He feigns strength, gilds his world golden. His name. His visage. His way. Trumpian mythology built lie by lie, threat by threat. Its depth unimaginable, bottomless pit of greed, racism. So self-consumed is he, blind to his wax wings melting. Truth’s flame is invincible
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to include the word “myth” or a form of the word in a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.
Reference is made to mythology’s Icarus whose wings were made of wax…which led to his demise when he flew too close to the sun.
I recall being always happy in the early years of my childhood. Playing house with dolls, parading down Melrose Avenue in dress-up clothes, riding my tricycle, running through sprinklers and drinking from the garden hose – all with my best friend, June. As we progressed to first and second grade we climbed Mrs. Jester’s apple trees, held hands as we walked back and forth to West Elementary School, made chalk drawings on the sidewalk and played hopscotch too. I loved sleepovers at June’s house, looking with wonder at her sister Auberdene’s dressing table filled with lipsticks and perfumes. We’d sit in June’s living room and watch Roy Rogers and Gene Autry on the black-and-white tv while eating a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches. Once every summer, my mom bought a box of popsicles and doled them out to June and I and other kids on the block. Everyone fought over the red ones. I always had the yellow ones to myself. I guess nobody else liked banana.
childhood memories friendships frozen in photos long faded by time
Writing this to say Happy Birthday on June 15th to my dearest childhood friend, June Zitka Trentacosti. June is on the left in both these photos.
how did we get to this place where journalists are called piggy and stupid and the one before is called sleepy joe while the one now who was also before the one before nods off in televised meetings but wakes up demanding cabinet members sling odes of praise while hiding their genuflecting knees below the conference table refusing to speak against indulgences given to insurrectionists as others under his spell fund masked men not Zorro types accosting individuals who by the way are not eating your pets rather paying taxes to raise their children who are US citizens being good neighbors attending church working jobs that need bodies who show up and care
we need Martin and Jesse John Lewis and Barbara Jordon to be here again we need their spirited tenacity to rile up cowardly sycophants to grow backbones and finally say enough is enough
meanwhile he’s playing feral tom cat lifting his leg all over DC leaving his mark so future felines and species of any kind will know he was here in his gilded age of narcissism adding his name atop JFKs and on towers and arch de trumps even as he paints the Reflecting Pond blue in the image of Mar-a-Lago’s swimming pool which as he explained with posters as visual aids is taller than any of the tallest buildings in the world never mind it’s a pool of water lying prone on the ground not a building actually standing tall reaching to the sky
he’s become an AI Master in the wee hours evidenced by his creations something no other president has or ever will be see Donald the pilot dropping shit bombs everywhere while JD warns Leo to be careful talking about theology his boss created himself in the image of Christ and it goes on and on and on like a run-on sentence with no stops no resets no commas just implicitly felt exclamation marks slung everywhere until we the people add our own exclamation mark and say NO in November
let the reckoning come
Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Melissa asks us to write a poem with no punctuation. Image by Vilius Kukanauskas from Pixabay
Birds of a feather argumentation our game, friendship scores the win.
College debate partners from 1965 to 1969. Friendship scores over years and miles – that’s the real trophy in 2026. Just back from a wonderful visit with Karen in Sarasota, Florida.
Shared on dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.
. . . some arranged some from love at first sight. Some wooed over coffee dates, dances, walks in the woods, saunters through town. Some too good to be true and they were.
In his imagination, he pictured her a match for his gentle soul. Someone to color his world, hues of happiness and hope. Ruby red lips, dark indigo eyes, cheerful lemon-yellow everyday dresses.
She appeared in his dreams occasionally. Magenta velvet dress swaying, complement to his black velvet tux. They danced together, high in the night sky, galaxy spinning, sparkling its approval. Their’s was a match made in heaven.
Sadly, night’s chill always ended this folly, waking him as he reached up, up into the nothingness of stark reality. His hand empty, heart aching. Would he ever find her? Or is his dream, simply out of reach? Too good to be true.
