Looking at the ancient eucalyptus tree’s
gnarled and peeling bark
in the midst of verdant greenery,
I see beauty in its maturity
and feel content in my skin.
Photo taken yesterday from the patio of our San Diego rental, which overlooks a canyon. This stately aging eucalyptus tree fascinates me.
Holding kite, excited to run
grinning in sun.
Wind picks up speed
flight guaranteed.
Running down field, kite takes to air
eyes glaze in glare.
Excited screams,
Better than dreams!
String tugs, yanks and breaks. Kite floats free
stilling her glee.
Kite disappears
brings on the tears.
Written for Meet the Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Grace asks us to “explore an invented poetry form – The Minute Poem. It’s a 60 syllable verse form, one syllable for each second in a minute. The theme must be an event that is over and done completely, as in a minute. Since the dominant line is short, the effect is likely humorous, whimsical or semi-serious. It was created by Verna Lee Hinnegardner, once poet laureate of Arkansas.”
For me, it’s another “sudoku” poem! That is, a complex form that challenges me. Here’s the elements we must adhere to:
* It must be narrative poetry: tell a story.
* It is a 12 line poem made up of 3 quatrains (3 four-line stanzas)
* Syllabic form is 8-4-4-4, 8-4-4-4, 8-4-4-4 (8 syllables in the first line of each stanza; 4 in the second, thrid and fourth line of each stanza.
* It must have the rhyme scheme of aabb, ccdd, eeff
* It should be a description of a finished event (preferably something done in 60 seconds).
PHOTO: taken in Bermuda about 7 years ago when we went to their Good Friday kite festival.
“He went to sea in a thimble of poetry.” Poet Warning, Jim Harrison
Wynken, Blyken and Nod
my childhood friends,
lived in the well-turned pages
of mother’s Child Craft book of poetry.
Their neighbors always made me smile,
the Old Lady who lived in the shoe,
Miss Muffet sitting primly on her tuffet
and that merry Old King Cole too.
I often dreamed of that crazy cow
jumping over the moon,
prancing round the stars.
I lived in my imagination
where no one yelled at anyone,
hugging my yellow sort-of-teddy-bear
smeared with mother’s lipstick
so it always smiled at me.
Those dog-eared pages,
oh how I loved them.
When mama read to me,
all was good and calm and fun.
Linda is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She introduces us to Jim Harrison (December 11, 1937 – March 26, 2016), an American poet, novelist, and essayist, and provides us with a number of lines from his works. We are to choose one line and use it as an epigraph at the beginning of our poem. An epigraph is a short quotation at the beginning of a book or chapter (in this case, a poem), intended to suggest its theme.
I still have two of the Childcraft volumes published in 1949, including the Childcraft Poems of Early Childhood. I loved these poems as a child and then read them to my children and my grandchildren too. Photo is from the book.
Curtain billows in wind.
Candlelight flickers,
flame shivers, dips,
almost snuffed out.
Metaphorical
for our predicament,
but a gentler scene.
Healthcare systems threatened.
Tsunami of violence,
hatred, inequities.
We cup our hands
around the flame of hope,
trying to protect it
through these storms.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we’re to include the word “shiver” or a form of the word (not a synonym) in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM, Boston time. Come join us!
* A derecho is a wide-spread, long lived, dangerous windstorm.
Our lives are made of moments, some plain, some filled with awe.
Looking back I was surprised how many included sipping through a straw!
My mother showed me how to sip orange juice to go with grahams;
Then coca cola and ice cream sodas helped make me who I am.
Chocolate milkshakes, creamy and thick should be against the law.
The memories sweet, of all those times sipping through a straw.
In college I learned about Scotch Mists, served with straws black and thin;
As were those Mai Tai’s with rum and gardenias that almost did me in.
Anything sipped through a straw was yummy. To me a special treat,
Until the memories of hospital stays I do not wish to repeat.
When your lips are cracked, your mouth is dry and your body feels so raw
There is no better thing the nurses can bring than water to sip through a straw.
It’s funny the things that come to mind; the adventures, the things you saw.
My life’s special moments have often come when sipping through a straw.
Straws is written by Lindsey Ein: wonderful writer, wonderful friend, and mother to our dear son-in-law. She shared this poem with dVerse LIVE on Thursday – I’m just a bit late posting it.
The only job she could land
landed her in an out-of-the-way town.
She’d cajoled and connived her way
to a choir of four.
Refusing to admit defeat,
she would not
call them a quartet.
