She
said
I do
and he said
tomorrow I will.
No happily ever after.
Fib
me
tell me
you love me
never let me go.
False hopes are my down comforter.
Lie
with
me now
and we’ll live
a love of fool’s gold.
Shining ore not, craving your touch.
Just introduced to this fun little form. Fib poetry: 6 lines that follow this mathematical formula for syllables: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 6 thus totalling 20 syllables.
Day of rest,
unplugged I shall be.
Sing in community,
skip down paths
accompanied
by grandchildren giggles.
Pass out smiles,
celebrate blue skies
bird chatter
and lemonade.
Today
I choose simplicity,
to live in wonder
and believe in love.
Photo taken a number of years ago at the Trapp Lodge in Vermont.
Elderly woman, invisible to passersby.
Lover of lines, grammarian of old,
cast off indirect object.
Homeless: predicate adjective.
Drawstring wale-worn bag clutched in lap
holds one ruler, three pencil stubs,
and one frayed hankie from genteel days.
Diagram her a lost soul,
sitting on birdshit encrusted bench
invisible to passersby.
Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time.
It’s open link night so stop on by and share some words!
My lineage lies in bleached bones,
ash commingled with soil and sea.
I am the living
happily paired,
wed forty-seven years
progressing still.
Mother of two
grandmother of five.
Eleven total
in raucous revelry.
This crowded world
my species’ millions
and millions more,
multiplied by the unknown.
In the midst of all,
I savor oneness.
Scraps of solitude
contemplative discovery,
and recovery.
Sips of silence
to be and to know
who and what is me.
Posted from Bermuda. We are in midst of TransAtlantic crossing and will not have access to Internet for five days. I shall post again from Lisbon.
Drizzle stardust
sunflower seed
toddler kisses
crimson leaves
and hummingbird wings.
Deluge of delights.
Photo taken in Provincetown some years ago.
occasional words
occasionally said
like unexpected visitors
they just appear
at your doorstep
in your mind
or in your throat
until that day
that October 14th
that 10:40 AM
since then
same words
every morning
every night
many inbetweens
you beside me
walking, in our bed
sitting near, standing there
same words always said
in my heart and in my head
thankful for every day
My hands caress
use opposable thumbs.
Yours do that,
and also shoot guns.
I bask in the sun
nurture my young.
You do that,
and stockpile guns.
I sit in here
looking out at you.
You stand out there
looking in at me.
I see your face
your hands
your feet,
so like me.
So why am I the one
locked in here,
you out there
staring at me.
Photos taken at the San Diego Zoo. I can stand for hours looking at the gorillas – they mesmerize me. I’m hosting dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, asking folks to anthropomorphize within today’s poem. Give an animal or object human characteristics such that it behaves like a human. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time — come on over and anthropomorphize with us!
Farm girl drama queen
with big time dreams,
snared the son of a preacher
with her homey flirtin’ ways.
Singin’ the fairy tale blues.
Son of a preacher
turned big time doc,
maneuvered through the courtin’ tiffs
into a sometimes wedded bliss.
Mansion mama, party queen
livin’ the wonder life,
raisin’ two perfect girls
puttin’ on the ritz.
Spotlight stealer, cravin’ fame
ignored her co-star’s role,
didn’t see him exit left
singin’ the fairy tale blues.
Always the diva drama queen
she stabbed him in their final scene.
She’s doin’ five to ten now,
singin’ the fairy tale blues.
Image in public domain, from Pixabay.com. Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Frank is “tending bar” and asks us to write a poem with irony in it. Irony can be defined as a story with a surprise ending.
We walk silently, side by side
wander from delineated path.
Step softly
into mountain meadow
enveloped in heady scent.
Wildflower carpet at our feet
damask cloth spread upon the blooms.
She sits demurely
holds one tempting peach aloft,
just beyond my reach.
I stretch to touch her wrist
guide velvet fruit to slightly parted lips.
Succulent flesh drips sweet nectar,
blurs into rivulet on milky neck.
And I sit mesmerized.
Her image blurred through tears.
Serene beauty
framed amidst soft meadow hues.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn hosts and continues with his exploration of artistic movements. We are to paint with words, in the style of Impressionism, capturing images to create a scene. Impressionism is not dark. We are to lighten our poem with colors, but preferably not using color words. Instead our images/objects/scenes mentioned should evoke a sense of color by their very nature. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come share your impressionistic view or just stop by to imbibe some words!
Everyday, somewhere
irreconcilable change.
Endings pivot to less beginnings
emptiness beside waking self.
Everyday, somewhere
someone’s last dawn
awakens another’s grief.
Photo taken in Provincetown, MA, on Cape Cod.
lillian the home poet 