Steeped in amniotic fluids, ejected from maternal womb – dropped into parents’ environment.
Simmered in their care, their beliefs, their modeling behaviors and aspirations. Children grow roots where they are planted. Tend your garden wisely.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today Bjorn hosts OLN LIVE from Sweden, from 3 to 4 PM Boston time. Click here between 3 and 4 PM EST for the link to join us live with audio and video.Come read a poem of your own or come just to listen. The more the merrier!
She did WHAT???? That’s gasporrific! With the gardener?
On the curb, outside the pub???? When was that?
Did he know? Rumors. Gossip.
The honey on bland porridge. But beware.
Gaspalicious can turn into stabinthebackmeanness far too quickly.
Sometimes, it’s best to fermer la bouche!
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. De asks us to include the word “gasp” or a form of the word in our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title. I had a bit of fun with the word. Image by Sam Williams from Pixabay
At 76 years of age, the phrase, “fermer la bouche” is one of the few phrases/words I remember from my three years of high school French. It means “shut-up” or more politely, “close your mouth”. Other phrases I can still say in French are Where is the library? Please pass the butter. My name is Lillian. and Rudolph the red nosed reindeer, had a very shiny nose. Hmmmm…..don’t think I should depend on my French if we travel to Paris!
You’re skywriting now, in stardust and bright moonbeams. Still, we’ll miss you here.
Glenn Buttkus. Jun 14, 1944 – February 17, 2023.
Born in Seattle, Washington in 1944, he was a movie buff and an amateur thespian through high school, community theater, and college productions. He was accepted into the U of W’s BFA Professional Actor’s Training Program in 1970, then in its third year of existence. He worked in Regional Theatre in the Northwest for a few years, and then relocated to Los Angeles. In 1977, he took a job at an agency for the blind that was located near Hollywood, and he found a new love: special education. He returned to college, getting his MA in Education and worked with blind people for thirty years. (from m.imdb.com) Glenn was a frequent contributor to dVerse and other online venues. His was a powerful voice at our OLN LIVE sessions. He is already missed.
Image clipped from his last appearance at OLN LIVE.
Occasionally, I think back to those times. Friendship spoiled like aged milk. Curdled putrid, far beyond its best-used-by date.
I was impressed at first, by your confidence, laughter, your louder-than-life self. We became best friends, roommates two years in school.
Slowly I realized you craved attention. Demanded the spotlight. Used people to make yourself the star.
Life’s circumstances sent us to different cities. We married, had children, successful careers. And then, we were thrown together again.
You relocated to where we were. Kids in the same school, same grades, same interests. Old times linked us in others’ minds, at church and kids’ events.
But you lived in the Heights, we lived in the Flats. You paraded that, flaunted it. I was okay with that, merely irritated.
Your husband exhausted by your demands, your goal to shine, became more than irritated. Driven to depression and anger, he fled to the arms of another.
So you, ever the diva, consumed by ego, picked up a knife, stabbed him. Just once. He gave you the spotlight. He died.
On parole, you called me. Went on and on about his indiscretion. Claimed it was self-defense. Practiced your defense on me.
I hung up that day. Done. You went to prison. I went on living, loving my husband, my family, and our life.
Just shows you I supppose, some friendships were never meant to be.
Written for dVerse where today we’re asked to a) write about friendship and b) begin our poem with the first line of another poet’s poem posted on dVerse. My first line, “Occasionally” is from Christine Bolton’s Senryu. Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay
Rosary tied to box spring beneath where my father slept. God, have mercy on him. He did not worship You, but lived You in relationships.
I was taught Papal invincibility as priests preyed on youth. They forgave others behind confessional screens, required rosaries for penance.
My father, God rest his soul, more a father than them. He didn’t need a rosary, but many of them did.
Explanation: When I was away in college, I received a phone call from my mother. They’d just had a new mattress and box spring set delivered. And the strangest thing, she said. When they went to remove the old box spring, they found a rosary entwined in the bottom of it. Did I have any idea why it was there?
And then I remembered. When I was in Catholic grade school, learning my catechism, I feared my father wouldn’t go to heaven because he didn’t go to church and he wasn’t a Catholic. So I sneaked into my parents’ bedroom, crawled under their bed and tied a rosary to the boxed spring, on the side of the bed my father slept on. Imagine the indoctrination that happened to make me think that and go to that extreme to save him. I was probably in third or fourth grade when I did this. I just couldn’t understand, I suppose, how such a good man as my father, wouldn’t be allowed in heaven.
Wind whipped branches stir my soul caught in illumined path shed by moon. Sunken alone, I battle with desire.
