Her brain lingers.
Tries to recall the thread.
But she’s stuck.
Can’t remember.
Her tongue fumbles.
Later she excuses herself saying
My brain , , , it
lingers
these days
. . . stuck
on the
last good
conversation
we – – –
had.
But that was in 2017.
He’ll visit again tomorrow.
There is no silence here.
Not in my mind
not in the landscape
not in the memories.
Damp sand between my toes.
Infinitesimal salty granules
gathered on my upper lip.
Nothing registers.
Remnants of another time
though they are happening now.
You kissed the salt away
and now you never will.
The swishing of waves,
those white capped petals of the sea.
I have stood many a time
at the doorway of dreaming.
But you always stood with me.
Your laughter.
Your gentle eyes.
Your hand holding mine.
We dreamed together.
Now I stand alone facing this vast sea.
Shall I simply wade into the darkness
or shall I sit and pray?
Far too long my creaking, rocking prison,
this whaling ship asunder, lost at sea.
Why can I not be flung to shore?
Neptune, why so intent on punishing me?
My dear wife’s visage alive within my soul.
Grant she knows this forever more.
Neptune, why so intent on punishing me?
Why can I not be flung to shore?
Her lips, her breasts, I long for deeply.
You roiling monster, you unforgiving sea,
why can I not be flung to shore?
Neptune, why so intent on punishing me?
My death is near and she so far.
I curse and scream at thunder’s roar,
Neptune, why so intent on punishing me?
Why can I not be flung to shore?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the world. Today Grace is hosting and asks us to write a Mirrored Refrain.
A Mirrored Refrain “is a rhyming verse form constructed by Stephanie Repnyek. The poem is formed by three or more quatrains where two lines within the quatrain are the ‘mirrored refrain’ or alternating refrain. The rhyme scheme is as follows: xaBA, xbAB, xaBA, xbAB. x represents the only lines that do not rhyme within the poem. A and B represent the refrain.”
What I always find most challenging in following a particular form, is letting the poem make sense such that the form doesn’t stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. I’m always up for a good challenge! Image is in public domain.
Standoffish elitist mother
newsstand famous dad
outstanding intellectual brother.
She never fit in.
Headstands, handstands,
she tumbled through life.
But the joke’s on them.
She wandered into a club,
took the mic and found her voice.
Highest paid standup comic,
guess who’s laughing now?
A bit late, but written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe…responding to Monday’s Quadrille prompt. Use the word “stand” or a form of the word, in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I decided to see how many words I could use that include the word “stand” in them! Had fun with this one. Photo from pixabay.com
Why is it women bear the blame?
Eve, in the garden of Eden
picked fruit from that forbidden tree.
With juice dripping down her chin,
she offered its flesh to Adam.
Adam took the bite, yet bears little blame.
Persephone, stolen away by Hades,
hungers for light in the underworld.
Eats six pomegranate seeds
only to learn she, not Hades,
bears the blame
for autumn and winter’s chill.
Who writes these tales?
Codifies them into myths believed?
Ah men, they are the shapeshifters.
I call on thee to reposition these stories,
reveal the weakness of Adam
the cunning treachery of Hades.
Take up the flowers, the scepter too.
Power in the womb, provider of the world.
Power in the breast, nourishment for all.
Power in the mind, our acuity revealed.
I call on you, deny your herstory no longer.
Claim your rightful place at the table,
and it’s not in the middle of the men.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Sarah asks us to be inspired by the myth of Persephone and write a poem that is somehow related .
Persephone is the daughter of Ceres, the goddess of agriculture, fruit and grains. She was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld. Ceres searched for her, leaving the crops to fail. Zeus, king of gods and father to Persephone, intervened and ruled that if Persephone had not eaten anything in the underworld, she could return to Ceres, above ground. Persephone had eaten six pomegranate seeds. Zeus consequently allowed her to return above ground for only six months of the year, thus creating the seasons. She is above ground for spring and summer, spreading flowers and seeds. She is below ground for autumn and winter, thus causing the demise of crops, flowers, etc. Image from Wikimedia Commons.
