Embrace the darkness, my dear,
keep hold my hand.
Listen to the quiet.
Many have come before you,
many shall follow.
Breathe slowly, slower still,
until your body dissipates.
Darkness will become light
as we soar into the cosmos
feeling peace among the stars.
Written for dVerse, for both Monday’s quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) which required the word “keep” and today’s Poetics which asks us to write in someway about black/darkness. Photo from pixabay.com
Parents, she thought, learned to survive touching their children less and less.
From Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng
These were precious moments ~
holding you upon my shoulder
napping with you upon my chest
holding you to my breast
lifting you back up to walk again
reading together, you sitting on my lap
skipping lessons, hand in hand
sharing hugs on grade school days
combing hair and straightening shirt
and wiping tears as you tumbled.
Now you have growing children
and as their independence grows,
touching them is lessening too for you.
But between you and me
at this stage in our lives,
hello and goodbye hugs
seemingly last a bit longer.
Perhaps because we know
time passing, means less time left
and we treasure more
these moments of staying in touch.
I rise to a new day not yet dawned,
leaving you to your dreams.
Pad quietly in shadows,
light candle and just sit.
Memories flicker
before mind moves into now.
In the last filaments of darkness
I understand again.
You are the constant in my life,
you light my way.
Shadowed moon flickers
on windblown cornstalk stubble.
Red fox stalks its prey,
hunting through snow covered field.
Hunter in wool cap takes aim.
Frank hosts dVerse tonight, the virtual pub for poets. We are to consider the polytoton: rhetorical repetition of words within a poem, but each time used in a different way (cornstalk and stalks; hunting and hunter).
I’ve used the Tanka form: 5 line poem with 5, 7, 5, 7, and 7 syllables.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
The grove hides its secrets well,
cowering behind the decrepit shed.
That rotting wood that stands askew,
door long felled, splintered, near gone.
As if to escape, to ignore and deny
those happenings long long ago.
They argued under darkening sky.
Stars glimmered fearfully
as stealthy clouds crept in.
Temperaments turned tempestuous
till fury exploded in death,
and thunder roared its anger at their folly.
Found next day in storm soaked grove,
blood spewed over fallen fruit
mixed with rotted apples’ smell.
Their deaths desecrated this century farm,
marking 1957 as its demise
when lovers met, quarreled and died.
Grove turned fallow years thereafter,
apple trees neglected, tendered not.
That vile act didst poison roots,
stunt growth, until gnarly limbs
abandoned since that fateful night,
crouched low, berating fouled earth.
Each spring since, forgetting not,
winds gust disapproval.
Rend blossoms, so few to bloom.
Pockmarked fruit then drops to earth
as bees from nowhere find their way,
steal succor from this grove’s sad plight.
Autumn strips meager tattered cover.
Blighted fruit and curdling leaves
gladly shed by grieving trees.
With naked desire, they lust for snow.
That white soft silent blanket
to comfort limbs; cover blood stained earth.
Winter offers unconditional anonymity.
Memories of past sins cast upon this grove
retreat from souls of trees.
No fruit. No activity. No remembering.
Simply slumber, hibernation stupor.
Sweet serenity, adrift at last.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Laura asks us to consider rhetorical questions. She then provides six unique questions, asking us to choose one for the topic of our poem. I chose Why did the grove undress itself, only to wait for the snow? Image by cocoparisienne at pixabay.com
generations absent,
younger ones, elders now,
hold hands round the table.
Tofurky on Wedgewood platter,
agave sweetened yams.
Fresh green beans afloat
in organic mushroom soup.
Real-orange jelloed mold
quivers on bed of kale.
Voices sing familiar grace.
Misty eyes . . .
remembering.
De hosts Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We are to use the word “quiver” or a form of the word, in the body of a quadrille. Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I went light with this one – a bit of humor needed in these days of 24/7 news!
And still they hide
behind partisan masks,
minus apertures.
Occupant in driver’s seat
tantrum spittle spews.
White-knuckled, weaves erratically
beyond civility, decency, decorum.
Down-shifts –
crash-dummy hurtling forth.
Redefines killing fields
beyond ecology to necrology.
In cages, beside borders,
ours and those across the seas.
Still they hide behind partisan blinders,
apertures seamed resolutely shut.
Let slip the masks this hallow’s eve.
Rein in with blistered palms
what thou hast unleashed.
Your children’s children shall ask,
innocent heads tilted up to you,
eyes wide open in disbelief,
How could you?
I beg you,
transpose the occupant’s childlike words below
as theirs to you this night:
“History will look upon you favorably if you get this done the right and humane way. It will look upon you forever as the devil if good things don’t happen. Don’t be a tough guy. Don’t be a fool! I will call you later.”
Aye, your children’s children shall call to you,
standing upon your grave.
How could you not let slip your mask,
apertures torn asunder?
How could you not act then,
call foul that which ruled the land,
thinking of them and theirs to come.
Written for dVerse’s Open Link night where I’m hosting tonight. This virtual pub for poets hosts prompts on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Open Link night means folks can post any poem of their choosing — no prompt, no specific form or length. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Quotation from Donald Trump’s letter to the President of Turkey, dated October 9, 2019: authenticity confirmed by White House. Photo from Pixabay.com
Go forth to seek old friends.
Rise to the occasion as you step into your past.
Play at remembering faces until a
spark of recognition ignites, and memories
flow as smiles grow.
Crush each other in hugs, abandon inhibitions.
Defy years that added stiff knees, sagging skin and sometimes balding heads.
Love simply that you stand with one another, however changed by time.
Wander campus, so different but somehow still the same.
Shine in celebration of life, fifty years later still here . . .
and here again.
Victoria is host at today’s dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to consider the world of pop art: think Andy Warhol’s Campbells Tomato Soup Cans. Several suggestions for poems arise from her prompt, including using a product as the subject of a poem. This cereal box resides within our kitchen cupboard so I’ve used its words to begin each line of my poem. And oh yes…..the Class of 1969 at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois was indeed an original and unique one. Photos from this past weekend’s 50th college reunion below. What a wonderful time we had renewing old friendships and taking a walk down the proverbial memory lane!
I shall not go quietly.
Monocolors about to shift
enabled by passing time.
A last hurrah.
Flashing reds and golds
kicking up my heels,
swirling dervish as I let loose.
Revelry earned by business suits,
years of accountability
must-dos and many don’ts.
I shall dance the can-can.
precisely because I can
and am.
My name may not be Autumn,
but watch me go out
in a blaze of glory.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Bjorn asks us to write using metaphor. Photo cropped from one in Pixabay.com.
Oh dear sweet child
and parents too,
listen to what I say
and do as squirrels do.
Spring time they play,
summers they work.
Winter time’s rest
is always the best
because gathered nuts
gifted by trees,
are stored for later
so they won’t freeze.
The lesson to this bushy tale,
my sweet and darling little dear,
is live like the squirrel
and there’s nothing to fear.
Enjoy all the good times
but work hard too.
Talents used wisely
make blessings accrue.
Amaya is hosting Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We are to create a child’s nursery rhyme motivated by one of several Franz Kafka (modernist German writer) quotations provided in the challenge, remembering that children like rhythm and rhyme.
The Kafka quotation that motivates this Bushy Tale is “God gives the nuts, but he does not crack them.” Photo at Pixabay.com
lillian the home poet 