Some days
I wish someone could
lagoon me.
Surround me
with coral reefs,
sand bars.
Create barrier islands
to keep out hatred,
people who lack empathy.
Envelop me
in sea breezes
that waft smiles.
Let a gentle sun
warm and fan
kindness among all.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday! Melissa asks us to include the word “lagoon” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I chose to verbify the word. Photo take in Bermuda in 2018.
Discover with me your family tree.
Ignore online apps promising filigree.
Instead, help me decorate my Christmas tree.
String tiny lights round and round with glee.
Stand on tip toe to place Grampa’s ribbon rose
at the very top, where it always goes.
Hang wooden orange giraffe
beside spunky little brown horse.
Decades ago they made you laugh,
hanging above your crib, of course.
Be extra gentle with the pink glass bell,
fragile as a thin egg shell.
Your grandmother’s as a small child,
looking at it, she always smiled.
Add red ornament with letters painted white,
Lillian spelled out, still brings delight.
Made by my teacher in first grade,
her love for students proudly displayed.
Treasure these ornaments year after year
so many belonged to family so dear.
Behold this memory filled Christmas tree,
see and touch your ancestry.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Grace provides us with the last prompt for 2023 as we will now be on hiatus until January 1. She asks us to write a culinary rhyming recipe poem.
While we do indeed have a number of recipes handed down from generation to generation in my family, I’ve taken a bit of poetic license and written a poem with a “recipe” for my adult children (now 47 and 49; I’m 76) to discover their ancestry/family tree by looking at the ornaments on my Christmas tree. Just a few are mentioned in the poem. There many more including a fragile airplane that was on my father’s tree when he was a little boy. You can see it in the photo, next to my mother’s pink bell. There are ornaments made by my children’s babysitters; two painted by my father; some made by neighbors from the house where we raised our children; some made or given to us by aunts and uncles; sadly some given to us by relatives now gone from this earth. There are ornaments made by our kids when they were 4 and some when they were in grade school. There are ornaments collected from family vacations. It is what I often call a memory tree. Almost every ornament has its own story. In a way, they are the ingredients, melded together and on display, that enable us to reconnect with our family every year, no matter the distance or time that separates us; no matter if they have left this earth and only reside in our hearts.
Whatever holidays you celebrate, I hope they are joyful and shared with loved ones. I also wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year.
Love.
Snow mist
nature kissed.
Evening stroll
through quiet street.
Bells chime afar.
Carolers’ voices carry
through neighborhood.
Candles glimmer, lights shine.
Thoughts turn to memories.
Eyes tear from cold
or yearning.
Family members gone
still cherished,
warm my spirit
this time
of year.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn asks us to use the word “snow” in our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image created on Bing Create.
I was where I am when the snow began: back row in the corps de ballet. My first professional performance with a prestigious company. My first performance in The Nutcracker.
We’d practiced Act I’s ending snow scene many times. Dress rehearsal was a joy as soft snow fell all around us. As a newbie, nobody warned me about the two three-hundred pound fabric bags of confetti snow in the rafters. Nor did they tell me in the real performance, the snow would increase in intensity until we ended up in a veritable blizzard!
I was afraid I’d fall. It stuck to my eyelashes. I warned myself: don’t breathe through your mouth! But I did. With my back to the audience, I coughed like a cat hurling a furball. The curtain dropped to tumultuous applause and I’d survived. “Welcome to the real world of ballet!”
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I didn’t have time to write to Merril’s Prosery prompt for Monday, so did it late and am posting here. The prompt was to use the line “I was where I am when the snow began” from the poem The Dead of Winter by Samuel Menashe. Prosery is a piece of prose that is 144 words or less in length and includes a specific line of poetry given in a prompt.
A Dancer’s Tale was motivated by an article in the December 5th, Boston Globe, “The Snow Must Go On.” It actually quotes ballerina, Seo Hye Han who plays the Snow Queen in the Nutcracker about how the snow sticks to everything and tastes terrible because of the flame retardant on it. Boston Ballet actually does have two 300-pound fabric bags of confetti snow in the rafters for each performance of the Nutcracker. The bags are rotated and the snow slowly falls at first and does indeed, end up in a blizzard at the end of the scene. After the curtain comes down, stage hands immediately use machines similar to leaf blowers to clear the stage and save all the snow. They put the used snow through a machine to “sift out” false eyelashes, feathers, sequins etc. so there is just “pure” confetti snow left to reuse. According to the article, Boston Ballet goes through over 2,000 pounds of confetti snow in each season’s performances of the Nutcracker. Fascinating article to read! A Dancer’s Tale is purely fictional.
Image was created by me in Bing Creative! Thank you Bjorn for showing us how to use this AI!
some days
it seems a stick figure world
sketched in
lines only
charcoal lines
no curves
no tints of color
no punctuation
negation
no positivity
stuck motionless
mural of ethnocentrism
narcissistic me-ism
artists and poets needed
to add crimson hearts
splashes of love
everywhere
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to include the word “sketch” or a form of the word, in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words sans title).
As the sun sets on this day
may we pray to remember
the good that surrounds us,
the good that can be.
Help us to find our way
to a kinder world.
May each of us
contemplate sameness.
Our sameness. Our humanity.
May leaders from all countries
all religions, all ethnicities,
strive for gentle caring.
May we look in the mirror
eyes and hearts open,
and find each other.
Written today for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. In today’s world, with so much strife, division, and warring factions, I thought it important to offer this prayer.
dVerse will go live today from 3 to 4 PM EST. Folks from around the globe are invited to post a poem and read it aloud or simply to come and listen. A link will be provided at 3 PM EST HERE to join us on video and audio for one hour. We will do the same on Saturday morning from 10 to 11 AM EST. Would love to have you join us. The more the merrier!
Photo from sunset in San Diego some years ago. The photo feels peaceful and serene to me….and somehow the sun and the rolling hills in the background remind me of hope for a new day.
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
Mother sang about the man in the moon.
I don’t understand how he can wax and wane.
Like that maxim “love one another”
seems to wax and wane
if people are others instead of another.
Reality morphs, contorts,
always in flux.
Except for you.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where today we’re asked to use the word “moon” in our poem of exactly 44 words sans title. Image from Pixabay.com.
Suppose I spin
summit rejuvenatement
reverberate insanely
peek into everland
see paradise
enlightenment
stop spinning
rest in peace
irrevocably
stop
Written for dVerse where Bjorn presents us with quite a challenge – to write a poem using the following rules: 1) Select a title of one word containing not more than 3 vowels and 3 consonants. 2) Try to find as many words that are using only the letters in the title. 3) Combine this into a poem of your own. 4) Do not use any punctuation in the poem. The rules comprise a poetic form created by Canadian poet Christian Bök known for his experimental work. “Rejuvenatement” is a word I created when I rejuvenated (never say re-tired).
Image by Merlin Lightpainting from Pixabay
The cold crept up.
It surprised us all.
Like a tiger hunting.
It caught us all.
It took us prisoner,
in its icy grasp.
It held us tight
in its frosty wrath.
From now till the shadow leaves
it will linger.
It’s beautiful and terrible.
The icy storm beast.
Yet once it’s past
we’ll wait for it again,
for we love it and hate it.
The cold wintry thing.
Written by my granddaughter, Phoebe Hallberg. She is twelve years old.
Image from Pixaby.com
lillian the home poet 