David, eyes cast down interminably,
droned a background hum
for whatever tune was sung.
Delilah, the defiant one.
Deliberately off-pitch to shine,
spotlight stolen by default.
Dissonant in life as well.
Miriam, the honey-blonde.
Sensuous red lips
licked and dewed before each word,
mouthed dulcet tones too late.
Behind in every measure,
she flashed her thigh for all to see
beneath unbuttoned robe.
And Carl, the rapper.
Lordy, what a snazzy guy.
Snapped his fingers
while chanting words.
Smelled of weed with eyes glazed,
unwilling to shed
his percussive beat.
She smiled and waved her baton,
directing the motley crew.
Sweat dribbled down her chest
to that delicate spot
between her ample breasts.
Music is as music does,
always music to her ear.
She’d defied the warnings,
music her one true love.
So here she stood,
tone deaf and proud.
Her quartet, after all,
was magnificently loud.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.
Today, Laura asks us to write a “sound poem” choosing one word from five lists she provides. She also points us toward Hart’s Thesaurus of the Senses, a valuable resource for poets. Laura, I ordered a copy yesterday. The words I used (or forms of the word) were drone, dissonant, dulcet, dribble, and chant. I also added a fifth word from the list, honey. Truly had fun with this prompt. Thank you, Laura! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
PS: dedicated with humor to my daughter and son, both of whom direct a chorus and/or choir; and son-in-law, who composes choral music.
Image from A Scrub’s Life, February 1, 2017: “Sometimes We Can Be A Little Tone Deaf”
They lived in the forest. Two offspring of Elsinora, the Witch of Evildore. They’d been learning her trade for many years. Memorized spells, chopped beetle wings, boiled cat’s blood. Now the time had come. Elsinora smiled through blistered purple lips. They were ready. They’d consumed all her ancient books; syphoned memory strands from her pustule covered head.
“Rest now, my dearies. Come to me and bring no book. For this one day we’ll give to idleness. Let’s take your measurements as you rest. Boot size for broom stirrups. Breath velocity for hexes. Quickly now, my loves, as the spirits have ruled. I shall disappear when the moon ebbs and you shall rule the lands. Control those naive two-legged creatures who assume they are the dominant strain. Come sit with me and I shall gift you reign over all, on this my dying day.”
Written for the prosery prompt at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Ingrid hosts and asks us to include the line “And bring no book for this one day we’ll give to idleness” within our work of fiction that is 144 words or less in length, sans title. The line must be used word for word, but the punctuation may be changed. The line is from Wordsworth’s Lines Written at a small distance from my house which is included in the collection Lyrical Ballads. Image from Pixabay.com
I am twenty-three years older
than my older brother.
Some days, I truly miss him.
He would have been
a wonderful grandfather,
and great-grandfather too.
I hear him whisper, “Not to worry,
I’ve watched over them
all these years.
I see them from the galaxy.
I look down on them every night
through the eyes of the stars.”
She sweetly sings Come be with me,
lullabyes them deep in sleep to kidnap.
Children, her calliope.
She crashes children’s dreams with glee
mists their minds, makes one commanding clap
and sweetly sings Come be with me.
Spins dulcimer tones in heads so wee,
savors treble clefs, craves their fiddle-dee-dee.
Children, her calliope.
Plants cotton-candy poisonous tree
in tussled heads so sweet, such evil trap.
She sweetly sings Come be with me.
Disguised she devil-sings come follow me,
codas dream with one giant gingersnap.
Children, her calliope.
Parents, heed my tale and listen carefully
lest you lose your children as they nap.
She sweetly sings Come be with me,
children, her calliope!
Bjorn is hosting Meet-the-Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. He asks us to write a nonsense narrative poem. We must clearly tell a story. “The characters and their actions may seem absurd or playful, but what they do makes sense in a nonsense way. It is fine to use invented words, but it should be clear from the concept if they are creatures, things, or even verbs.” Photo from pixabay.co
Ancient eucalyptus tree.
Pock marked bark-skin,
peeling, barren in places,
adds beauty to greening canyon.
Elderly man in thick glasses,
blue-veined hands hanging limply,
shuffles across street.
Driver sits, hand poised over horn.
Musing, I ponder our value system.
We should learn from nature.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where the word to use (or a form of the word) in our exactly 144 word poem sans title is “muse.”
Photos taken yesterday from our patio, which opens to a beautiful canyon. We’re in an apartment rental in sunny San Diego until early March, escaping Boston’s winter (as in 11.2 inches of snow on Friday!).
lillian the home poet 