Her suppressed feelings: cacophony of colors ready to explode.
Written for OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, I’m hosting and folks can post any poem of their choosing…no required length, format, theme, etc. OR they can write a poem motivated by the painting above: “Mme Kupka among Verticals” painted by Frantisek Kupka (in public domain). It’s displayed at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.
NOTE: come join us Saturday, January 17th for our LIVE session (audio and video) from 10 to 11 AM EST. Go to https://dversepoets.com for the link to join us live. Come read a poem of your choosing or come to just sit in and enjoy. We usually have folks from across the globe…all in English. We’re a very friendly bunch!
He lost one wife to family genetics. Her parents and siblings suffered fatal heart attacks before the age of sixty. He woke one morning to find her cold body next to his. Thank God he passed away before his eldest son suffered the same fate.
He lost his second wife to religion. A devout, and some would say overly zealous Christian Scientist, he watched her cold symptoms worsen. After arguments that went nowhere, he stood by as she prayed her pneumonia away. He held her hand as she died.
If we are all actors upon a stage, Grief enters with or without directional cues. A sudden drop-in as if let fly from an overhead catwalk. A slow unraveling as clues and evidence appear, until the perpetrator is revealed and the curtain falls.
We – the family, the friends, the audience – ultimately leave the theater with only playbill in hand. But Grief hangs on to the one left alone. It may dissipate ever so slowly, but the void remains. And at times, sometimes unexpectedly, it grips the heart like a vise. Grief, a character in every script, is simply masked at times or hovering in the wings.
Nature airs her grief. Loud thunder sounds her anger, soft rain weeps her tears.
A haibun dedicated to my dearest uncle. His “story” is in the first two paragraphs. He has been gone many years now. I loved him dearly. Also dedicated to my dear friend, Mary Nilsen.
Haibun: a Japanese form consisting of prose (usually nonfiction) followed by a haiku that contains a nature reference.
Abracadabra because I want a magician’s wand to change what was into what was not and what could be. Defy divisiveness, effects of hatred, and speaking of the “us” versus the “other”. Forge ahead to find new paths. Gather those who want positive change. Hand in hand with hope, honesty and just intentions, may we begin to just listen. Truly listen knowing we are all located within the same sea of humanity. Listen and listen more. Open our ears and hearts. Make a concerted effort, not numbing the pain of others into oblivion. Prayer is not enough. In the quest for healing, we must reflect on what could be and make it so. It may seem tenuous until we verbally and actively validate the worth of all God’s people. Xenophobia is not an option. You and I, if we’re honest, also have roots in other places. Zest and good will toward all humanity: may it be our Resolution for 2026.
Written for Meet The Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re asked to become Abecarians: Create a poem of 26 lines where each line begins with a letter of the alphabet and the letters are sequential. I’ve written from A to Z. Not the first letter of the first word in each line. Image from Pixabay.com
He or she or it peers out from window’s side. Black obsidian-like pupil orange incandescent iris. Half there, half hidden. All knowing? Fearful? Oblivious? Seer by unearned reputation among feathered fowl.
I arrange alphabetical letters. Create single words, strung-along thoughts gibberish with mismatched curves. Leaked ink stains fingers, dribbles dots on embossed paper smears black blotches. Accidental undefined punctuation blobs.
What seers roost among us? Spew artificial intelligence scenarios. Indulge everyman, everywoman, every androgynous human. Note the ever present “man” in that word. Want it? Steal it or create it. At the cost of many for the pleasure of few.
That all seeing obsidian eye? Taxidermist’s handiwork unfinished. Half-body only. Nothing else behind the window. What you see? Rancid carnage, stuffed roadkill. Alternative reality. This is all we get. ““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting the pub’s Open Link Night today, as well as dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM EST. Folks can post any poem of their choosing, no required length, form, or topic OR write an ekphrastic poem, one that is motivated by one of three “window” images I’ve provided, or any “window image” of their choosing.Owl image above from Pixabay.com
Join us LIVE on Saturday, October 25th, between 10 and 11 AM EST!! Want to see and hear poets from around the globe read their poems (all in English)? We’re a very friendly bunch! Come join us to sit in, read a poem of your choice, and/or join in the conversation. Click here and then click on the Zoom meeting link provided (video and audio). Hope to see you Saturday, October 25th between 10 and 11 AM at our LIVE session!
Center stage, porch light blazing, oohed and aahed at by passersby. Bright eyes lit from within. But candle burns, continually drips. Insides shrivel, eyes begin to droop. Carved in grin begins to sneer.
