Revenge

She falters, steps lightly,
lightly asserting herself again.
Again he beats her, denies her being.
Being a brute, how can she win?

How did this happen,
happen to her, create such fear?
Fear is the impetus she finally needs.
Needs to act quickly, her path is clear.

Miles away she laughs aloud,
a loud guffaw that signals she’s free.
Free of his violence, while he lies dead,
dead by her deed near the old oak tree.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Grace asks us to consider Loop Poetry, a form created by Hellon. There are no restrictions on the number of stanzas nor on the syllable count for each line. However, in each stanza, the last word of the line 1 becomes the first word of line 2. The last word of line 2 becomes the first word of line 3. The last word of line 3 becomes the first word of line 4. This is followed for each stanza (4 line stanzas). The rhyme scheme is abcb. Tricky. Took me a while to get in the rhythm of it and for some reason, this poem from the dark side was the result.

Moving Day

Chipmunk cheeks, chubby knees
toddler toddles unsteadily.
Plops down on diaper padded bum
eyes surprised at sudden landing.
Spies round unknown object
in midst of packing boxes.
Left-over, missed by movers,
his to explore and claim.
Metal globe on brass colored axis,
somewhat dented
but sporting what looks to him
like gaily colored splotches.
Blues and reds and blacks
and yellows and greens
and shapes that fascinate.
Pudgy fingers reach out,
touch cool round surface
and tentatively push . . .
then more . . .and more and
ooooh spinning colors.
Faster, faster, faster,
round and round and round.
Squeals of delight
draw me to the door.
I see this happy child,
the world, a spinning top for him.
Unaware of famine, wars, discord,
and oh so intricately drawn borders.
Imagine whirled peace
with colors spun into one.
Boundaries blurred and gone
and laughter the only sound.
Or just as suddenly,
what could be.
A world in shock,
tipped off its axis
and the only sound,
disappointed screams.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics.

For the prompt, I’ve provided a list of sixteen Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavors, many of which have been retired. Writers must include the name of at least one flavor from the list of sixteen in the body of their poem – and the poem cannot be about ice cream! I’ve used the flavor Imagine Whirled Peace. It was a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavor from 2007 to 2013.

Writers cannot change the order of the words in the flavor, or the tense of the words. They cannnot change the words of the flavor into plurals or possessives. They cannot add words between the words in the name of the flavor. Of course, folks are free to use more than one flavor from the list. After all, who doesn’t like a double-dipper or triple-dipper ice cream cone????

Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us – it should be fun!

Backwards . . .

it must be a dream . . .
or time-machine . . .
or machinations of an addled brain.

Used to be a woman’s road
to pregnancy and through pregnancy
was determined by men.
Their genitalia and their laws.
Used to be coat hangers
bloodied in cavities,
did more than hang up coats.

It’s not a dream . . .
or time machine . . .
or my septuagenarian brain.
Once again, a woman’s body
her insides, her uterus
are ruled by men.
Their genitalia and their laws.

Ding Dong the Witch is Dead . . .

I’m melting, melting. Ohhhhh, what a world, what a world, destroy my beautiful wickedness.” Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz

I planned it. Me and Rudy.
It was all fixed.
The machines, the ballots.
All a disaster.

Millions believed me.
They didn’t drink bleach
but they believed I won
because I said so.

This commission.
These videos. These emails.
My people spilling it all.
Gutless.

This witch hunt . . .
closing in . . .
my battery is low
and it’s getting dark.

Laura provides a unique prompt for today’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She provides seven quotations of famous departing words. We must choose one and include it in a “deathbed poem of our imagination.”

The line provided by Laura: “My battery is low and it’s getting dark.” Mars rover ‘Opportunity’

The prompt got me thinking about Donald Trump and the January 6 Commission. May the vast amount of evidence presented be the demise of the Big Lie and expose the danger Donald Trump presents to democracy and the well-being of this country. May his power and cult-like status among otherwise sane people melt away, similar to what happened to the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz.

Hushhhhh . . .

