Moon sliver fades in and out through shards of clouds in pitch black sky. I peer from my window, wrapped in warm flannel, pane thrown open. Tree frogs mute with wailing winds. And I know, though I cannot see, ocean currents are whipped in fury, hurling themselves upon eroded shore.
Mother beats her breast
mea culpa my children
peace I cannot bring.
Written for dVerse Poet’s Pub, Haibun Monday #9. Hosted by Rajani who asks that our subject include the moon. Photo by Lucretia.
Day’s end tinges waters pink,
visceral beauty before my eyes.
Across the globe, streets stain blood red,
violence explodes in wails.
Gulls soar ‘neath pastel skies,
disappear on horizon as day dims to end.
I kneel in prayer for a mother’s grief,
her dreams lost in Turkish setting sun.
Dedicated to my dear friend, Aslihan. Turkey has yet again suffered an unspeakable violence. Yeter translated: enough. The word appears was added today on her Facebook page. Photo from our deck as sun sets on this Bermuda day.
They lost their true selves
changed beliefs with shifting winds
chameleons at heart.
Photo from yesterday’s walk: a Jamaican Anole. Species brought to Bermuda in 1905 in a futile attempt to control the Mediterranean Fruit Fly. I’ve not seen any fruit flies — so perhaps it has done its job? Reminds me of a chameleon…although these are its permanent colors.
The power of naming
you are…this is…they are…that
scepter in your hands.
Blinds pulled shut
vertical and clicking,
cover rotting sill.
Peach-fuzz flesh
smooth-a-licious,
hides crawling worm.
What lies within
the house, its fruit
hidden from view
imperceptible
until we bite.
Sharing with dVerse, Poets’ Pub for their open link night. Bjorn is tending bar tonight! If you love poetry, check out this wonderful concept!
I am the hug shared at goodbyes and hellos.
I am the small child’s smile, peeking shyly, behind your legs.
I am the high five to a Special Olympian’s extended palm.
I am the sun rise over tomorrow’s ocean blue.
I am the baby who grasps your finger, nuzzles into your chest.
I am hope. I am life.
I am the good, and I am here.
I was before this.
I am now, three words before
now, and three after.
Card table covered in dusty gauze scarf,
book case with tattered paper backs
two chipped coffee mugs
and one stuffed black bird.
This basement flat, windows dark
gold stars and silver moon
taped on black garbage plastic.
She sits, tarot deck in hand
gnarled fingers poised to read,
nail tips brown from nicotine.
Curling grey wisps of hair
bejeweled barrette, three stones
so obviously missing.
I watch wearily. Smell her breath
and incense stick. Shove down
this nauseous urge. I must hear.
She must tell me what I need to hear.
And she hoarsely begins to speak.
Written for Ms. Quickly’s prompt, this way to the oracle.
Photo Credit: Ruxandra Moldoveanu.
Magic beans lie atop the fallow ground
rooted by tears those many years ago.
His death, unexpected
after one hundred glorious days.
She’d waited patiently,
gossamer hair now grey.
And when the monsoon rains did come
they matched her grief in magnitude.
Rivers engorged
became fast running seas.
Earth drenched in new hope,
the magic began to grow.
Tendrils became vines
became trees became redwoods,
and blushed at her ascent.
Last steps on lightning’s jagged stairs.
His fingertips reached down for hers,
thunderous clouds turned calm.
And a new blaze was born that night,
third star to the north of Sirius.
Photo Credit: Michele de Notaristefani
Incompetent words.
Faucet drips incessantly,
how can we ignore?
Future world leader?
Embarrassed by his tantrums
playground empties fast.
photo credit: Guillermo Gallege Written for Open Link Night at the Poets’ Pub at dversepoets…..afterall, politics is often a conversation at the bar!
lillian the home poet 