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.
[With apologies to Mother Goose]
Little Miss Muffet determined to stay
plots on her tuffet as bravely she sits
needles in hand she prepares now to play,
two legs to eight, but rapier in wits.
Nursery rhyme loser? A girl who has fits?
Web spun over years into dark comedy.
Finger pricked in the snatch, spider flits
flails, then falls. Arthropodic tragedy.
Silken threads become elegant to the eye
blood dots cloth as she doth smart
needles weave and suddenly stop with spasm cry.
Game over. Venomous to the heart.
Curds and whey topple, she utters a moan
dead heat with spider, they lie on the stone.
Written for dVerse Poet’s Pub with Gayle tending bar. We’re asked to write a Bouts-Rimes which is French for Rymed Ends. This form began in the 17th century as a rhyming game. Gayle’s challenge: use the following fourteen words in the order presented: stay, sits, play, wits, fits, comedy, flits, tragedy, eye, smart, cry, heart, moan, stone. These words were borrowed from a sonnet by Edmund Spenser. These words, in this order, must be the end line rhymes. For me, another poetry sudoku!
The real Nursery Rhyme:
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey;
Along came a spider,
Who sat down beside her,
And frightened Miss Muffet away.
Somewhere, light years away,
what was held in trust
shall revive.
The first one thousand miles
between earth’s implosion
and moons’ forever paths,
churns debris, seeds of possibility,
until a shooting star ignites
and a new land births itself.
Small roots find their way
and those that flower understand,
heritage matters.
The Universe remembers
those who strove but could not save
scorched earth, her favorite son.
And so at Latitude 38
she creates a divine place,
reconfigured in her galaxy.
A quiet place of timbers
where midst aquamarine waters,
her children shall try again.
Found Poetry: following titles taken from the bookshelf in our Bermuda rental: Held in Trust by The Bermuda National Trust; First One Thousand Miles by Gordon Phillips; The Light Years by Elizabeth Jane Howard; Heritage Matters by Dr. Edward Harris; and Latitude 38 (a magazine). Photo: from a walk along Bermuda’s Old Rail Way Trail. Poem is inspired by Global Warming, something that too many seem to deny.
Holograph, barely here.
I talk like a moth flitters to light,
shadow boxing.
Grin and bear it.
Buck up.
It’ll get better.
Pearls of wisdom faintly heard.
Like oil bubbles’ thinly veiled colors,
disappear in darkness.
Skim me not.
Help find the me.
Please.
Quadrille (44 words) written, including the word grin, as prompted by Bjorn for dVerse.
Red cocked rooster struts
bellicose bawdy brawler
fowl stench in the pen.
Photo Credit: Felix Hernandez. Category should really be political satire in the form of a haiku.
Posted for Open Links Night at dVerse, Poet’s Pub. This is a great gathering place for folks who like to write poetry. Different prompts during the week — different “bartenders” who carry on a conversation and provide the prompt. Thursdays is akin to open mike night….and anything goes. For those of you not in the USA, the political presidential primary races are quite in the news right now.
Paiutes called them Legend People turned to stone by Coyote. I call them mystical.
Silhouettes evolved from ancient seaway. Columns of ochre and orange-pink. Water, ice and gravity had their way with you. Slot canyons so narrow the head strains up for blue. Shadowed red when sun slants in. Thin rims so high there is nothing but everything beside. We tread in awe among these hoodoo pillars. This place of craggy, sharp-edged, smooth, fantastical shapes.
Rocks eroded tall
time escaped in canyons deep
we like specks of dust.
It was Haibun Monday at dVerse, the Pub for Poets. Rajani is tending bar and asked us to write about a travel experience. Haibun is “richly woven prose amplified by simple yet profound haiku. In its traditional sense, it connects to nature and travel. Photos from trip to Bryce many years ago.
Fireflies held aloft, cupped softly
between two hands. Flicker on…
off…on…off…under darkening skies.
On…off…dim…dimmer…
flutter palms’ release.
Dance free, bright within the night.
Could it be that easy,
as simply letting go?
Photo Credit: Tracy Stansel
Razor edged wire, threatens no more
pock marked walls show soul’s erosion
wind, humidity and whipping post,
rotters in this Devils’ Isle.
Faceless among spirits’ wails,
I roam this prison centuries freed.
Death’s release forced my choice
and I am staid midst crumbling stone.
My crimes were but a patriot’s wish
allegiance not to putrefied wigs,
but to the poor and scrabbling ones
who sought but food and voice.
I swear to you, the sun cared more
within these exiled walls,
than in London’s teeming lanes
and me upon bended knee.
I watch you, with eyes no more
buildings turned to crypt
by guards decrepited, paneless,
upright never then, and failing now.
I see those who cannot see me
workers, reclaimers and visitors alike,
bodies who will never understand
restoration shall never be.
Motivated by dVerse Poet’s Pub: Victoria tending the bar asked us to think about Me, Myself, and I…..or Is It? and write a poem in the first person. This piece is inspired by both the ruins and the history of Bermuda. Photo is at the Royal Naval Dockyard — the Casemates, built in 1839 by British convicts. These buildings were first used to house militia and later became a prison. Some restoration work has occurred — the climate here takes its toll on the old and the new.
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.
lillian the home poet 