lilac buds compressed
scent withheld, blossoms bashful
spring has not yet sprung
Written for Day 2, National Poetry Writing Month where the challenge is to write a poem every day in the month of April. Photo taken in the Harvard Arboretum on Lilac Sunday, Mothers’ Day 2020.
Foolhardy
hardened fools.
Foul actions,
faction’s divisive beliefs.
Believability be damned.
Dams broken open harshly flow,
flow drippings putrid.
Putrified racism.
Destroy hope?
Hope says never.
Evil stands for all to see.
Seeing it exposed, evil energy
energizes truth tellers.
Telling all, Truth wins the trifecta.
Trifle not with win, place or show
show all as one:
Respect.
Equity.
Humanity.
Let it be so.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I am hosting today – pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Writers are invited to post a poem of their choice: no prompt, no particular form. BUT, they must tag or somehow direct their readers back to dVerse so others can share and be exposed to this gathering of supportive and creative writers.
Also offered for NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing) day one. April is National Poetry Writing Month and the traditional challenge is to write a poem every day of April. As I have in many years past, I accept the challenge. This was actually written and posted on April 1; I simply forgot to tag NaPoWriMo.
A note on my post: I am drawn to the idea that this is April 1st, commonly called April Fools’ Day. I am also drawn to the trial of the police officer accused in the murder of George Floyd. Somehow, with my pen scribbling in my journal, this confluence of those two facts appeared. The death of George Floyd caused a national, actually a global movement, recognizing racism. Many took to the streets in the US and abroad, espousing that this is the time for equity and humanity. George Floyd’s death was but one example of racism – albeit the one that woke up many.
Night sky’s scrim beams on us.
Heads tipped, eyes heavenward,
cold crisp air embraces.
Hope gleams bright, if we believe.
Heads tipped, eyes heavenward,
stars shine, diminish doubt.
Hope gleams bright, if we believe,
this truth shall live through pain.
Stars shine, diminish doubt
hearts must open willingly.
This truth shall live through pain,
our love shall bloom again.
Hearts must open willingly,
words must tumble free.
Our love shall bloom again,
night sky’s scrim beams on us.
Late to post to Peter’s prompt for Thursday’s Meet the Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to write a pantoum.
Pantoum: comprised of 4 line stanzas the follow this pattern: 1,2,3,4; 2,5,4,6; 5,7,6,8; 7,9,8,1
In other words:
* the second stanza repeats the second and fourth lines of the first stanza, in its first and third line.
* The third stanza repeats the second and fourth line of the second stanza, in its first and third line.
* This pattern continues until the final stanza which repeats the second line of the stanza preceding it, as its first line; and the first line of the entire poem as its final line.
Quite tricky to write in the pantoum form and still have sense to the poem, without the form “sticking out” to the reader’s sensibility!
Hands gnarled by fishing gear
introvert with lonely heart,
I’ve sailed the seas many a year.
I search the horizon,
especially in breaking dawn.
Skies painted tangerine,
meld into passionate reds.
Converge with glistening waters
awakened at first light as well.
She’s come to me only thrice.
Some say I imagine her. But I say to you,
I’ve cast my eyes upon that face
sweetly framed by seaweed tendrils.
I’ve marveled at her iridescence,
that silver-flecked aquamarine tail.
Once she rose up high as if to greet me,
as if to mimic the sun’s rising arc.
Her breasts, opalescent soft mounds
barely covered by white cap foam,
nature in its ultimate innocence.
I gazed until her eyes locked on mine.
That one glorious moment
etched sublime within my mind,
keeps me more at sea than ashore,
searching forevermore.
I seek that miraculous convergence
when divine dawn breaks early light
and she appears once more.
She, the sweetest balm in all the world,
for my aching lonely heart.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Tuesday Poetics and Laura is hosting. She asks us to think about the poet as a painter. And most especially, she asks us to consider the ekphrastic poem: “The practice of using words to comment on a piece of visual art is an ancient one. One of the earliest and most commonly cited forms of ekphrasis occurs in The Iliad, when Homer provides a long and discursive account of the elaborate scenes embossed on the shield of Achilles… the term ekphrasis derives from Greek, where it literally means “description” and was formed by combining the prefix ex- (“out”) with the verb “phrazein” (“to point out or explain”)”. (Merriam Webster)”
HOWEVER, for this prompt, she gives us a number of artwork titles from contemporary artists and asks us to use that title, as the title of our poem – without looking at the actual artwork itself. With our words, we are to paint the story of or the image of that title. One title she provides for the prompt is Convergence by Jackson Pollack.
Image by Sharon McCutcheon:”Unsplash”
Top of the hill. Treeless.
Wildflowers blanket the meadow
canopied by cloudless sky
bluebird blue.
She stands, shear linen skirt billowing
arms outstretched,
face tipped toward afternoon sun.
Long ago declared their place,
they still meet here every year.
This day. This anniversary of his death.
She feels again his touch,
so real within the mountain air.