. . . shadow me to sleep.
Hush headlines, past regrets,
and lists of tasks undone.
Toss full moon behind gathering clouds.
Snuff stars until dust drips silently
crusting my eyes.
Sink me into primordial seas,
ombréd in shades of grey
that I might rest in peace.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah asks us to include the word “sleep” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

Photos taken last night from our deck here in Provincetown, as the moon was rising. That’s my husband’s hand. Unfortunately, it did indeed totally cloud over and we never saw the eclipse or infamous blood moon….but this was an amazing sight as well.

Brooding (from the lines of Maya Angelou)

When I think about myself
there is a deep brooding.
The day hangs heavy
no sound falls.
I see you,
shadows on the wall
just beyond my reaching.

Lying, thinking
I almost remember
when you came to me, unbidden.
Your smile, delicate
a young body, light,
your skin like dawn.
We saw beyond our seeming.

One innocent spring
it occurs to me now,
the dust of ancient pages.

A cento (poem made up of lines taken from other poems) written for NAPOWRIMO, the final day.

Every line in this poem, is the first line in one of Maya Angelou’s poems. The poems are listed below, in the order of their appearance:

When I Think About Myself
My Arkansas
Greyday
After
Thank You, Lord
Life Doesn’t Frighten Me
Slave Coffle
Alone
I Almost Remember
When You Come to Me
Woman Me
To Beat the Child Was Bad Enough
Passing Time
We Saw Beyond Our Seeming
Now Long Ago
Changing
Communication II: The Student

In Sober Response to a Prompt

Blessings at birth
two parents, one brother
warm home, and sustenance.
Curses at birth?
I can think of none
for me.

I shuddered last week as I read
of a child born underground
as missiles struck
and millions fled
and “never again”
kept coming again.

Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 29.

Today’s prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in which you muse on the gifts you received at birth — whether they are actual presents, like a teddy bear, or talents – like a good singing voice – or circumstances – like a kind older brother, as well as a “curse” you’ve lived with (your grandmother’s insistence on giving you a new and completely creepy porcelain doll for every birthday, a bad singing voice, etc.). I hope you find this to be an inspiring avenue for poetic and self-exploration.

Victorious Tanka

Caught in his maelstrom
she survived a winter’s tale.
Fighting against his  
blizzard of heartless demands,
she left when the crocus bloomed.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Ingrid asks us to consider the bard, William Shakespeare. We may choose a title from a list she gives us, a partial list of his plays. I’ve included A Winter’s Tale within my poem

Also, off-prompt today for NAPOWRIMO, Day 26.

Tanka: A poetic form of 5 lines with the following syllabic requirement: 5-7-5-7-7. Image from Pixabay.com

Alone Not Lonely

She lives her life as a barnacle would,
clinging tenaciously to existence
in the fast moving currents
of today’s world.
A recluse, without the vanities,
the banalities of every day life,
she escapes it all
living in the far reaches
of the dunes of Cape Cod.
She journals each day.
Pecking words into being
from an old Smith Corona,
sounding every bit like gulls
pecking again and again
at stubborn crustacean shells.
She writes of Victorian love,
placing herself in another world
with a lover of her design.
Her dreams inscribed on paper,
ream after ream after ream.
Like gossamer wings
too ethereal to touch,
to reach in any reality,
but delectable none-the-less.

Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 24. Today we’re asked to write in the style of Novelist Raymond Chandler who wrote hard-boiled detective novels known for their use of vivid similes. “Channel your inner gumshoe, and write a poem in which you describe something with a hard-boiled simile. Feel free to use just one, or try to go for broke and stuff your poem with similes till it’s . . . as dense as bread baked by a plumber, as round as the eyes of a girl who wants you to think she’s never heard such language, and as easy to miss as a brass band in a cathedral.” Photo from Pixabay.com

And she asked him . . .

Isn’t what amazing?
Ants tugging five-thousand times their weight?
Fibonacci’s relationship to the nautilus shell?
Humming birds’ wings
beating fifty-three times per second?
Women growing human beings inside their bodies?
Yes. Yes. Yes. And definitely yes.

So what makes you so amazing?
You forcing me to take your name if we wed?
You making laws to govern my body?
You body-shaming me
while you’re lugging around your beer gut?
Yes. Oh please, please tell me, yes.
Exactly what makes you so amazing?

Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 13. Today’s prompt challenges us to write from the perspective of “everything’s going to be amazing” . . . I admit. I went a little off-kilter with this one!