Zaanse Schans

lillian32 Comments

Step back in time with me,
into 17th century Holland.
Into rural fields of working windmills.
One man pulls ropes taunt,
sets sails to catch wind and spin.
Inside wooden cogs and wheels whirl,
grind stone to fine ochre powder.
Village survives by ingenuity.


Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe where today, Lisa asks us to use the word “work” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

Images and videos from four days ago when we visited the village of Zaanse Schans, which is about a twenty-five minute drive from Amsterdam. During the 17th century there were more than 600 windmills in this area. Today there are 8. They were used to grind spices, produce paint, saw wood, and make oil, among other things. The one we climbed around in is used to grind rock into ochre powder.

A man must climb up onto the roof and adjust the angle of the sails to catch the wind. The turning sails power the inner workings, cogs, wheels etc (top video) which work to make the grinding wheels turn on the ground level (2nd video). We climbed up a steep wooden ladder to see the machinations and walked around downstairs to watch the huge grinding wheels.
Houses in Zaanse Schans and the stairs we climbed inside the windmill.

Sheltered / Seeking Shelter

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We stood on the deck of our cruise ship, warm and comfortable, having just eaten our fill for breakfast in a beautiful dining room. The night before, we’d had wine with dinner and our choice of four entrees. We were returning to the ship’s home port in Florida, to then return to our highrise condominium in Boston.

The Captain’s voice was clear and strong over the loudspeakers. “There is a small boat of refugees on our starboard side. We have alerted the Coast Guard and will hold our position until they arrive. We believe in safety at sea for all. This will not impede our itinerary. We will arrive at our home port as scheduled.“

A small boat bobbed in the ocean, the people barely distinguishable except to see they were crowded in what looked like a rubber raft. It looked so low in the water, as if it was barely staying afloat. When the Coast Guard arrived more than an hour after the announcement, our ship moved away quickly. We only saw the Coast Guard approach the refugees. We never knew what happened to them.

cherry tree blooms pink
robin sits in feathered nest
mole burrows in darkness

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Mish asks us to consider the word “shelter” in our haibun: two or three succinct paragraphs of prose that are nonfiction/autobiographical, followed by a classic haiku.

Photo is from November 2021, when we took a cruise in the Caribbean. It was sobering to see in reality, what we’d read about in newspapers and heard about in the news.

The Ride

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How many times around
life’s stationary wheel?
Eight times ten,
nine times ten?
Apex reached at twenty-five or fifty?
Maybe thirty and three-quarters?
Down cycle begins later, much later,
or maybe it did? Back then.
There should be a view from the top,
everything spread out in miniature
but recognizable.
Broken fulcrum invevitable,
timed entrance tickets do end.
Others clamor to get on, their turn.
What’s that saying?
We’re just along for the ride.

Photo taken in Warnemunde, Germany two days ago.

Ode to Love

lillian25 Comments

Rise up this morn, ingenue divine.
Sing joy unto the skies for youth,
for energy and love.
Live now to dance in flower laden fields.
Soon enough
petals shall shrivel upon their stalks,
energy depleted.
But love, if tended well,
will never desert you.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Monday, August 22nd is Quadrille Monday. Linda asks us to write a quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) including the word “morning” or a form of the word. If you look carefully in the first line of Ode to Love, morning is there, albeit broken in to two words.

Apologies to dVersers! I am on a cruise until September 2nd and have very little access to the internet…and when I do, it is intermittant. Therefore I am unable to read your posts to dVerse prompts. Do not feel the necessity to read or post comments on my poems during this time since I can rarely reciprocate.

PS: Poem before this one on my blog, includes photos from our first cruise to the Norwegian Fjords. We are on back-to-back cruises and have just begun the second leg, our Best of Scandinavia cruise.

Ode to Norway’s Lysefjord

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Craggy jagged giants, chiseled and slashed.
What unseen sculptor divined your magnificence?
Vertical behemoths,
you tower above humankind,
almost barren of vegetation, so steep are you.

Silent sentinels of time.
Generations and generations more
have you keenly watched,
streaming tearful waterfalls of lament.
Disbelief in man’s inhumanity to man.

Might you remind us, teach us?
Despite glacier carved differences
you stand together in strength,
forming one grand monolith
overcoming the tests of time.

