Messy? Who me?

Summer’s delight.
Ice cream time in smudgekin’s world,
that’s a toddler’s chocolate delight.
Chocolately face and fingers too,
lick by lick by lick
by drip by drip by drip.
Slow salivating yumminess
then nose-in-cone finale.
Mama says “look at me!” Click.
Then clean-up time.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where Mish is hosting and asks us to use the word “smudge” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo from Inside Source.

Come Walk with Me

Lilac aphrodisiac, scent my world.
Your goodness blossoms
blessed with sweet delicacy.
From palest to deepest shades,
side by side on Lilac Lane.
Each alone exudes the beautiful,
together you blend as one scene.
I walk slowly, senses awakened.
Serenity wafts, and in the moment,
all is good in my world.

No Escape

I couldn’t sleep. Walking the streets I came upon a small sign: Séance Sessions. Ten dollars.

“Letting go. Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end to this labyrinth called life. In reality”, said the medium, “you were here before your time and you will reappear many times after your body succumbs.” The lights suddenly flickered. The charlatan’s fingernails dug into my palms. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as her mouth moved in synch with Jim’s booming voice. “You killed me. I shall never forget. You shall suffer all the days of your lives and . . .” The medium’s body lurched forward. Her head crashed onto the table. She was obviously dead. I could see the dagger I’d carefully buried in my garden, sticking out of her back. Sirens began to wail.

Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril is hosting and asks us to insert the following line from Joy Harjo’s A Map to the Next World: “Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.” Image from pixabay.com

Prosery is a form created by dVerse. One line from a poem must be inserted into a piece of flash fiction, word for word. The punctuation may change but the word order must replicate the line as it appears in the poem used for the prompt. The flash fiction must be 144 words or less, not including the title.. No Escape is exactly 144 words.

Sweet Apples

Three apple trees.
Due date approaching.
Branches loaded with fruit,
over-ripe ones on ground
sickly sweet with buzzing bees.
Fresh picked apples brought inside,
peeled carefully, cut in halves,
sliced after cores are tossed.
Seasoned with cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg
they’re left to sit, making their own juice.
I move the rolling pin over the dough,
stretching it carefully into shape, leaning in
as close to counter as my swollen belly allows.
And then I feel it. Shirt lifted, I look…..
our soon-to-be little one is rolling too.
Crusts placed gingerly in aluminum pie pans
spicy scented apple mixture poured into tins.
Butter pads scattered on top, then top crust placed.
Crimping dough I smile, remembering.
Yesterday I folded sweet little undershirts,
cloth diapers, and placed them just so
on shelf in second-hand bassinette.
Pies made, into the freezer they go.
All the preparations done, we wait.
Iowa’s winter won’t seem so harsh this year.
We’ll have that heavenly apple aroma
as one of our pies bake,
and we’ll be holding a tiny baby boy or girl
ever so closely in our arms.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Kim asks us to consider fruit….pick a fruit…..what does it remind us of. What is it like? Describe it.
Immediately our apple trees came to mind from when we lived in rural Iowa. And then memories came flooding back. These were the days when we went to the dr. to find out if we were pregnant. And the only gender reveal was when the baby was born. Our daughter was born after I’d frozen our apple pies for the winter – she’s now 46!

A World Defined by Covid

Rain gushed from heavens
thunder, lightning
pandemic hell turned purgatory.
Boxed in by walls. Boxed in by zoom boxes.

Snows came, windows frosted shut.
Our spirits glazed as seasons passed
seen from shuttered window panes.
Cities crawled. Inequities laid bare.

Sparse masked figures hurried to tasks,
six feet apart. A grave distance indeed.
Hope impossible to grasp by stifled hands.
Optimists whispered. Hang on, hang on . . .

. . .after all, tomorrow is another day.
But optimists were far and few between.
Tomorrow is another day wore thin
because it never was.

Addendum. Recovery.
Release for those us who survived.
Smiles visible but leery. Freedom, sort of,
for far too many to openly grieve.

Freedom for the privileged
while far too many across the globe
still parched, still weary
still covid devastated . . .

. . . another day . . .
still impossibly too far away.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to consider lines made famous by movies. She provides many for us and asks us to include one of them in a poem.
I’ve chosen “After all, tomorrow is another day.” from Gone with the Wind, 1932.

A Sultry Summer Dance

Waltz with me, take my hand.
Hear the gulls call to us
fly o’er us, soar for us
dance for us on the sand.

Oceanside, hand in hand
me touching, you wishing
souls in tune, now kissing
three-stepping, lusting fanned.

You’re so strong, hold my hand
dance with me, past the sun
dance with me, past the clouds
through the stars, never land.

Oh my dear, damn this waltz.
Pen down now, poem be done.
Quick-step me, quick-step me!
Now . . . now . . . now . . . never to cease.
Now. . . Now. . NOW!
Ahhhhhhh . . .
release.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late to Thursday’s post – Bjorn hosts and asks us to consider the waltz in poetic form. For example, the waltz is usually danced in 3-beat measures: 1 – 2 – 3, 1-2-3. I’ve tried to have three beats throughout, so for example, the first line is “waltz (1) with (2) me (3), take (1) my (2) hand (3)”. Tricky. I’ve given it a go and ended up with a waltz on the beach that turns quite bawdy! FYI: the quick-step is another ballroom dance, quite opposite in pacing and attitude than the waltz or tango for example. Image from Pixabay.com

Ode to Joy Harjo

She writes of the sacred land,
red earth cherished by Creek Nation.

Moencopi Rise, Round Rock,
Four Corners, a dreaming place of bears.
Her words are songs of praise
to ochre soil, parched sand,
grey rocks, and dust spattered plants.
Her faith in the whole,
revealed in full and sliver moon
steady and flickering stars.

Prayer is manifest
as horses gallop through hills.
Words written in linear lines
paint images revered by generations.
Her poetic spirit soars.
An eagle spreads its wings,
magnificently embracing
the bluest of skies.

She is those who were before her,
caretakers of Mother Earth all.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late for the Tuesday Poetics prompt given by Laura. She asks us to consider poems to a poet. I decided to write an ode to poet Joy Harjo.

JOY HARJO is a member of the Creek Nation. She is a screen writer, poet, and teaches creative writing and Native American Literature at the University of Arizona. She has received the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Native Writers Circle of the Americas, and the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. Harjo served as United States poet laureate from 2019-2021, and was the first Native American to serve in the position.

Image from Pixabay.com

Sally Rand

She always yelled at him
before her grand entrance.
“Harry, crank up that wind machine!”
Then she’d wind up those hips
get the feathers quiverin’
and strut out on stage,
fans strategically placed.
She wanted to entrance the blokes,
not wound their swoonin’ heart.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and I’m hosting, asking poets to consider homographs, and in particular, the word “wound”. A homograph is a word that has two pronunciations and two different meanings, but the same spelling – as in “a wound up top”, and “he suffered a serious wound”. One can also use a form of the word….as in “wind” which is the present tense of “wound” but can also refer to a breeze – thus another homographic word. Note the use of the word “entrance” in this poem also a homographic word. And of course, a quadrille must be exactly 44 words in length, sans title.

Sally Rand, born Helen Gould Beck, was an American burlesque dancer most noted for her ostrich fan dances and her balloon bubble dances. She was mot active from 1925 to 1979.