Eyes droop in early morn,
pen moves slowly as words dribble.
Muse remains softly ensconced,
asleep in warm bed across the hall.
Misfit
Like a magnificent crystal chandelier
in the wake of a coarse wind.
Swaying erratically. Shards of glass colliding.
Each piece hitting, pinging,
clinking cacophonously.
She felt like this.
Except she was enclosed. Caged.
Stifled in some cold garment.
Arms wrapped around her torso
in comfortless embrace.
And the ceiling was bare.
And the walls were bare.
But she was that fixture,
except without light.
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Sia – Chandelier (Official Video) – YouTube
Sharing with dVerse for OLN where Bjorn is hosting from Sweden.
THANKS to Bjorn for pointing me to this video after my poem was posted with the photo below. Bjorn’s poem written on October 2015 was inspired by the video. I wasn’t aware of dVerse at that time and never heard the song or saw the video until Bjorn mentioned it. The video does uncannily fit Misfit which is very eerie! Stop by dVerse to post your own poem (the more the merrier) or to imbibe/read other posts. Tis an amazing place!
The Feminist Deconstruction of Humpty Dumpty
I warned you!
and the spiders have taken heed . . .
You cared not to sit with ordinary blokes,
dangled your feet and watched all their woes.
You squirreled me away with Peter’s wife,
stuck in a pumpkin shell for life.
I am not addled nor scrambled in wits.
And so in the evenings of hey diddle diddle
your eyes on the cow and the cat and the fiddle,
I found my way out, maneuvering the vine.
I added more bricks by the light of the moon,
layer by layer, higher it grew.
Til I smiled in the window that final day,
snacking on pumpkin and watching you swoon.
You sat on your wall, looking down upon me
sneering and laughing and kicking in glee.
And then with bravado, a tip of your hat,
you leaned forward and laughed
until . . .
Splat!
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men
couldn’t rewrite you together again.
The wall is demolished, Jill’s bucket is full.
I am quite proud and raucously so,
to sit on my tuffet, secure in my ways,
eating, nay feasting, on curds and whey.
Kim is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, a virtual pub for poets. Bar opens at 3 PM. We’re asked to take a character, fictional or non-fictional, and re-write their story from the point of view of their husband or wife. I’ve taken the liberty of assuming Little Miss Muffet was married to Humpty Dumpty 🙂 Photos from Childcraft, Volume One Poems of Early Childhood, copyright 1947. I may be a tad older than my readers so these photos provide the Mother Goose rhymes alluded to in my poem.
Cherished Memory
He was a quiet man. I don’t remember playing with my father or hearing words of praise or love. I don’t remember hugs. But I do remember a few summer mornings each year when I was young. A silent drive to the lake. A long walk out the pier. He’d take a wriggly worm from an old tin can and put it on the end of my bamboo pole. And we’d sit. Just sit. A skinny little girl with giraffe-knobby knees and her whiskered dad, under the rising sun and ever bluing sky. No need for words. No need to catch a thing.
Steadfast sky and sun,
their promise always fulfilled.
Light shall break through clouds.
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Toni asks us to write a haibun about the day sky. Thanks Toni. Your prompt brought back this cherished memory.
Kaleidoscope of Life
youth invincible
quick stepping through raucous times
kaleidoscope shifts
colored prisms less defined
pace slowed coming round the bend
A second Tanka shared with dVerse — although I’ve broken the rules a bit and added a title for this one. Tanka: 5 lines with syllabic count of 5-7-5-7-7. Third line contains a cutting shift; no punctuation; no capitalization.
Tanka for dVerse
waves crash in full tide
rush starts at epicenter
full moon excitement
night’s passion touched rekindled
we lie in sweet exhaustion
Toni hosts the bar at dVerse today (bar opens at 3 PM) and asks us to write a Tanka, a Japanese form of poetry comprised of five lines with the following syllabic count: 5-7-5-7-7. This form is older than the haiku, first appearing in the 8th century! There is no punctuation, no capitalization, and no title. Third line is a cutting or pivot line. The first two lines examine an image and the final two lines are a personal response. Tankas were considered a “female” form, written more by females than males and were often sensuous. Photos from Bermuda.
A Love for the Ages
They sit quietly side by side,
purple veined hands, silver grey hair.
Heads touch and nod in sleep,
house silent in fading sun.
Slight puffs escape their lips,
the sound of dozing love.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Walt’s prompt asks us to write about the sounds of love. Stop by to see the prompt and read other posts on this subject!
Be Ye Not Desolate
White curtains flutter.
Breeze billows through fabric,
createing long cloth ripples
filled and unfilled by unseen wind.
Door left ajar.
The void space within its frame,
a vacancy that waits
filled with hope.
The null set.
Emptiness that knows,
change by one
changes everything.
Written for dVerse, a virtual poets’ pub, where Bjorn is tending bar today and asks us to write a quadrille (44 words, not including title) that makes use of the word jar. A bit of poetic license: did include a jar (ajar).
For Sale
Hands scraped, pulled and peeled.
Stripped bare in three hectic days
she gave up secrets long unseen.
Layer upon layer
she revealed her past.
Mauve moons, café scenes
wedgewood-blue stenciled designs
pale rose buds the last.
Memories removed, she stood
waiting, exposed
until they came again.
Colors slathered, rolled.
Taupe, beige, and palest grey.
Senses dulled, she cowered,
pale in disbelief.
Windows wide-eyed,
she watched
as strangers came to gawk.
Pried her private parts,
talked as if she was not there.
Once so full of life and love,
a shell of what she was.
Homeless,
just a house
lifeless on the streets.
Dusk in the Adirondacks
Glazed apricot sun slowly dips,
smudging cloud slips in her graceful retreat.
Tall lithe trees fade into shadow forms,
hushed in awe as once glistening lake
darkens to ebony glass.
Forest spirits lulled by night fall
listen reverently
to a solitary loon’s evensong.
And we sit,
breathing slowed,
grateful for serenity.
lillian the home poet 