The practice of using words to comment on a piece of visual art is an ancient one. One of the earliest and most commonly cited forms of ekphrasis occurs in The Iliad, when Homer provides a long and discursive account of the elaborate scenes embossed on the shield of Achilles… the term ekphrasis derives from Greek, where it literally means “description” and was formed by combining the prefix ex- (“out”) with the verb “phrazein” (“to point out or explain”)”. (Merriam Webster)”
HOWEVER, for this prompt, she gives us a number of artwork titles from contemporary artists and asks us to use that title, as the title of our poem – without looking at the actual artwork itself. With our words, we are to paint the story of or the image of that title. One title she provides for the prompt is Convergence by Jackson Pollack.
Sun strengthens, pries loose snow mask from mountain caps. Water trickles, begins to overflow, swiftly runs downstream. ~ Gregarious tendencies stifled too long. Confined by lockdowns, hidden by masks from view.
Vaccinations bloom, propagate in spring. Sun strengthens as do we, spilling out to streets.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Sarah asks us to include the word “swift” or a form of the word (not a synonym) in our exactly 44 word poem, sans title. Photo from Pixabay.com I fervently believe we are emerging from the season of Covid. Stay safe everyone and let’s insure this happens.
Point the way through wild thyme, curling seductive fiddleheads. Engulf me in hyacinth scented air. I crave to satisfy my senses.
Perhaps words can fulfill this lust? Become the enticement I desire? Smooth curved letters connecting script to feelings . . .
. . . forgive me while I imbibe.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today Lisa is tending the pub and asks us to use the word “way” in our quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come imbibe! Image from Pixabay.com
We are a patriarchal society, our language too often is male dominant. Male designations within professions: fireman, policeman, chairman. Finally adjusted over recent years, fire fighter, police officer, chair person.
But the very basic words to describe me, to describe those of you like me, remain, however subtly, patriarchal. They contain the male as if we cannot stand alone, be independent as ourselves.
We are a woMAN, a sHE. We are woMEN, feMALES. And even as we age, we face MENopause. Are we not important unto ourselves?
As long as our bodies exist, all huMANs bear testament to the power of their mother, the ultimate her. Not MANifest in huMANity, but etched upon us as we entered the world, our most basic connection to her.
That impression upon our belly evidence of her supreme power, the miracle of birthing. Place your hand upon your belly. Do it now as you read. Do it. Do you understand?
You are forever connected to her. This connection, too miraculous to be mundanely called a navel, worse yet, a belly button. Scientifically it is the umbilicus, but that term bears no reference to her.
Long after she passes to another place her presence remains with us. Umbilicus or mumbilicus? Place your hand upon your belly and you decide. And when you miss her most, know she is always there with you.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril asks us to write a poem about connections. Image: Pregnant Woman by Edgar Degas, cast in 1920, on display at the Met on Fifth Avenue, in gallery 814. Image is in public domain.
** I’ve been interested in the herstory of language and its power to affect change for many years.