. . . from another time.
Seemingly parked
in a god-forsaken place.
Resting place to rust,
deteriorate more.
This image.
Or someone’s once loved one
sent to somewhere
that is out of sight,
out of mind.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and directs us to twelve images at Glenn Buttkus’ photography site, South Sound Minimalist Photos. Glenn is not only an excellent photographer, he is a fellow dVerse poet!
We are to use one of his twelve photos as inspiration for our poem. I chose photo #7: Old Rusty Truck which Glenn describes as “The isolated Model T truck bears the weight and pride of a hundred years of rust, becoming prairie art and sentinel.” Interesting how once the photo (or the poem) is set to paper/blog, the interpretation is in the hands of the viewer/reader. I saw the photo as quite sad and hence this poem.
To love,
the risk is vulnerability.
To not is loneliness.
Loneliness,
quite different
from being alone.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today we are asked to include the word “risk” in a poem. This is one of my most favorite images by Klimt.
There once was a cat named Blue,
male cats paid her no ballyhoo.
So she sought a new and different view,
into a church she flew.
Bidding her old life adieu,
she met Tom in a red cushioned pew.
Playing the long-haired ingenue
she purred sweetly to his bashful deep mew.
Their relationship grew in this holy venue
as they loved and lived in this special pew.
And to this day, if you walk through
you’ll find in this particular place,
a glorious ethereal violet hue.
Written in response to the prompt for Day 16 in NaPoWrimo. We are to “relax with the rather silly form called Skeltonic.” The Skeltonic form has no specific number of syllables per line, but each line should be short, and should aim to have two or three stressed syllables. And the lines should rhyme. You just rhyme the same sound until you get tired of it! Quite an unusual form — but so appropriate on this day in April when Mother Nature fooled us Bostonians with snow almost all morning!
People have necks
as do much of the animal kingdom.
Tigers, sloths, grizzly bears,
giraffes and turtles too.
Akin to giraffes are we.
We stick our necks out
leeeean way over to gawk,
and try to stand out in a crowd.
To me, even zoo giraffes are majestic.
Necks out-stretched, they stand tall.
Calmly eat from high-top tables,
drink from troughs on very tall poles.
I think some of us are like that.
Neckwise,
not staturewise.
Some people live in zoos of their own making.
Cocktail party impressarios.
Standing tall at high-top tables
neck craned to see VIPs, they politely sip.
No one looking? They lap and slurp it down.
I dislike most the raucous barflys
guzzling pints, tequila and whiskey shots.
Standing on sawdust covered floors,
they sway beside sticky high-top tables,
craning blotchy necks.
They try to catch a waiter’s eye
or land an easy mark,
belching as the crowd mills by.
And that’s the rub isn’t it?
Standing out in a crowd,
necks craned, leaning in or out,
all can be done appropriately.
Who then is the beast in reality?
Faced with a challenge, a time to stand tall.
I see far too many humans
pull in their necks,
retreat in their shells and hide.
Unlike the turtle,
they never enter the race.
My real question then is this:
Who really comprises the animal kingdom?
Handknit, hand-dyed scarf.
Raw wool dipped in boiled walnuts,
transformed to mahogany brown.
Steeped in golden rod,
yellow yarn gleams.
Red wine we often sipped,
created rich burgundy section.
Scarf left behind,
she promised to return.
Summer here, woolens stowed,
save one colorful scarf.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time, come join us! Today’s word to incorporate into our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, is wine.
Also shared at NaPoWriMo for Day 5. April is National Poetry Writing Month and the challenge is to write one poem every day during the month of April. Photo from Pixabay.com
And yes: I’ve dyed raw wool with such things as walnuts, wine, onion skins, golden rod, and even beets!
lillian the home poet 