Written for Tuesdayd Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Melissa is hosting. She’s given us images of 4 Marc Chagall paintings and asked to write an ekphrastic poem using one of them. I’ve selected The Promenade, oil on canvas painted in 1918.
An EKPHRASTIC poem is a poem inspired by an image.
How do people learn to parent? Do we learn it as we go? Is it a task with diminishing returns?
We erect loving fences round our infants. Envelop them in our arms, nurture them at the breast, cocoon them in swaddled sleep. At varying degrees we watch, hover, interfere or cheer, as they crawl, toddle, run, stumble, fall and get back up again. Fences open as we send them to school. Teachers flick reins with encouragement to lope, gallop, join the race, keep up the pace. Soon fences disappear completely. Children gone more than they’re at home. Is parenting a conundrum? Love and attachment grow stronger every day even as we encourage independence, even as their days with us are numbered. Suddenly they’re adults raising their own as we look on from another place. We hope the path they walked with us was well tread, remembered fondly. We relish our memories as we wait for their muscle memory and that thing called familial love to occasionally nudge them back into our sphere again.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Punam reminds us that in India, May is a month where there will be art exhibits across many cities. She provides us with several artworks that can motivate an ekphrastic poem, or we can be inspired by one of the following names of some of these art shows: 1. Nothing Twice 2. Chance Remains of Another Time 3. Open Fences
Photo is us with our granddaughter who is now 18! How time flies!
Sipping bordeaux, afternoon delight. She, the queen of hearts, oblivious. He, her soul’s sustenance, sits restless in the tangles of foment. His love, her peace and windrush. His lust, her quicksilver.
Poetry is a testament to noticing. Journal upon the table, pen hesitates, writing stammers, then suddenly stops. Eyes look up, gaze high. SentinelEiffel Tower looms overlooking this changing scene.
Her hands shake, tears form. Looking at him, she knows. This seasonal song has no coda, final movement complete. He nods slowly, touches her hand, whispers I’m sorry and leaves. For her, the summer is done.
Written for Tuesay Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril gives us a list of names given to roses and asks us to write a poem including at least five of the names. We cannot use the word “rose” wtihin our poem. The rose names are Afternoon Delight, Bordeaux, Brass Band, Cayenne, Desdemona, Ebb Tide, Eiffel Tower, Golden Gate, Mermaid, No Surrender, Peace, Penny Lane, Queen of Hearts, Quick Silver, Restless, Sea Foam, Summer Song, Tangles, White Wings, and Windrush. I’ve included the ten that are in bold print.
Image AI generated on Bing Create.
“Poetry is a testament to noticing” quoted from Poetry Unbound, 50 Poems to Open Your World, by Padraig O Tuama, Irish poet and theologian.
fire suddenly flares up in our new frying pan. Must everything in this country be so combustible? Just put a lid on the rhetoric and smother the heat.
NAPOWRIMO Day 28. Prompt: write a poem that follows this pattern: three sentences, six lines: statement, question, conclusion. AI image made on Bing Create.
In his dodder of thyme, the current head DC gardener continues to uproot and rip out Justicia,Honesty, and roses of all kind. As if they were the weeds. In their place he sows and propagates Crown Imperial, Wormswood, Snakesfoot, King-cups and Creeping Cereus.
This prickly pear of a man is in no way a humble plant. More like a mouse-eared-chickweed forever noshing on Fool’s Parsley, basking under the shade of his pruned Judas Trees.
Outside his sphere, weeping willows flail in dire need of gentle balm. They must find a new sage, soon. Both Burpee and the Farmer’s Almanac warn the upcoming planting season will be a crucial one.
NAPOWRIMO Day 19. Today’s prompt: Using Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers, write a poem in which you muse on your selections of flowers names and meanings from her extensive list.
*** All of the flowers and plants I’ve used from her book, are italicized in the poem. I’ve kept the capitalization only on those that are actually used in the poem as the plant/flower itself. Reference is paid to the Old Farmer’s Almanac and the Burpee Seed Catalogue.
IMAGE of the Jacqueline Kennedy Rose Garden at the White House, courtesy of the National Park Service website.
lillian the home poet 