Slip on spectacles;
do not seek spectacles.
Seek slightly furrowed brows
tear drops forming in their duct
delicate veins on clover leaf
cloud wisps tinctured in palest pink
puddled reflection of toddler’s yellow boot
catsup melding into whole wheat bread
smiles of mirth ‘neath crinkled eyes.
Slip on spectacles to see the good.
In the spirit of the poem, no photo or illustration included.
Motivated by a prompt from Holly Wren Spauldings online class…a list poem.
twenty-four-hour news cycle
compromise, an unused skill
science be damned
and civility hiding god knows where
find me the bridge
over troubled waters
to sanity
to respite
clear my head
She lurched through life
masked as some kind of bandit
hoping to steal affection,
waiting impatiently
for the mardi gras of life
to throw beads her way.
She stumbled on embankments
peripheral vision hampered,
mask drawn too close to her soul.
Glancing downward,
sun blinding, glare too harsh,
she saw the rat staring from gutter’s grate.
Tomorrow would be yesterday.
No map to guide her.
she finally gave up hope.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Mish is asking us to write a poem that somehow deals with the word “mask.”
Words tumble round my head
searching for mates to copulate,
birth meaning upon the page.
Sleep eludes me as words deluge me.
May I write, please?
Spackle paper in alphabet hue.
Night remnants. Darkened window pane.
My muse flickers like candles upon the sill,
fickle handmaid of creativity.
If light begets light
perhaps dawn will quicken her step,
drawn to these sputtering flames.
Words slowly seep from pen
cursive dips and curves.
I write tentatively,
then speed the pace
racing to beat the dawn.
And then, I rest.
deep within the soil
perennial seed lies dormant
safe from winter’s scorn –
would that I could sleep as sound
oblivious to my pain.
Frank is hosting today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He’s asked us to write a poem about sleep or to use the word itself. My post today is a Tanka: 5 lines with a 5, 7, 5, 7, 7 syllabic content. A Tanka should include a shift in tone after line 3 or 4. Here, line 4 shifts from nature to the personal. Added note: written in the voice of another.
i.
He lived a crab’s life
sidling through his world
without confronting anything head on.
—————————————————————————————————————————–
ii.
She never knew who she was.
Today, servant to his whims
yesterday his foil.
Tomorrow, his jewel case on display.
In her youth, the obedient child.
Perfect pianist stretching to reach the pedals
daddy’s little girl,
mama’s protegé.
Turn this way, look here.
Here, not there.
Do this. Do that.
Twisted. Manipulated.
She’d led a kaleidoscope life
until all the pieces crumbled,
reduced to shards.
Two poems, one short, one a bit longer, written for dVerse. Today, Bjorn hosts and asks us to write metaphorically. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. For those who need a quick review from their highschool poetry unit, very basically stated, a simile is a comparison using the words “like” or “as.” A metaphor is a comparison without using the words “like” or “as.” Both photos in public domain at http://www.pixabay.com
Lillian Mae Gruenwald. My full name before marriage. Lillian after my maternal grandmother, and by happenstance, my father’s twin sister. Mae after a beloved great-aunt. I hated it. The name; not my relatives. Cousins called me Lilly Mae or Little Mae. To everyone else I was Lillian.
In high school I was the skinny girl on the cheerleader squad. The only one chosen because of acrobatic abilities. I was also the only girl on the debate team. I dared to carry long metal boxes of index cards filled with researched “evidence.” I argued aggressively with boys, at tournaments all over the state of Illinois. To me, Lillian Gruenwald was a never-would-vote-for-homecoming-queen kind of name. And I was right. At homecoming, I was left leading the crowd in cheers for our Bulldogs while the Gail Shorts and Kay Savels left to change clothes. I watched as they sedately rode around the field at half-time, draped over new-model convertibles, donated for the occasion by the local Oldsmobile dealer.
So when my folks readied to leave me at college on that fateful day in early Autumn 1965, a crisp, cool, fresh day, I fidgeted. I willed them to leave before anyone came up to greet us. They finally did, after dutifully giving their Lillian lots of parental advice and enough hugs to smother me. I stood on the curb by the dorm, finally alone. Poised for a new life. On the brink of a new beginning. And then some newbie freshmen came up to greet me. I don’t remember who they were. Or how many there were. But I distinctly remember grinning, holding out my hand to shake their hands, and saying confidently, “Hi, I’m Lill.”
sugar maple tree
dwarfed in surrounding green leaves
claims fall glory with crimson red
Toni is hosting Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. The theme today is KOMOREEI…a Japanese terms that literally means the light filtered between leaves, usually occurring in spring and fall…that in-between season. We’re asked to write about something that has occurred in between seasons. Haibun: 2 or 3 tightly written paragraphs of prose, not fiction; followed by a haiku. In true Japanese form, the haiku is not beholden to the syllabic count, rather must be about nature and include a “season” word. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Photo in Boston’s Public Garden, Fall 2016. PS: I’m happy being called Lill or Lillian these days….with age comes a knowledge that we are who we are, regardless of the name.
Harrumph.
Abbracadabra . . .
Hurrah!
Palindrome: word that is the same, spelled forwards and backwards as in mom, wow, and hah! Also a four-way acrostic for dVerse. An acrostic contains a hidden word within the poem, usually spelled out from top to bottom within the first letter of each line. In this short short poem, read first letters of each line from top to bottom, or from bottom to top; and read the last letters of each line from top to bottom, or from bottom to top, and you get the same word! And the message/meaning is that sometimes, magically, a person’s personality can change😊
Blissful dream journey
turns nightmare.
Ghosts whisper, dance,
twist, shimmer.
Lightning sparks, sounds echo.
Storm drizzles, bubbles open.
Breath flickers,
fearful giggle jars grin.
Clouds balloon, curl.
Breeze skips through leaves.
Dawn spills, melts rose-red.
Peppered blood-shadows
scar green spring grass.
Cue still lull.
Bjorn hosts dVerse today. We must write a Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) using the word “bliss.” Quadrille Mondays occur every other week. We need only include the week’s one given word in our poem. Ultimately 44 Quadrille Weeks occur, thus 44 word prompts. Past words this series have included dream, fear, flicker, pepper, dance, bubble, grin, lull, melt, shimmer, twist, skip, green, breeze, spill, rose, journey, jar, leaves, open, shadow, cloud, spark, cue, breath, scar, curl, whisper, dawn, ghost, giggle, drizzle, still, echo, sound, storm, spring, and balloon. This post includes all 39 words given thus far. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Image: public domain at pixabay.com
nature’s lace makers
shadows made by rustling leaves
spider’s silken web
once empty spaces glisten ~
like memories easing pain
Gayle is hosting Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets and we’re invited to post a poem of our choice. I’ve been lace-knitting a shawl lately and have become obsessed with the way making lace is all about creating empty spaces and joining them together. Making emptiness beautiful. Hence this tanka today! A Tanka is a 7 line poem with the following syllabic form: 5, 7, 5, 7, 7. There is supposed to be a shift from the natural in their first 4 lines…to something personal / human in the last line.
lillian the home poet 