Once upon a glimmer,
and dandelion puffs.
Dew drops on lily pads
and snowflake glisten
on frosted pane.
in our evening prayers.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt is to begin a poem with Once upon a ????? Writers may add any word except “time.” So I’ve chosen Once upon a glimmer. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
too close to home.
Photo from Pixabay.com
He spun a sugar-coated tale.
Bright lights and sequins,
Come join me and be a star!
So I went.
Believed that sweet talking ringleader . . .
and his beguiling eyes.
Spot lights fell on sawdust stages
again and again in tawdry towns.
Love is blind – too late I saw.
Following him, I lost my way.
He prances about, cajoles the crowd.
I traipse ’round makeshift bleachers
sans sequins, sans fame.
Get your cotton candy here!
I am the busker
for his spun-sugar tale.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Sarah hosts and wants us to go to the circus! Pub opens at 3:00 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Magician, sleight of hand his trade.
Quick undetected moves.
Misdirection while abracadabrahing.
No white rabbits.
No multicolored scarves
tucked up his sleeves.
Ladies’ man supreme,
handsome and mysterious.
Meandering lover, he savors the travel,
one step ahead of wanted posters.
Disappearing wives his specialty.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where it’s Quadrille Monday! De hosts and asks us to include the word “quick” within our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo from pixabay.com
She sits slumped,
rot gut whiskey bottle
clutched in hands.
Stitch in side, she aches.
lost in last nine shots.
Pennies by her feet
tossed by do-good passerby
don’t jar her mind.
Can’t think straight or at all.
Too far gone to live
not quite enough to die.
Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Jilly is hosting and asks us to take one or two well known adages and significantly change them! Can you find the two I’ve used?
Photo from Pixabay.com Answer Key: Stanza 1 from “A stitch in time saves nine.” and Stanza 2 is from “A penny for your thoughts. ” Explaining further, in case you’re not familiar with having a stitch (pain) in your side: often happens to people when they’re running … or can be a sign of other medical problems too.
Child of the moon, wed to earth.
Mossy slippers quiet her step.
Willow frond skirt swishes in breeze,
natural scent blends with trees.
Seek her healing balm
amongst urban parks, forest glens.
Or retreat within your mind,
savor soothing rivulets of calm.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where it’s Quadrille Monday. Kim is our able and creative pub tender. She asks us to use the word “earth” in our exactly-44-word poem. Photo taken on our trip to Ireland. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
I prefer to live outside the box.
I am not a jack.
I won’t jump at your desire.
I am not a puppet. Or a toy.
I am more like a cat.
Independent with nine lives.
And trust me,
none of them are yours.
De is hosting dVerse today, asking us to use the word “box” in a Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Image from WikiCommons: 1863 Harpers from Thomas Nast.
Brown girl dreaming,
tattered ribbons woven
through dark tresses.
She walks in beauty
always plodding upstream,
seeking answers to secrets
from the center of the world.
Oh, to make a joyful noise
that all might hear in high fidelity.
Shout love triumphs hate.
One hundred white daffodils
strewn upon blood soaked streets
could turn a pinkish hue.
Become peace roses beneath our feet.
Oh for those inalienable rights
to be shared amongst us all.
Beyond the hour of land divided,
us and them transformed to we.
To prosper, pain free,
beyond this faithful and virtuous night
into and during every living day.
Or was that Declaration,
that torch held high
to those across the seas . . .
were those just words and symbols?
The happiness project
never intended to be shared,
never meant to be?
August 9th is National Book Lovers Day and National Hand Holding Day, International Day of the Word’s Indigenous People, National Rice Pudding Day, and National Polka Day! It’s also OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Folks can post one poem of their choosing – any form, any topic.
In honor of National Book Lovers Day, I’ve posted a “book spine” poem written with book titles, all from the bookshelf on my desk. Reread the poem, and you’ll find these titles, in this order:
brown girl dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson
Ribbons – Spring/Summer 2017: Vol. 13, No. 2 (Tanka Society publication)
she walks in beauty (A Woman’s Journey Through Poems) by Caroline Kennedy
Upstream by Mary Oliver
Secrets from the Center of the World by Joy Harjo and Stephen Strom
Joyful Noise (Poems for Two Voices) by Paul Fleischman
High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
A Hundred White Daffodils by Jane Kenyon
The Hour of Land by Terry Tempest Williams
Pain Free by Pete Egoscue
Faithful and Virtuous Night by Louise Gluck
The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin
‘Tis a bleeding heart she kneels to touch
twixt garden replete with anemones.
Tears fall, drenching red-lobed blossoms,
whilst silent sobs take leave from half-bent frame.
Loneliness stalks her vulnerability
as sun begins to fade and violet shades the sky.
Fragile moss roses shrink within themselves
having lost the rays of day.
Anguish struck, she sags at the sound
as wrought iron gate clangs shut.
Lover no more, their friendship spent,
mounted, he urges steed to faster speed.
Digs, indeed embeds, his silver spurs
into rippling sweating flanks.
He rushes, nay, he flees from her,
she ripe with unborn child
his seed within her womb.
Hapless garden waiting but to bloom.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Sarah hosts today, asking us to consider the language of flowers….a popular craze within the 19th century when writing was how people communicated over distance and time. Within a list she provides, Garden Anemones are equated with “forsaken.” Trying my hand at a Victorian tone here.
like a funicular,
she caught you in the ride.
Racing high on her glory-buzz
till you she blamed and screeched to stop.
Spittle flew as vicious words she flung.
Careening down tracks so worn
you knew the path to come.
And when in final years
rolling rosary beads
unable to ascend,
she waited still
oh so silently
to exit her