Eros lives among us. Sweet crushes blush teenage acnied cheeks, struck by arrows dipped in cotton candy.
Arrow tips plunged in passion fruit aim at fertile hearts. Friendships turn to lust.
Ancient arrows, patina dulled potency still strong, add zing to elders’ love affairs.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De is hosting Quadrille Monday and asks us to use the word “zing” in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Image created on Bing Create. In Greek mythology Eros is the offspring of Aphrodite, and is the god of love, passion, and fertility.
In her day, she was what you’d call a hot tomato. Smoky eye shadow, red ripe luscious lips. Many a bloke put the squeeze on her, but failed. She sat perched at the bar finely dressed. Fox stole draped over bare shoulders. Bosom heaving as she laughed at them. As midnight struck, leaving their raw desire behind she’d saunter out into the London fog. Night after night after night after night until New Year’s Eve, nineteen twenty-seven, her bar stool sat empty – and she was never seen again.
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Melissa (who recently celebrated her birthday!) tells us it’s National Spicy Guacamole Day. Who knew? She provides us with a long list of words that I suspect are from a guacamole recipe, and asks us to use at least 4 of these words in our poem for today. I’ve used the following: tomato, smoky, red, ripe, squeeze, finely, and raw. A fun prompt indeed!Image from Pixabay.com
grey skies droop, shroud skyscrapers and urban neighborhoods. Red breasted robin pecks through dirty pebbled remains of once tall snow piles. Crocus greenery marks the shift, competes for first-sign-of-spring prize. Less competitive blooms await winter’s total demise. Flannel clad, I snooze, book close by.
Written for dVerse, the virutal pub for poets around the globe. Today, Mish asks us to use the word “shift” or a form of the word within the body of our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.
I defined myself by you; by your dreams and your gigs. I was integral to the group at first, when we sang together. Then you pushed me to back-up; then to working lights, and I was your afterthought. You were addicted to applause, to groupies, to uppers. You finally snorted your way to becoming a has-been. You had it all and threw it away.
This year’s a different thing. I’ll not think of you burning out in small town bars. I’m born again. Not in the religious sense. I’ve regained my self-worth. I’m the one riding the waves now, literally. As a cruise ship entertainer, singing in the spotlight and seeing the world. Some nights I stare at the wake. Energy churned up behind the ship, disappearing into darkness. It reminds me that the you I miss every day, disappeared a long time ago.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril asks us to include the line “This year’s a different thing – I’ll not think of you again” from the poem I so liked spring by poet Charlotte Maw (1869 – 1928) in our piece of prose that is exactly 144 words long. Photo by Jakub Pabis on Unsplash
AN INVITATION TO ALL MY READERS! I will host OLN LIVE at dVerse on both Thursday, February 16th, from 3 to 4 PM EST and on Saturday, February 18th, from 10 to 11 AM EST.
WHAT IS OLN LIVE? Open Link Night (OLN) is an opportunity to post any one poem of your choosing at dVerse, on Mr. Linky, as folks did for this Prosery prompt.There is no required form, length, or topic.
Open Link Night LIVE (OLN LIVE) involves the same process EXCEPT folks are invited to literally meet poets from around the globe by signing into a LIVE session, complete with video and audio. You can tune in to just watch and listen or you can read aloud one poem of your choosing. Just come to the dVerse home page on either Thursday February 16th or Saturday, February 18th (times mentioned above) and click on the provided link and – voila! – you’ll see us all LIVE!
They walked through devastated streets. The derecho had its way with this small town. High winds tore off roofs and flattened walls. Had no respect for a newly decorated baby’s room or hi-bred roses clinging to an arched trellis. Twenty minutes of hell.
House gone, the James family sifted through rubble. Faint smiles shared when Betty discovered a shattered glass frame; reunion photo still intact. Down the road, Grampa Hilliard sat on a tree stump in the center of what had been his pristine front yard. Head in hands, he mumbled words of thanks to God for lives spared and green grass below his feet.
Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow, this was the day the Lord brought. Grateful to be alive, they would sing His praises in church tomorrow. Monday they would begin the herculean task of rebuilding.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Prosery Monday and Sanaa has asked us to insert the line, “Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow.” – from the poem A Daughter of Eve by Christina Rossetti into our piece of prose/flash fiction that is no more than 144 words long, sans title.
Iowa was hit by a derecho on August 10, 2020 when widespread, destructive straight line winds hit the central area of the state. Wind gusts measured up to 106 mph near Marshalltown. The story above is fiction.
Our lives are made of moments, some plain, some filled with awe. Looking back I was surprised how many included sipping through a straw!
My mother showed me how to sip orange juice to go with grahams; Then coca cola and ice cream sodas helped make me who I am. Chocolate milkshakes, creamy and thick should be against the law. The memories sweet, of all those times sipping through a straw.
In college I learned about Scotch Mists, served with straws black and thin; As were those Mai Tai’s with rum and gardenias that almost did me in. Anything sipped through a straw was yummy. To me a special treat, Until the memories of hospital stays I do not wish to repeat.
When your lips are cracked, your mouth is dry and your body feels so raw There is no better thing the nurses can bring than water to sip through a straw. It’s funny the things that come to mind; the adventures, the things you saw. My life’s special moments have often come when sipping through a straw.
Straws is written by Lindsey Ein: wonderful writer, wonderful friend, and mother to our dear son-in-law. She shared this poem with dVerse LIVE on Thursday – I’m just a bit late posting it.
I remember mother’s shaking hand, coffee sloshing from cup, cup knocking against teeth. Fork spilled food in restaurants, wine stained damask cloth. I did not understand. I do now. Essential Tremor is its name, inherited trait. Tremor me frustrated.
Photo is me with my mother, in 1969 when I was about to go off to graduate school.
Yes, my hands have begun to shake in the past six months. It has affected my handwriting, which is most upsetting to me. I will admit, it’s why I’ve not been posting lately to my blog. My normal process is to rise early, write by pen in my journal, creating first drafts of poems. I then go to the computer to type in the first drafts and edit from there. Lately, I cannot read all the words I’ve written. So — to keep up my blog and to keep writing, I must change my process. I must skip the journal with pen-in-hand and go straight to the computer. Essential tremor is a minor problem in the scheme of things. However, now I realize how it can affect self-esteem and bring on frustration. I must keep my sense of humor and, for example, never order soup in a restaurant again!
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It was Open Link Night on Thursday and I’m a bit late to posting.
Moon sliver slice of shimmer always brings a promise. Full moon’s glory will come then shall begin to ebb but never be lost. Moon sliver slice of shimmer always brings a promise. Full moon’s glory will come and so it shall continue as we’ve seen and and those will see after us.
Written for NaPoWriMo Day 17 where the prompt is to write a poem about or related to the moon. April is National Poetry Month and NaPoWriMo challenges us to write a poem every day of the month.
You loved me Joe
braggadocio
impresario,
only to go.
I’m singin’ these blues,
you still my muse.
But I remember long ago
I pleaded, don’t go.
But you left me alone
strummin’ the twelve-bar blues.
My spirit so damn low,
heart’s dyin’ like indigo.
I had fun with this one…..tried to write a poem as a 12-bar blues composition. The chord progress of a 12-bar blues is I – I – I – I – IV – IV – I – I – V – IV – I – I Translated to a rhyme scheme, I used AAAA-BBAA-CBAA.
The video is a short description of how to create and play the 12-bar blues chord progression. Fun to listen to.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Kim hosts and asks us to include the word BLUE or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Merm me –
shiny gleaming teal and aqua blue
magically beautiful and intelligent,
free to explore and dare.
Merm me –
flow, glide, glissade
braided seaweed round my wrists
necklaced in seashells and coral bright.
Would that I could . . .
dive deeply
escape earth’s rancor
and rollick in rolling waves.
Of what good are legs
and human lungs
when hell
is inhumanity on earth?
What if only life within the sea
in and of the sea,
can live and love
within the lunar tides?
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today De asks us to write a poem that is somehow related to mermaids. Image from pixabay.com I must admit, I have always been smitten with the idea of mermaids!
lillian the home poet 