Inevitably the brouhaha ends crowds thin, candle burns out. Orange flesh sags, collapses from within. Maggots begin to appear. You should have known, pumpkins do rot.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse so we can post any one poem of our choosing. No required topic, form or length.
parched petals litter tabletop tears cling to eyelashes skeletal tree limbs crack as blizzard careens from sky
sunrise announces joyful day as cherry blossoms bloom yes bedazzled by love bouquet gifted, she smiles
seasons and emotions change age wizens beauty Your love, her always
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting our Quadrille Monday and asking folks to write a poem of EXACTLY 44 words, sans title, and include the word “petals” (or a form of the word) in the body of the poem. A synonym will not suffice.
Scam artist ~ preyed on teenage girls. Sarah was smitten. Invited to the party, good and plenty ripe with handsome bachelors all waiting to score.
Twenty years her junior, mints in his pocket to wash away whiskey breath, he sidled up to her. Join me outside? I’m not into alcohol not into these wild parties.
She believed him. Chatted gamely as they left. Went to his penthouse hotel room.
Next day, found by the maid. Strangled, disheveled, damaged. But he was long gone. On the kitchenette counter, unopened Oreos package, glass of milk, Duds and Suds business card propped up by the toaster.
Handwritten message on the card: I like ‘em young. Listen to their dreams. All of ‘em wanna be sugar babies, I just make it happen. Catch me if you can. Love to all, Mr. Goodbar
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and listing 27 candy bars/candies and asking folks to include at least one in their poem. If the candy includes the word “bar/bars”, those words can be eliminated…but the candy name must be used exactly as it is. No words can be added between the words in the name.
Apologies for the darkness of this poem….sometimes my words go to the dark side. Perhaps it’s all the Jeffrey Epstein stories in the news right now. I know this is a frightening poem, even though it uses the following candies: Good and Plenty, Junior Mints, Milk Duds, Sugar Babies and Mr. Goodbar. I do not mean to make light of the Epstein files and their relationship to #47. It is a horrible story and one that must completely be released to the public. Again, apologies but the poem just came from my pen. My first poem for this prompt is MUCH HAPPIER!
Rooftops cold, lifeless. No sharing. No caring. Dead metaphorically.
Values depleted. Hopper’s view of the future, stark warning. Resist.
Jarring emptiness. Where were you when it happened? Democracy failed.
Today Sanaa hosts OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We can either post a poem of our choosing OR post a poem related to the image above.
Six minutes a widow. The sun kept shining, the clock kept ticking, but your heart stopped. Absolutely stopped.
I remember my screams, ambulance sirens. They rushed you away from me. Ushered me into a private waiting room. I waited for forever it seemed.
Then that humming, beeping room. Monitor glowing with moving lines. Lines becoming peaks and troughs and blips. Shroud-like sheeted, eyes closed. Your face obscured by ventilator and tubes.
My God, so many tubes. Family somehow there, tethering you to earth. Doctor talk. Jumbled words to me. “. . . his brain . . .may not wake up…not the same..” No. No. NO.
Forty-eight hours later your eyes popped open, staring fear. Nurse told you firmly, wiggle your toes. Move your right hand, now your left. Moments of sheer joy.
We came home end of that week, you, the real you, cognitively you. But we were changed forever. We live life more slowly, love more deeply, thankful for every day.
Written for dVerse , the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitted for possible publication in their anniversary anthology.
Everyday wide apertures: newsprint, television, radio. Second or third-hand glimpse of another’s plight. Photographers know wide apertures provide shallow depth.
Until that day, that’s what I had.
That day, strolling the cruise ship’s deck, my privileged promenade was suddenly interrupted. What I’d read about, heard on the news, appeared off port side.
A small boat bobbing, barely moving.
Two oars slapped white caps. In and out and in and out. Out of sync. Six? Eight people? Dark shapes, even in bright sun, crowded together. Struggling, no doubt praying, not to capsize.
Our Captain’s voice suddenly blared.
“There is a small boat in distress. Our assistance has been refused. We will remain here until the Coast Guard arrives. This will not impede our schedule. You will arrive in Miami on time tomorrow.”
Narrow apertures give a deeper depth of field.
My eyes saw, stared, teared. Refugees risking everything for what they deemed would be a better life. My heart ached at the scene as did many looking on.
That night we did, as all aboard our ship did.
Enjoyed dinner served on linen tablecloths, toasted our last night at sea. Danced late into the night. Slept on a king-sized bed and flew home the next morning.
But I’ll never forget what I saw.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Dora asks us to “write a poem that conjures a veiw (whether from our travels or everyday life, whether from desire or expeirence) that is colored by the emotion of the moment.” Photo was taken from on one of our cruises that sailed roundtrip from Miami, Florida. It was a good number of years ago but I’ve never forgotten this heartbreaking experience.
lillian the home poet 