Photos taken on Thursday, August 18th on our Celebrity Norwegian Fjords cruise. Lysefjord is just outside of Stavanger, Norway. Absolutely stunning in its raw beauty.

Haibun for August

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Schooldays, schooldays, good old golden rule days . . . familiar words from a song my mother sang to me as she tucked me into bed. Generations later, I sang these words at bedtime to our young children, and then again to their children.

As a septuagenarian, I’ve been entrenched in schooldays from when I went to kindergarten until I rejuvenated (never say retired) in December 2012. Schooldays were part of my life as a student, a parent of school-aged children, a teacher, and finally as a university administrator. Whether we lived in rural Iowa, or a city, August always signaled summer’s end. More importantly for me, it was the harbinger of schooldays to come. Depending on my age, it could mean cutting up brown paper grocery sacks to make textbook covers; or shopping for new crayons, knee socks for my uniform, #2 yellow pencils, new Bic pens and notebooks, or a new sweater set. Later it signaled filling out a new lesson plan book, or noting upcoming meetings in a day planner. At seventy-five, back-to-school ads on television bring back memories of August days gone by.

sweetcorn season done
seed corn soon to fill silos
school bells ring again

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and asks us to write about what August means to us. We can use any poetic form we choose. I decided to write a haibun.

Haibun: a poetic form that includes one or two succint paragraphs of prose followed by a haiku. The prose cannot be fiction. The haiku must include a seasonal reference.

Photo from Pixabay.com

Revenge

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She falters, steps lightly,
lightly asserting herself again.
Again he beats her, denies her being.
Being a brute, how can she win?

How did this happen,
happen to her, create such fear?
Fear is the impetus she finally needs.
Needs to act quickly, her path is clear.

Miles away she laughs aloud,
a loud guffaw that signals she’s free.
Free of his violence, while he lies dead,
dead by her deed near the old oak tree.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Grace asks us to consider Loop Poetry, a form created by Hellon. There are no restrictions on the number of stanzas nor on the syllable count for each line. However, in each stanza, the last word of the line 1 becomes the first word of line 2. The last word of line 2 becomes the first word of line 3. The last word of line 3 becomes the first word of line 4. This is followed for each stanza (4 line stanzas). The rhyme scheme is abcb. Tricky. Took me a while to get in the rhythm of it and for some reason, this poem from the dark side was the result.

Moving Day

lillian28 Comments

Chipmunk cheeks, chubby knees
toddler toddles unsteadily.
Plops down on diaper padded bum
eyes surprised at sudden landing.
Spies round unknown object
in midst of packing boxes.
Left-over, missed by movers,
his to explore and claim.
Metal globe on brass colored axis,
somewhat dented
but sporting what looks to him
like gaily colored splotches.
Blues and reds and blacks
and yellows and greens
and shapes that fascinate.
Pudgy fingers reach out,
touch cool round surface
and tentatively push . . .
then more . . .and more and
ooooh spinning colors.
Faster, faster, faster,
round and round and round.
Squeals of delight
draw me to the door.
I see this happy child,
the world, a spinning top for him.
Unaware of famine, wars, discord,
and oh so intricately drawn borders.
Imagine whirled peace
with colors spun into one.
Boundaries blurred and gone
and laughter the only sound.
Or just as suddenly,
what could be.
A world in shock,
tipped off its axis
and the only sound,
disappointed screams.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics.

For the prompt, I’ve provided a list of sixteen Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavors, many of which have been retired. Writers must include the name of at least one flavor from the list of sixteen in the body of their poem – and the poem cannot be about ice cream! I’ve used the flavor Imagine Whirled Peace. It was a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavor from 2007 to 2013.

Writers cannot change the order of the words in the flavor, or the tense of the words. They cannnot change the words of the flavor into plurals or possessives. They cannot add words between the words in the name of the flavor. Of course, folks are free to use more than one flavor from the list. After all, who doesn’t like a double-dipper or triple-dipper ice cream cone????

Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us – it should be fun!

A Giverny Night

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Claude Monet tiptoed
through last night’s deep slumber.
Wrapped my dream in glorious blooms,
hushed pinks fading into hazy purple iris.
Calmed my senses
with myriad brushed greens.
Dewed my eyes
as undulating water lilies
nudged me into wakefulness.
I sit remembering
and smile.

Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to include the word “wrap” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

Claude Monet images in public domain.