Age defines shelf space.
Bran cereal and oatmeal
prominently front
hot sauce gathers dust in back
during salt and pepper years.
Written in the tanka form — tongue in cheek, food for thought so to speak! Happy weekend all.
It’s in the Doing
Once,
I wished
on a star.
Another time
a four leaf clover.
Eyes squeezed shut, breath held tight
twenty-one birthday candles
blown out from one huge sucked in puff.
But I’ve come to learn as I grow old,
it’s not in the wishing that dreams come true.
Written for dVerse Poet’s Pub. Today, Victoria asks us to write an etheree, shaped by syllabic lines from 1 to 10. First line 1 syllable, second line 2 syllables, third line 3 syllables etc. up to the tenth line of 10 syllables. Quite fun to do!
Did you know?
Long before Orwell’s 1984
big brother watching you
drones and satellite stations,
there were pigeons in the sky.
Cameras upon their chests,
they reported fowl news
to those who knew.
Jobs stolen,
usurped by technocrats,
they simply gather now
where cracked corn is tossed.
And when they do take flight,
their only sign of rebellion
is the occasional shit upon your head.
Written in response to Miz Quickly‘s posting of the following article from The Public Domain Review: Dr Julius Neubronner’s Miniature Pigeon Camera
In 1908 Dr Julius Neubronner patented a miniature pigeon camera activated by a timing mechanism. The invention brought him international notability after he presented it at international expositions in Dresden, Frankfurt and Paris in 1909–1911. Spectators in Dresden could watch the arrival of the camera-equipped carrier pigeons, and the photos were immediately developed and turned into postcards which could be purchased. Photos from same article. Hope I gave you a smile with this! 🙂
Why hast thou forsaken me?
…and Namrah spread his wings as I clung tightly to his undulating spine. He took me to the place last inhabited by my kind.
He landed on dry encrusted earth; trails of criss-crossed steel nearby. His massive head nodded to the open door and he watched as I ventured in. Rows and rows of emptiness. Benches of once polished oak, gathering the dust of ages. A transport station. Hope long since depleted.
Tears streamed from my eyes as I sought Namrah’s fold. With a keening guttural dirge, his one tear joined mine. And he lifted me, soaring, into the clouds.
Word Count: 100. Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Rochelle is the master of flash fiction (a story of 100 words or less) and challenges writers each week with a photo, posted on Wednesdays. Photo credit: J Hardy Carroll. Stop by and see some of the tales garnered from this photo!
For a friend…
Passionate quilter,
tiny stitches galore
cacophony of color.
Love migrates
from fingers to cloth.
Character sketch written for dVerse Poets’ Pub. Photo credit: Jonathan M
Helen
Unpredictable.
Lightning flashes,
hot licks that seared your soul.
Rosary beads tucked in drawer
near lace-edged handkerchiefs
and candy wrappers.
Pinochle, canasta
she held the deck,
played war occasionally.
A one-man woman she
danced to big band sounds.
Buried sister, son
two birthdays apart,
hers not theirs.
Gone these many years,
she still pops in and out
unpredictably.
Walt is hosting dVerse Poets’ Pub today, asking us to write about a character.
She was indeed.
Believe
Oh ye of jaded belief,
walk these greening woods
and you shall see the signs.
Mushroom thrones beside
fiddlehead playground slides.
Muhly grass, pink pillow puffs
placed ‘neath frills of ferns.
Look with open heart
and you shall find,
the fairy sprites of yore.
A quadrille (44 words) written for dVerse Poet’s Pub where Grace asks us to use the word “green” within our poem. Photos from various hikes we’ve taken.
Ode to Dandelions written in american sentences
Nature loves the despised, unwanted dandelions, blessing them yellow.
Come dance in refreshing rain, make mudpies and weave wreaths of dandelions.
Summer’s birthday candles: dandelion seed wisps float across wish strewn air.
The American Sentence as a poetic form was created by Allen Ginsberg. It was his attempt to make an American haiku. As the Japanese haiku is 17 syllables going down in Japanese text, the American Sentence is 17 syllables going across, linear, like just about everything else in America.
In a 1991 interview with Thomas Gladysz, Allen Ginsberg was asked about the sacramental nature of life as an aesthetic for his photography. Allen replied: “I think the notion is a Native American art aesthetic and life aesthetic, but my formulation of it is reinforced by a lot of Buddhist training. The notion is basically that the first noble truth most all of us acknowledge, especially senior citizens, is that existence is transitory – life is transitory. We are born and we die. And so this is it! It gives life both a melancholy and a sweet and joyful flavor…Any gesture we make consciously, be it artwork, a love affair, any food we cook, can be done with a kind of awareness of eternity, truthfulness…In portraiture, you have the fleeting moment to capture the image as it passes and before it dissolves…It captures the shadow of the moment.” Italicized is quoted from Paul E. Nelson: About Form: What Are American Sentences.
Bench in Spring
Sit and be still with me.
This quiet bench beside daffodils
ruffle-edged tulips and hyacinth.
Savor sun as do these flowers of spring.
Memories seared in my mind.
Sharing dreams of spring
‘neath comforter of down,
lifted up by love to sound of song.
Seasons’ promise from death to life,
blooms of rebirth near my feet.
I cry out loud so silently,
my questions float upon the breeze.
Why can’t my love return to me?
Your body too deep to feel this sun,
craves warmth from mine, a simple plea,
to sit and be, still with me.
Photo taken this morning. Spring abounds in the beautiful grounds around our condo building in the city. Written for Open Link Night at the dVerse Poets’ Pub. If you’ve not come for a visit, drop on by and meet some of these amazing writers – or post a poem of your own. The more the merrier at a virtual pub!
Cowboys and Me and Junie Z
Junie Z and I,
we had a lot of fun
watchin’ Winky Dink and Me
eatin’ PB and J sandwiches
in front of her black and white tv.
But she liked Gene Autry
that singin’ cowboy,
and Roy Rogers and Dale
croonin’ Happy Trails to You,
like it was just for her.
Me? I was the silent type.
Who would guess it now.
The Lone Ranger was my guy.
No sissy singin’ – just that masked man
ridin’ into those far off hills.
So imagine my surprise
hearin’ good ole Gene
on the radio today
preachin’ at me in song,
There’s no back door to heaven.
And I guess he’d know,
at least in the eyes of Junie Z
after all these years,
but not for tone-deaf me.
Couldn’t resist putting up a more light hearted one for the prompt. Take a listen — ah the childhood memories of me and Junie Z! Posted for Dverse Tuesday Poetics, a poem somehow related to “doors.”
lillian the home poet 