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!
Valentine’s Day, definitely the time to answer that query.
One, two, three, four . . . forty-seven, forty-eight, fifty-three wedded years.
Seven dogs we called our friends, two children, nurtured and loved, five wonderful grands.
Strolling Singapore’s orchid gardens, admiring Japan’s cherry blossoms, walking atop the Great Wall.
Meandering beside Lake Michigan’s shores, through London’s fog, Alaska’s snow, Bryce’s hoodoos, Yosemite’s trails.
From Iowa to Sweden to Australia too. Easiest answer to that question? So many ways over so many years.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, on Valentine’s Day, Sanaa is hosting and asks us to write “plainly” about love.
Photos top row, left to right: summer 1974, pregnant with Abbey, our first child; at the Great Wall outside of Beijing; in Japan enjoying the cherry blossoms. Bottom row: in an underground cave in Bermuda about 8 years ago; and finally, us here in San Diego just seven days ago, February 7th, celebrating our 53rd anniversary! Thankful for every day.
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways” — from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 43.
I defined myself by you; by your dreams and your gigs. I was integral to the group at first, when we sang together. Then you pushed me to back-up; then to working lights, and I was your afterthought. You were addicted to applause, to groupies, to uppers. You finally snorted your way to becoming a has-been. You had it all and threw it away.
This year’s a different thing. I’ll not think of you burning out in small town bars. I’m born again. Not in the religious sense. I’ve regained my self-worth. I’m the one riding the waves now, literally. As a cruise ship entertainer, singing in the spotlight and seeing the world. Some nights I stare at the wake. Energy churned up behind the ship, disappearing into darkness. It reminds me that the you I miss every day, disappeared a long time ago.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril asks us to include the line “This year’s a different thing – I’ll not think of you again” from the poem I so liked spring by poet Charlotte Maw (1869 – 1928) in our piece of prose that is exactly 144 words long. Photo by Jakub Pabis on Unsplash
AN INVITATION TO ALL MY READERS! I will host OLN LIVE at dVerse on both Thursday, February 16th, from 3 to 4 PM EST and on Saturday, February 18th, from 10 to 11 AM EST.
WHAT IS OLN LIVE? Open Link Night (OLN) is an opportunity to post any one poem of your choosing at dVerse, on Mr. Linky, as folks did for this Prosery prompt.There is no required form, length, or topic.
Open Link Night LIVE (OLN LIVE) involves the same process EXCEPT folks are invited to literally meet poets from around the globe by signing into a LIVE session, complete with video and audio. You can tune in to just watch and listen or you can read aloud one poem of your choosing. Just come to the dVerse home page on either Thursday February 16th or Saturday, February 18th (times mentioned above) and click on the provided link and – voila! – you’ll see us all LIVE!
I lie on cool moist earth waking dreams in outdoor’s chill. Stars gleam through obsidian scrim, slivered moon slices ebony sky. Night’s breeze whispers, lullabies me. Thoughts float to loved ones from generations past. Do they live now, somewhere out there in the universe?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to write a quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title, that includes the word “star” or a form of the word. Image from Pixabay.com
lillian the home poet 