You were my honey mine,
Feeling passions quake
in hot and youthful ardor.
You proposed with golden band
rich in love, but not in funds.
Hearts expanded, two to four,
those we called our wonder years.
Till suddenly we caught our breath,
their childhood gone, somehow over.
Watch we did as they left home,
amazed were we, as two again.
Seasons passed and reappeared
our path ahead, much shorter now.
But kisses still doth kindle joy
for you and I, our love defined.
Love divine, a decoupage
years layered upon years.
Passion flows through comfort,
your skin next to mine
love within familiar folds.
Sarah hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She is thinking about all the computer games that occupy so much time of some people. She asks us to choose three games from among those in a list she provides; and use those three names in our poem. I selected the games Honey Mine, Quake, and Overwatch – the latter split between two lines in stanza 3. Photo is taken at Pilgrims First Landing Park in Provincetown, MA. Most folks don’t know the pilgrims first landed in Provincetown but did not find it to their liking and went on to Plymouth. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time: come join us!
Frost-shimmer blurs window glass, like her lucidity,
as winter bundles trudge in faceless frigidity.
Memories sync with candle flicker, seem to come and go,
vague blizzard of anonymous insipidity.
She sits quietly peering through pane at what’s below.
Her mind, once clear as bright sun filled days, now lies fallow,
unaware of winter’s certain approaching demise.
The promise of warmth, rebirthing wild blue indigo.
Frank hosts Thursday’s MTB at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to write a Rubaiyat:
* a Persian form of poetry, written in quatrain stanzas (4 lines to a stanza).
* Originally, 13 syllables to a line with variation on the pattern of accents.
Rhyme scheme is AABA, BBCB.
Quite the challenge!
Wild blue indigo is a flowering plant native to much of central and eastern North America and is particularly common in the Midwest.
She ripped open seams . . .
slit through emotions,
shed the niceties.
Avoid at all costs.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. Prompt today is to write a poem using the word “shed” – or a form of the word. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
My heart slips,
Ice encrusted long ago,
Too late I understand.
I am the abandoner.
in northernmost veins.
as I have her.
Anmol hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, she asks us to explore confessional poetry. In Confessional, whose voice is heard in the first stanza? The confessor appears in the second and third stanza. This is how I felt when we took our trip to Alaska several years ago. I witnessed and heard the calving that is occurring more and more as we ignore the plight of our earth. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
tangled in hair,
cooing to butterflies
fingers she flutters.
Turning she runs
ready for flight,
clambers on swing
wishing she might.
Higher she shouts
Daddy push higher!
Smiling, he does,
thankful for fairies.
Their magical gift
the child he adores.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and De asks us to use the word “change” (or a form of the word) within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image from Pixabay.com. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
distorted by blind slats.
Window to the world
disjointed paths of light.
image from pixabay.com
Oh why have you deserted me these nights,
your golden wings and glistening silver beak?
We soared through star lit skies to mystic sites
my Namrah, childhood friend, to me unique.
Adulthood now, so taxed by tasks each day
the years have sped, imagination dulled.
My dreams are doors no more, no passage way,
no you. But stress instead, and nightmares mulled.
Oh why have you deserted me these years?
Is there another child who claimed your dreams
whilst I, within the dark, doth shed my tears
for youthful innocence and moonbeam gleams.
As wrinkles steep and footsteps slow my gait,
I see the light in death’s dawn – tis there you wait.
Written for dVerse MTB where Bjorn hosts and asks us to write a sonnet. Sonnets can take a number of forms. I’ve chosen a Shakespearean Sonnet: 14 lines with the following rhyme scheme in iambic pentameter: ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG. I find this form extremely difficult and find myself counting out syllables etc on my fingers. So this is my go at it. A Shakespeare I’m not! PS: Over the years I’ve written a number of poems about Namrah. Many folks have childhood imaginary friends. I did not – but I’ve created Namrah in a number of poems, speaking in the first person, as if this beautiful mythcal bird is just that.
What if I became you?
A three-letter being instead of a one.
Not won but lost.
In your shoes with one lost sole.
A lost soul.
What if you became them?
A four-letter being instead of a three.
Not a one. Never won.
You as them. Not allowed in.
On the other side.
Outside, like them.
The other’s side.
Not here. Never here.
What if you were them?
You, an other.
Merril opens the new year at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to consider time and space and what if. Her prompt: “What if you – or someone else – or some THING else – took that less or more-traveled path? Would it make a difference? Will it make a difference? Look backward, forward, inside, and out. Then wonder, what if?” Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and begin your 2019 by imbibing some words today!
There is vulnerability
in unconditional love.
baring our souls.
in tonight’s passion
and tomorrow’s mundane.
as love is.
Anmol (HA) is guest hosting at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to explore desire and sexuality in poetry – and to write about desire and identity. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time…come join us!
thou art my bedfellow.
You joust to slay my sleep,
pummel me with dire near-dozing dreams.
not to rest, but to rise instead.
Darkness turns light,
switch slapped by frustrated hand.
thou art the victor
your bleary-eyed spoils.
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt word is “spoil” – or any form of the word. Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time – come join us! Image from Pixabay.com