Yellow buttercups glad to see her,
wave spritely in spring’s breeze.
Delicate petals succumb to wind,
part from stem and float toward her.
Adhere to tear streaked cheeks
just as his kisses did that final day.
Sandals tossed aside,
dew moistened grass licks her toes
and she smiles.
He is with her here.
Their love was real,
still is, and shall be
forevermore.
Bjorn from Sweden is hosting OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Tonight the pub is live – poets will gather via the miracle of technology, visit with one another and read their poetry aloud. It’s marvelous to connect names with faces and voices. Everyone reads in English and we usually have folks attend from Sweden, India, the UK, the US, Australia, and other places around the globe. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
This human being is . . .
stabilized.
Once frisky, galloping,
romping o’er fields afar.
Ran the mighty race too,
round the curve,
thrilled by the chase.
Set out to pasture in 2012 –
slowed down, but still free to roam.
2020 came and all hell broke loose.
Who knew I’d be corralled?
Merry-go-round bound.
Same path up and down,
days blurred, round and round,
going nowhere fast.
Even old nags need to be free.
Grease this damn pole!
Shoot me up and uncarousel me!
Little did I know
out to pasture or not,
the grass was always greener
wherever my hooves did trot.
For those of you not familiar with the title, it refers to the tv show Mr. Ed. It aired from 1961 to 1966. As inane as it sounds, Mr. Ed was a talking horse. I never could understand how the show ran for five years!
Kim is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to begin a poem with the line “This human being is…”
Have no idea why this concept popped into my head….other than the fact that for this past Covid year, we have mainly been corralled into our homes. Probably the most useless item we bought for the year 2020 was a Day Planner! And yes, I did rejuvenate (never say retire) in 2012. Photo from Pixabay.com So I guess you could say, Mr. Ed had nothing on me….considering my life as a horse!
James was an over-achieving gregarious intellect. Last to leave the office party, pleasantly tipsy, never offensively drunk. Top salesman for too many quarters to count. Then Covid hit and the world cocooned itself.
Confined to his efficiency apartment months on end, ambition disappeared into vodka bottles. He wore the same sweats day and night. Sat slumped in a second-hand folding chair, computer on his lap. When called by HR for his end- of-year report, he slurred “I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being and in due time I will send you a profitable report.” To which the HR Director replied, “What???”
He slammed the phone down; slammed the computer screen shut and stood up swaying. Eyes bloodshot, James reached for a sixteen-ounce tumbler and the vodka bottle. Just another day in this godforsaken Covid world.
Pure fiction…..but I fear isolation has affected far too many in negative ways.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril asks us to include the line “I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.” from the poem Possilibities by Wislawa Szymborska. In Prosery, we are given a line from a poem and must insert it within the body of our prose, word for word (although the punctuation my be altered), and the prose can be a maximum of 144 words, sans title. Most writers consider this a flash fiction prompt that includes a specific line of poetry. Photo from Pixabay.co
Sun strengthens,
pries loose snow mask from mountain caps.
Water trickles, begins to overflow,
swiftly runs downstream.
~
Gregarious tendencies
stifled too long.
Confined by lockdowns,
hidden by masks from view.
Vaccinations bloom,
propagate in spring.
Sun strengthens as do we,
spilling out to streets.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Sarah asks us to include the word “swift” or a form of the word (not a synonym) in our exactly 44 word poem, sans title. Photo from Pixabay.com
I fervently believe we are emerging from the season of Covid. Stay safe everyone and let’s insure this happens.
Temper tantrum entrance.
High winds blow boisterously
thermometer drops.
Temptress sun winks coyly
as crocus cower beneath cold soil.
Impatient we are for spring.
My friend, Louise.
Gregarious, always moving, always engaged.
She strode through life like she owned it
doing good for others, singing, laughing.
Pain from a pulled muscle slowed her a bit,
but she kept hiking, bicycling,
eagle watching along the Iowa River,
until she could ignore the pain no longer.
Cancer. A word. Not a sentence in her mind.
She fought. God how she fought.
Refused to be forced over the edge.
She took everything they had
and asked for more. Bring it on!
She told me, “I’m not afraid of dying.
I just don’t want to.”
Steps slowed. Belly bloated. Scalp exposed.
But she trekked on. Reached the fringe of living.
She never acknowledged it. Would not let it win.
“My head’s freezing but doesn’t this hat look divine?”
She grabbed every filament of hope
no matter how thin. She held on for dear life.
Until one night as the household slept,
a kind ethereal spirit appeared beside her bed.
It spoke gently, words riding on the breeze
that floated in from her open window.
“It’s not like a high mountain top towering over a rough sea.
It’s simply a turn in the road.
Hold my hand and I’ll walk you there.”
And quietly, in the middle of the night, she did.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today our prompt is to consider the edges and the fringes. We may if we wish, write a poem that contains the word “edge.” Photo is of my dear friend, Louise. She died in 2018 after a 2+ year battle with ovarian cancer.
lillian the home poet 