Voices gain volume
numbers explode,
paradigm shift dawns.
Breeze gathers force
waters churn,
tsunami rolls in.
Murder abhorrent
eclipses pandemic,
births needed polemic.
Privilege unmasked
blinders torn asunder,
we will change.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Frank asks us to write a 3 line poem….or a poem with 3-line stanzas. Photo from Pixabay.com
dark clouds gather,
humidity thickens.
Thunder mumbles, then roars
lightning rips through skies.
Slip inside for thine own relief
breathe in thine own security.
Or gather outside ‘neath city lights
take hands in solidarity.
Pray together for soothing rains
to ease this land’s parched soul.
Then work together that all may live
without the threat of storms.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, combining yesterday’s prompt word “slip” and today’s prompt to write a poem that related to rain.
THE DREAM CATCHER
Her dreams flew by
on gossamer wings,
too high to reach some days,
even on tiptoes.
THE ELDERLY MRS HOLIDAY
Waste not want not.
She’d heard that all her life
lived by it too –
Christmas wreath upon her head
ready for the Easter parade.
THE SENATOR
With perfect pitch,
opera singer by avocation
and meteorologist by training,
he became a successful politician.
Elected term after term,
he simply changed his tune
depending on how the winds blew.
THE LIBRARIAN
She collected books.
Being of short stature
she carried a stack wherever she went,
booster seats not always available.
Sweet pink petals,
primrose nestled ‘midst greenery.
Worry not,
I shall not assail you.
I shall take you with me,
memorized, not plucked or bouqueted.
Summer breeze ruffles your fragility.
Nearby lilac’s scent floats round you
and your color seems to deepen.
Like a young woman’s blush
at her first lover’s caress.
Sweet pink petals,
what is it in you
that stirs me so?
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Photo taken today in the gardens that surround our building. These may not be roses, but they motivated this poem.
What’s happened? How can I be a Russian Nesting Doll? Shrinking. Shrinking.
Travelers were we. Recently returned from China, South Korea and Japan.
Walked the Great Wall. Reveled in Mt Fuji and cherry blossoms.
Sailed the seas. Viewed sunsets and sunrises across waves.
Escaped Boston’s winter in San Diego sun. Two months
walking Balboa Park, La Jolla coast. Seafood galore.
Joyfully we planned for our 50th anniversary
to meet our children and their children.
Long weekend in Washington DC.
Laughter, love, and more love.
Then Covid-19 raced across
our land. And yours too.
Told to stay at home
we are minimized.
I exist on a much
smaller plane.
Just me here
in these few
rooms. But
at least
I am
with
you.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Laura asks us to “conjure a room or rooms in the literal, functional, metaphorical, imaginary, or fantastical sense.” I am struck by how the Covid-19 has shrunk our world and decreased our living space….our “living rooms” so to speak. And thus this post. Image from Pixabay.com
It seems to me, there is a map to our lives. Imagine that we can draw it on a grid. Each cell is a day. Cells filled in with bright colors are to-dos and pay-attention-tos. Some neon need-tos are so intense they cause a glare. Blank cells appear in chunks. Free days. Times to play, cogitate, and just be.
My early years were chock full of free days. But ultimately, they almost disappeared. The grid became so colorful, it was blinding. Full of responsibilities, accountability. Children to raise. Professional ladder to climb. Even in those few empty cells, vacation days, I found myself calling in to the office; answering emails. The job tinted even the blank chunks on my grid.
Now in rejuvenatement, never say retirement, filling in the grid is largely my choice. And as I look at it, I suddenly begin to understand, the map of my life is not all my own doing. The socioeconomic term “privilege” comes to mind. Circumstances of birth, ethnicity, geographical location – all have affected my life and enabled me to come to this point where the grid is much easier on the eyes. And in these days of Covid-19, I understand even more, how blessed I have been.
for the lucky ones
summer yields bountiful crops –
others slowly starve
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Kim asks us to respond, in some way, to the image above, “Broadway Boogie Woogie”, created by Piet Mondrian, displayed at New York’s Museum of Modern Art.
Haibun: 2 or 3 paragraphs of prose followed by a haiku that includes reference to a season.
The Office Achiever
He fancied himself a jockey
riding the backs of many
on his way to the top spot.
The Malcontent
He fancied himself a botanist
dropping seeds of discontent
in every conversation he joined.
Two-Faced
Adept in two careers . . .
meteorologist and politician.
A pinch of fog blurs reality
wearing either suit.
The Planner
Architect by trade
he drew blueprints for his life.
Meticulous plans.
Until she walked in one sultry night,
right angles upset by curves.
Alien-532 was born into the black sky. He witnessed creation of earth sun, man and his mate. His was a world of no light, no death. A crowded dark portion of the cosmos ruled by Alien-1, who did not acknowledge the sun. From birth, Alien-532 was different from his kind. He did not possess endurance, their one supposed trait. He dreamed of light and human touch. And so he fled toward earth and sun. But it was not to be.
Alien-1 caught him and declared his punishment. You shall forever have human form, but no living matter. You shall exist only under your beloved sun. You shall walk behind or in front of every human ever to be born, but never love.
To this day, his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream, even as day exists. Alien-532 is forever darkness, even in the sun.
Written for dVerse where it’s Prosery Monday.
Prosery defined: a work of prose that is 144 words or less, and includes a given line of poetry, exactly as it is written.
Bjorn is hosting and asks us to include the line “his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream” from Maya Angelou’s poem Caged Bird. Photo from Pixabay.com
He fancied himself a loner.
Enjoyed solitude.
Cabin deep in woods.
Gardener. Hunter.
Private well and still too.
Voracious reader, simple cook.
No need for wife.
Too troublesome,
would probably snore too.
Social distancing?
Should be a snap,
except for that damned guy.
Stood in his way or followed behind
whenever the sun warmed up the day.
Written fordVerse, the virtual pub for poets where on Tuesday, Bjorn asked us to write a poem that somehow relates to solitude, and Thursday Frank asks us to write a 14 line poem.
Handstand acrobat.
Mainly small time gigs,
circus tents in rural areas.
Environmentalist at heart.
Some thought her silly
giving up two weeks of pay,
assisting farmers in their fields.
Strange sight though,
legs in the air.
Pollen dusted knees
moving through acres,
attracting bees.
Quadrille (exactly 44 words, sans title) written for dVerse where today the prompt word is “silly” – or any form of the word. Photo from Pixabay.com
lillian the home poet 