November winds strip trees of autumn glory. Squirrels scamper in fallen leaves, seeking nuts for winter stash. We come inside, to this warm home many of us coming from miles away. We reconnect, play with little ones, share new stories and old ones too. We talk of elders who for so many years graced the adult table when we were young. This feast we put upon the table today turkey, dressing, and all the fixings cause for joy. But the real feast is so much more. It is the sharing, the sitting with, the laughter and the caring. It is in the actual gathering. Our family in thanksgiving, witness to our love.
Sanaa is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. She asks us today to think about what November means to us. Sadly, because of Covid, this will be the first time in fifty years, we will not travel to Chicago to be with our extended family for Thanksgiving. We miss them. Illustration: Norman Rockwell’s famous painting, Freedom from Want, which is in public domain.
Falling leaves rustle blown by howling winds. Kaleidoscope of colors swirling like my mind these days. Focus on the moments when sun touches me like kindness. Kindness is more contagious than the virus swirling in the wind. Sun shines down today. Happy am I
Kaleidoscope is written by Lindsey Ein. I’m thrilled to post her poem to my blog today. She’s responded to the Quadrille prompt at dVerse, writing a poem of exactly 44 words that includes the word “happiness” or a form of the word (“happy”). Lindsey is the mother of my very talented son-in-law and belongs to a writing group in Kentucky.
She lives life sunny-side up, happily choosing to ignore everyday eggasperations. Definitely not a cook. Her souffle pan, Calphalon pots and ten-speed blender? Simply signs of her optimistic soul. Gymnast by profession, she tumbles her way through the three-ringed circus everyone else calls life.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. I’m tending the pub tonight, asking everyone to indulge in a happiness project! Poems must be exactly 44 words in length, sans title, and the body of the poem must include the word happiness. A form of the word, for example happy, happiest, or happily is acceptable. A synonym such as bliss does not meet the requirements of the prompt. I thought I’d have a bit of fun with mine. Photo from Pixabay.com
It was the big band era, lots of brass. Billy whalin’ on the drums while Johnny waited for his riff makin’ the saxophone swing.
And me, standin’ on the riser my long arms waitin’ too. “Wing span of a hawk,” mama said. Just the ticket for a trombone man.
Yeah, I could slide that brass, hear the notes strong and clear. No strings or keys, just that long smooth glide.
And Mabel at the mic, feathers clipped in henna dyed hair sultry voice in the sweet spots. Hips, always swingin’ to the beat.
Never made it big like Glenn, but we had our gigs. Glass of gin between sets and smoke swirlin’ round our heads.
They’re all gone now. Pawned my Tbone long time ago. But sometimes, while I’m sittin’ here, I can put myself back there again.
Close my eyes imaginin’ and start to sway, feel Mabel lean in real close like she did. I wheel this chair around a bit and I can feel us back there again. Swingin’ to that big band sound.
THIS POST IS BEST IF READ ALOUD!
Rewritten a bit from an older post. Shared at OLN by reading aloud at our online dVerse pub event. dVerse is a virtual pub for poets around the globe – except that once a month we have a live Zoom-like gathering where we read aloud a poem and can actually see and hear the creators of all the words we’ve been sharing for so many years at this amazing virtual pub.
I am oceanically mesmerized. Sitting on rippled sand, slowly sifting granules through my fingers through my toes.
Waves splash, crash, dash against shoreline’s rugged rocks. Salty spray, misty on my skin, lost in thought, time labors not.
I stand, then saunter farther down shore. Discover limestone formations, arced frame through which I stare. Architecturally designed by nature, window open to bluest of blue seas.
This is Bermuda, beautiful indeed.
Written for MTB (Meet the Bar) Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the world. Today Peter is hosting and asks that we consider and emphasize sound in our poem. For example, we can use onomatopoeia (the word sounds like the object described); alliteration (repetition of consonants); rhyme; and rhythm. Photo taken four years ago when we wintered in St. George, Bermuda. No photo-shopping in second photo. The water is truly those amazing colors!
Caldron nearby she is the enigma, silver flowing garb white hair plaited high. Index fingers encased in wax, flame extinguished by gust from fleeing bats.
Eyes heavenward, pointing skyward she seeks illumination. Answering nay, consumed by clouds, lunar glow dims and disappears. Tear soaked cheeks dried on thinnest cloth sHow dwindling faith . . .
consumed moon pearls from tissue candle salve skulls of saints spiritual songs
her crooning voice cracks this hallowed eve. This burial ground, last chance to find her gods. All sounds, all hopes cease.
Pleas unanswered she returns to abysmal cave, forsaken and alone.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura hosts and refers us to the American Poet, Samuel Greenburg. His “…feverish tubercular episodes gave him a verbal recklessness that lent itself to surrealism.” In The Pale Impromptu, written in 1915, he strings words together in indentations and to Laura, they appear like charms on a bracelet. She has listed for us twenty-one of these “charm” phrases from The Pale Impromptu and asks us to use five of them in our poem. I’ve attempted to use his form as well as five of his “charms” which are italicized for easy recognition. My apologies to Laura and Samuel Greenburg if I’ve not explained this very well.
Compass magnetized to truth, lead me to serenity. Through brazen brambles toward path with verdant ferns, emerald grass and sentinel trees. Close to streams unseen but heard. Soft swishes, trickles too, psalms in salient tranquility. Guide me through morass into a land of grace.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the world. Today De is hosting and asks us to include the word “magnet” or a form of the word in our poem that is exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo taken a number of years ago on trip to see our niece in Ohio.
Autumn brilliance beckons quiet walks feed my soul. Chain link fence meant to impede gives pause. Adorned by copper hued leaves between and through metal links, the mundane turned stained glass window. I sigh . . . before walking on.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where today, Sarah asks us to write a 3 to 12 line poem choosing one group of three words from a list she provides. I chose feed-copper-quiet.
SO INTERESTING! Each group of three words marks an actual place in England (feed-copper=quiet is the exact location of the National Art Gallery in London). Sarah tells us “The developers of what3words have divided the whole world into 3 metre squares and allocated each of them a combination of 3 words. The idea is that if you are lost and in need of help, you can use these words to pinpoint your location exactly.” I went to the site and found the three words that pinpoint exactly where I live. Interesting concept! Our poem is just to use the three words – it does not have to incorporate the actual place the words refer to in the mapping scheme.
Photo taken on a BC walk in Andover, MA. BC means Before Covid — as in last fall.
From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time. Up close, we see now, he should not be here.
He sits alone at the same corner table every day, all day, playing solitaire. Narrating his rational plays, he slaps down cards so hard the table shakes. His sane voice, loud above the moans and snores of others. They sit slumped in wheelchairs or on upholstered couches with protective plastic seat covers. Some have spittle hanging from parched lips. Between hands, he talks to the teenage aide standing nearby. “I lost again. Nobody wins here. Did you see that string of clubs?” She nods, bored with her job. “I want my Science magazine. They didn’t renew my subscription!”
How was this man, an inconvenience to someone, surviving here? We will definitely report this hellhole to authorities.
Written for Monday’s Prosery prompt at dVerse. Kim hosts today, asking us to include the line “From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time” in a piece of flash fiction, exactly 144 words in length. The line is from D. H. Lawrence’s poem Humming Bird.