There is vulnerability
in unconditional love.
Sensual giving,
baring our souls.
We commune
in tonight’s passion
and tomorrow’s mundane.
We are,
as love is.
Anmol (HA) is guest hosting at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to explore desire and sexuality in poetry – and to write about desire and identity. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time…come join us!
Insomnia,
thou art my bedfellow.
You joust to slay my sleep,
pummel me with dire near-dozing dreams.
I succumb,
not to rest, but to rise instead.
Darkness turns light,
switch slapped by frustrated hand.
Insomnia,
thou art the victor
and I,
your bleary-eyed spoils.
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt word is “spoil” – or any form of the word. Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time – come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
Wish Granter,
goddess of ages.
Utopia, her realm.
. . . if I could travel in time
. . . bring him back
make me young again . . .
. . . let her be well
Wish upon wish upon wish
year upon year upon year,
until she finally understood.
Hour glass, her tool of destiny.
Sand granules within,
moments in time.
What was, what is,
what may be.
Today, a crack in time.
Crystal orb wrought asunder,
sand grains burst forth.
Wish halos given light,
scattered among the stars.
All wishes granted.
From days gone by,
today’s dreams
and yours tomorrow.
Present eternally.
Wish Granter,
goddess of ages,
finally at rest.
Need erased for all time.
Alpha and omega.
finis
Amaya hosts Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today she asks us to consider the idea of utopia. Image from pixabay.com
Words matter,
sly winks silence not.
Words hurled into sea of humanity
ripple inhumanity.
Build waves tumultuously
till tsunami destroys.
Words matter,
crowds riled to group-think.
Vitriolic spittled slogans,
us-them denigration.
Barbed words
create the wire.
This era,
tomorrow’s ancient script.
Our ever-living shame.
De hosts Monday’s Quadrille at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today’s prompt word is “wink.” A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Melancholy autumn rain.
Nature weeps as color takes its leave,
once golden amber, streaked through brown.
Droplets cling momentarily,
cleave to hawthorne crimson berries.
Lover’s farewell kiss.
Photo taken outside our Boston high-rise yesterday. Coincidentally, our building is called Hawthorne Place and yes, this is a hawthorne tree after the morning’s rain.
Acrobat by trade
she tumbled her way
through the three-ringed circus
everyone else called life.
Dancer by trade,
she entered and exited on cue
shuffled feelings and muffled flaps,
anger building as he controlled every move.
Until she left.
Shuffled off to Buffalo,
her patience finally tapped out.
Inside, she looks out.
Seasons change
confined within her pane.
Stripped by cruel winds,
branches clatter
nodes exposed.
Charles River, ribbon slight,
below low slung sky,
scene through barren trees.
Relieved, she slowly smiles,
espies her Charles again.
Silent vow worms her mind.
Before spring reblooms in pane
I shall join you, sweet Charles,
an afterworld away.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, on Open Link Night.
Photo from Pixabay.com
Once upon a glimmer,
hope lived.
Moonbeam wisps
and dandelion puffs.
Dew drops on lily pads
and snowflake glisten
on frosted pane.
We watched.
We loved.
We waited.
Hope glimmered
in our evening prayers.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt is to begin a poem with Once upon a ????? Writers may add any word except “time.” So I’ve chosen Once upon a glimmer. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
She’d been left behind by her son and husband many years before. Left to grow old without them. Legally blind. Too much effort to live. Too many pills to remember each morning. Each night.
Now, this cold autumn afternoon, lying in a hospital bed, she simply said Lillian, I’m tired. And I knew. I bent down, leaned close to her ear and whispered. I told her it was all right. Find the light, mom. They’re waiting for you. And she suddenly sat up and smiled. Eyes bright. A broad big smile. And then she flopped back and lay still. The kind male nurse who’d been at her side looked across the bedside at me. He simply nodded. And I nodded back.
golden amber leaves
blow off trees, hit closed windows
nature’s death displayed
Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Merril is our guest pub tender and asks us to write about a transition. A haibun is two or three short succinct paragraphs of prose (must be true) followed by a haiku that, in the traditional sense, contains a kigo (reference to a season).