A single note of the lime tree sings, rippled with ripeness, love’s nectar flows. I shake my head on the crowded quay.
Thou willst convnce this dear virgin through thine copious tears, to publicly proclaim our love and joy.
Written for Thursday’s MTB at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today Bjorn asks us to use AI in the creation of a poem. PLEASE do real below to see how my poem was written, using Artifical Intelligence!
It used to be, teachers worried about students plagiarizing by copying materials from a library; then from materials gathered by Google; and now, enter AI platforms that produce entire papers/essays/poems.
How this AI site worksor how I think it works and how I used it! 1) You select 1 to 3 poets from a list they provide. They will be your muse. I chose only one: Amy Lowell. 2) You write your original first line to begin your poem, and enter it on the site. I wrote “Wind whipped branches stir my soul.” 3) You click on the blank line provided (called Verse 1) and the site generates about six lines in the style of the poet(s) you chose. 4) You can use one or some of these lines; or click refresh and you get another list of lines. You continue doing this until you’ve chosen enough lines for the length of poem you want and then click Poem Complete. 5) The site then gives you the poem “you’ve written” – your first original line followed by lines the site provided, in the style of the poet(s) you chose. 6) The site provides a lovely image of “your” formatted poem. 7) At the bottom it says “Composed by User. Inspired by Amy Lowell. Composed in Verse by Verse.”
Here is the “poem” with my first line, the AI site Verse by Verse “wrote” for me. (I refreshed a number of times to get these individual lines).
Wind whipped branches stir my soul Caught from a slide while the moon shed, Sunken alone her battle with its desire, A single note of the lime tree sing, Streak with ripeness, with the fruit She shook her head, and on the crowded quay Could force this Dear Virgin through thee tears. Clotilde had been with love and joy.
Now you can look back at the poem I posted above and see the edits I made from the AI version.
NOTE: Amy Lowel (1874 – 1925) was an early champion of free verse. According to Wikipedia “Lowell was said to be lesbian, and in 1912 she and actress Ada Dwyer Russell were reputed to be lovers. Russell is reputed to be the subject of Lowell’s more erotic works, most notably the love poems contained in ‘Two Speak Together’, a subsection of Pictures of the Floating World.” Image is Amy Lowell.
So many footlights burned out spotlight leaning askew curtains removed, scrim gone proscenium arch stands stark.
Program says Act Three. Audience hushed, anticipates tragedy. Director expects me, in shrouded black, to slump upon the floor.
The script be damned . . . it’s my chance to be a star!!! Black over-sized poncho is thrown to the floor.
Behold my sequined skin tight leotard, fish net stockings over varicose veins. Audience gasps at my tapping frenzy ~ shuffle ball changes, wings, and Rockette kicks.
Grinning, laughing, I finally decide. This addendum to the script shall joyously end!
I wink at the conductor, astounded in the pit. Timpanist catches my drift and gloriously booms as I exit like a flying dervish to joyous hilarious applause.
While the poem is not about me, I did take tap lessons from the age of 4 until my senior year in high school. I still have my own tap shoes (not the ones in the photo)!
Moon is a sliver of silver; stars sparkle, shimmering steel in space; silky cirrus clouds slither across silent sky searching span for sanctuary.
Solitary soul seeks solace; a shield from shadows of secrets searing his serenity. Scanning skyward, he senses sanctuary in sacrament of silence, a sliver of silver shining still.
Written by Lindsey Ein and read aloud today at OLN LIVE, at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Image from Pixabay.com
We walk quietly through hushed forest. Tree tops shimmer-emerald in bright sun. Shaded lower branches, more soft-hued green.
Leaves wave in gentle wind. Sunray flickers through foliage, forms mosaic patterns upon our faces, upon our soft smiles.
We slowly walk deeper into calm. Birch trees, conifers, cypress, scent of damp pines. Ancient sentinels of passing time.
Powerful strength towers above as delicate ferns and wildflowers thrive in earth beside our feet. We revel in balance before our eyes.
In the midst of raw beauty, we embrace. Feel strength course through our beings. We will be back again and again, witness to the healing of this place.
Dedicated to Rob and Kathy. Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today, from 3 to 4 PM EST, poets from around the globe will meet LIVE, wth video and audio, to read aloud one poem of their choice, to visit with each other and lend their support to the creative endeavors of all. Come join us HERE and then click on the link provided for Thursday’s live session!
Can’t join us on Thursday?
We’ll meet again LIVE on Saturday, from 10 to 11 AM EST. Join us HERE and then click on the link provided for Saturday’s gathering!
lillian the home poet