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
Privileged to spend time where once she lived.
Provincetown’s harbor,
fishing boats at rest in midafternoon sun.
Low tide walks
beneath brightly blue cloudless sky,
heads down, staring at sidling hermit crabs.
Dining in Mews Restaurant’s downstairs room,
her favorite place, ours too.
Full length windows frame tall wispy grasses
rooted in sandy beach, its rippled ridges
solidified by swirling waves.
We spend two weeks every September
in this place we cherish,
this place she called home.
We walk its narrow lanes,
marvel at Captain Stormy’s dahlia garden,
step aside for bicycles’ jingling bells.
And I journal, humbled to know
this was where Mary Oliver found delight.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to be inspired by a poet or author who has died. Photos taken during our past twenty-five years of spending two-weeks annually in Provincetown. Yes, the Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver lived in Provincetown for many years. Many of her poems were about nature as she viewed it on Cape Cod.
Coming Home
by Mary Oliver
When we are driving in the dark,
on the long road to Provincetown,
when we are weary,
when the buildings and the scrub pines lose their familiar look,
I imagine us rising from the speeding car.
I imagine us seeing everything from another place–
the top of one of the pale dunes, or the deep and nameless
fields of the sea.
And what we see is a world that cannot cherish us,
but which we cherish.
And what we see is our life moving like that
along the dark edges of everything,
headlights sweeping the blackness,
believing in a thousand fragile and unprovable things.
Looking out for sorrow,
slowing down for happiness,
making all the right turns
right down to the thumping barriers to the sea,
the swirling waves,
the narrow streets, the houses,
the past, the future,
the doorway that belongs
to you and me.
I fell off the wagon tonight.
Sprite at the holiday party
just wasn’t merry enough.
Only one Cosmopolitan,
drinking with Santa
tasted so good.
then another
another
an Alice-in-Wonderland night
falling down, in to
the rabbit hole
another time
yet again.
I need
help.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and asking people to include the word “fall” or a form of the word, within their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Have no idea how Alice became an alcoholic….sometimes the muse just takes you down the rabbit hole! Image from Pixabay.com.
We left October 2nd on an eleven day fall foliage cruise from Boston, sailing up as far as Quebec, Canada. Stops heading north included Rockland, Maine; St. John, Bay of Fundy; Halifax, Nova Scotia; and Quebec City.
I learned about the process of autumn’s becoming from my science classes way-back-when. As temperatures cool and the sun lessens in intensity, trees stop making chlorophyll and leaves begin to change. Metaphorically speaking, I always thought they took on the look of Mother Nature’s cancan skirt! But sadly, in Boston and on this cruise, those magnificent crimsons, oranges, lemon and sunflower bright yellows were nowhere to be seen. Summer’s record high temperatures and extended heat-soaked days delayed the process. Finally, sailing into Quebec City along the St. Lawrence Seaway, disappointment turned to delight and quickly to awe. The coastal views reminded me of fall scenes from the October and November months on my grandmother’s wall calendars. I oohed and aahed at the glorious landscape. This was fall foliage indeed!
pumpkins sit on porch
apple cider warms on stove
leaf peepers delight
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Frank asks us to write a haibun about the autumn season. A haibun is prose that cannot be fiction, followed by a haiku that includes a word or words that denote a season.
Photos taken two weeks ago on our fall foliage cruise, sailing up the St. Lawrence Sea Way into Quebec City.
We are the baby-boomers, celebratory births
conceived and born after World War II.
We lived in our all white world,
walked to elementary school in Mary Janes
and white lacey ankle socks.
We were the oblivious ones
riding from Chicago to Florida.
Family vacations to grandma’s
excited to buy Orange Blossom eau de cologne
and praline candies at rest stops.
We had no idea Black families
used The Green Book for the same trip.
Dog-eared pages marked “friendly” towns.
Listed cafes, motels, and gas stations
where Negroes were welcome.
We didn’t know anybody named Jim Crow.
As young kids, we blindly sipped
from white-only fountains,
sat where we wanted
at diners along the route.
But we know now, or do we? –
How many of us
have seen or read the children’s book,
Ruth and the Green Book
by Calvin Alexander Ramsey?
How many of us have read
The 1619 Project?
Written by Nikole Hannah-Jones,
winner of the Pulitzer Prize
and a #1 New York Times bestseller.
What are we afraid of?
We may not be Bible readers
but we’ve all heard John 8: 31 and 32.
“The truth will set you free.”
Now is the time the truth be told.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn is hosting from Stockholm, Sweden and asks us to write a poem in the “collective” voice — we, our.
Given the movement so rampant in parts of the US to ban books, I thought it important to write this poem. If you’ve not read either of the books I mention, they are well worth the read.
Quoting from the Calvin Alexander Ramsey at the end of his book:
“In 1936, an African American living in New York City named Victor Green wrote a book to help black travelers. He made a list of all the hotels, restaurants, gas stations and businesses that would serve African Americans in his city. There was such a high demand for his book that he decided his next edition would include other towns in other states, as well.
The Green Book was sold for a quarter in 1940 at black-owned businesses and at Esso stations, which were among the only gas stations that sold to African Americans. Esso was owned by the Standard Oil Company, which eventually provided funding and offices for Victor Green. The Green Book quickly became very popular and helped many businessmen on the road, as well as the families who needed and wanted to travel by car.
By 1949, the price of the Green Book had grown along with its size – it cost 75 cents and was 80 pages. It covered all the United States, Bermuda, Mexico, and Canada!
In the 1950s and early 1960s, civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. brought national and international recognition to the injustices suffered by African Americans. Jim Crow’s days were numbered. On July 2, 1964, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Bill into law. Among other things, this act made it illegal for hotels, restaurants, and gas stations to discriminate against customers.
Victor Green published the final edition of the Green Book that same year – 1964.”
lillian the home poet