Septuagenarian farmer sows seed. His eyes shine brightly imagining possibilities. One last bumper crop then winter’s rest.
Pinning percale sheets on line, she turns to stare across the fields, proud of him, their land, their children. Inside clapboard farmhouse baking bread wafts yeasty scent.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. De is hosting and asks us to literally ponder possibilities. Key word to use in our exactly 44 word poem (sans title) is “possible” or a form of the word. Photo from pixabay.com
Hearts take the hand. Trump failed. Dummy hand hapless in play.
Donned in camouflage revealed as the ill-literate. Sees no value in a paradigm shift. Pair a dimes? Chump change. No interest in cents at all. Narcissistic I-land, far off shore.
You are no sire, no knight with Excalibur. Rather bellicose bellyacher night or day, wielding tweets perched upon a thin wire, manufacturing a storm.
Hailing, thundering, “MY RAIN” even as it is about to end. Drowning in the fetid swamp created by your squalls. Your reign shall cease and the sun will shine again.
Linda is hosting OLN at dVerse, where we can post any poem of our choosing: no prompt. I decided to engage in a bit of word play and ended up with a political piece – perhaps a poem of witness again? Photo from pixabay.com
No name and no identity. I was caged, abandoned. Lived in a shelter, not really a home.
Rise up . . . let ’em know my worth. Look ‘em in the eye and stand up tall.
Rise up . . . from obscurity. Major news story, I’m staking my claim.
Rise up . . . just walk on in. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. DOUS. That’s actually me.
You try it now. Let ’em see your worth. Look ‘em in the eye and stand up tall.
It’s a new day a comin’. tell the whole world. I got this now, so you can too.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Peter from Australia is hosting. He is looking at Poetry of Witness and asks us to go to our local newspaper and find a publicly reported event to write about. IE giving witness to an occurrence. That’s President-Elect Biden above, with his dog Major who he adopted in 2018 from the Delaware Humane Association. He was a shelter dog, abandoned to the shelter by someone for whatever reason. Unwanted. And now Major will be the DUSA (Dog of the United States), moving in to the White House on January 20th!
And the allegorical tail? Major teaches us that any person can stand up tall, look ’em in the eye and ultimately become POUS!
I drove for hours, listening to oldies on the radio. Six lane highways shrunk to two. My speed decreased for maybe three minutes at a time, as highway turned into Main Street in rural towns.
I found the cemetery first. Scuffed through fallen leaves until I found their headstones. My eyes blurred reading the dates. All just one year apart.
Back in the car, two miles down the road, left at the fork. I found the house. Shingles half gone; flaking paint and boarded up windows. Mama’s rusted clothesline poles still there. The stones we lugged and stacked to separate mama’s garden from our play yard were half-gone. I peered over what was left, imagining Gina swinging and laughing. But there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles.
You can never go back. They warned me. But I didn’t listen.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Merril is hosting Prosery Monday.
Prosery? We’re given a line from a poem, and we must use it exactly as it is worded (punctuation may be changed) within a piece of fiction that is exactly 144 words in length. It is similar to flash fiction except it must include a specific given poetic line. The line we must use is “There is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles.” It is from Liesel Mueller’s poem Drawings by Children. Photo from Pixabay.com
Christmas is red, with or without snow. I am tone deaf but rosy carols come naturally. Heart blooms musically as cheeks blush rouged. Passed in ’98, mother’s memory crimson bright, tinsel lover carefully silvered red bauble balls. Red skirt paled beneath gauzy apron always smudged snowy confectioner sugar streaks and gravy tracks. Life’s red blood stopped as father’s bubble lights died. Mulled wine evokes spiced rubicund scent. Red hot ire most of the time creamsicles to softer pink. Passion flames blend to ever-companion, berry bright books and lover in my bed. Down comforter snuggled save cold red nose, which brings me back to Rudolph. Christmas is red.
Today Grace hosts dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She is teaching us about synesthesia, a “neurological phenomenon in which stimulation of one sense leads to automatic, involuntary experiences of a second one.” Today, we are focusing on Grapheme Color Synesthesia, the most widely studied and common type of synesthesia.
For today’s prompt, we are to write about color from the perspective of a synesthete. Pick one color or several colors and create our own dictionary of color. What I chose to do was write in a stream-of-consciousness format, reacting to the color red.Photo is Christmas tree of my childhood. My mother loved tinsel.
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.
lillian the home poet 