He stands, shoulders stooped,
face wizened over years,
holding his ancient pocket watch.
Engraved words,
palmed almost to nothingness.
His great-grandfather’s name, birth date,
barely a whisper on gold.
Who to gift with this heirloom?
Unmarried, no heirs.
His to carry to the grave.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to include the word “pocket” within our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title. Image created in Bing.
Time is constant. Determined mathematically,
a fundamental dimension.
Time zones and watches set. Seconds tick by.
But can time be relative? Can it have voids?
Does time stop, race ahead, appear, disappear?
Can it be measured differently?
Through distance, visual changes, mental acuity,
ambulatory ability, skin texture, hair color.
Can it be lost in sepia toned photo collections
missing documentation of a generation?
Obituaries, birth announcements
perennial blooms, seasonal shifts.
Age appropriate gifts packed away,
idioms of the day, skirt lengths
and medical advancements –
all measurements of time.
Time gifted me memories.
Stripped me of loved ones and muscle tone.
Encouraged gratitude and forgot rebuffs.
My mind often dreams at night. I am the ingenue
leaping freely across the divide of time.
At sunrise I awaken, stand up, bend down,
groan a bit, shove dry cracking feet
into well worn slippers. Shuffle to the coffee pot.
Time keeps ticking and I’m still in the parade.
Who knows what’s round the next bend?
Time ticks one tock at a time, or does it?
All we can do is lean in.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today Mish asks us to consider the literary devise of juxtaposition. She writes
“the contrast between subjects, settings, ideas or moods not only highlights their differences but can also uncover unexpected similarities or connections.” One example she provides is from Dickens in Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom. It was the age of foolishness.”
In addition, Mish provides us with a series of images. We are to choose two (I’ve chosen three) that we “feel could create a contrast” and then “use them as a foundation to build your poem.”
I must add here, lest you wonder. This is not all me in this poem. I’m still kicking up my heels, traveling, enjoying family and life with the love of my life.
Some days I feel as though I’m listing,
weighed down by too much news.
Hantavirus, gas prices,
John Roberts resurrecting Jim Crow,
taxpayer money gilding an extravagant,
exaggerated, excessive, exorbitant,
extraneous, bawdy ballroom
for Mr. You Know Who.
Perhaps a blooming list might brighten my day.
My favorite blooms then, in no particular order:
hyacinth, cherry blossoms, tulips, daffodils,
crocus, lilacs and *panties of the week.
Listing toward eighty now,
purple veined hands, crepey knees,
fading eyebrows, expanding girth.
All changes I can live with.
I can still dance the waltz,
twist lasciviously, bunny hop ridiculously
and show off my *bloomers
doing high Rockette kicks.
So the point is, listing at my age
is more than a poetic feat.
It should tell you I am alive and well,
not planning any time soon
to take a docile back seat!
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Bjorn from Sweden is hosting.
WORDS OF EXPLANATION:
1. The astericks on panties and bloomers. Back in the day, panties were called bloomers!
2. Panties of the Week were a very popular fad in the 1950s. You bought a 7-pack of girls underpants and each one had a day of the week embroidered on them!
3. The Prompt: Bjorn asks us to write a “list poem”. He says, “The use of lists in poetry can be very powerful. You can start with a list and expand around it. Maybe even your shopping list can be made into poetry by reflecting on what the list tells you about the season. The whole poem may be a list, but you may also use a section only as a list.”
So basically we’re to write a poem that involves listing. I had fun with this one!
Image is AI created on Bing Create.
How do people learn to parent?
Do we learn it as we go?
Is it a task with diminishing returns?
We erect loving fences round our infants.
Envelop them in our arms,
nurture them at the breast,
cocoon them in swaddled sleep.
At varying degrees we watch, hover,
interfere or cheer, as they crawl, toddle,
run, stumble, fall and get back up again.
Fences open as we send them to school.
Teachers flick reins with encouragement
to lope, gallop, join the race, keep up the pace.
Soon fences disappear completely.
Children gone more than they’re at home.
Is parenting a conundrum?
Love and attachment grow stronger every day
even as we encourage independence,
even as their days with us are numbered.
Suddenly they’re adults raising their own
as we look on from another place.
We hope the path they walked with us
was well tread, remembered fondly.
We relish our memories
as we wait for their muscle memory
and that thing called familial love
to occasionally nudge them
back into our sphere again.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Punam reminds us that in India, May is a month where there will be art exhibits across many cities. She provides us with several artworks that can motivate an ekphrastic poem, or we can be inspired by one of the following names of some of these art shows:
1. Nothing Twice
2. Chance Remains of Another Time
3. Open Fences
Photo is us with our granddaughter who is now 18! How time flies!
Goodness blooms this time of year.
Pushy crocus show off first
then tulips admire daffodil ruffles,
hyacinths invoke delicious inhales.
Trees begin to dress for the occasion.
Don magnolia flowers, cherry blossoms,
crab apple trees defy their name.
We shed coats, walk more sure-footed
on warming sidewalks and greening lawns.
Infants’ arms wave more freely,
cumbersome snowsuit padding gone.
Robins appear, geese begin to nest.
Mountains’ winter toppings melt,
cascade in waterfalls to brooks below.
Streams rush over rocks,
gurgling their spring symphony.
And I, I smile as I step outdoors
reveling in another year of life.
Dandelion me.
Youthful glee in splashy yellow dresses.
All sunshine and skipping through fields!
But old age they say can be grizzly.
Those cubs, born hairless and toothless.
Grizzly cubs but not grizzly at first.
No pacifiers. Mother’s nuzzling enough.
Then playful to rambling to belly fat acquired
and hibernation needed. I always liked naps.
Or acorn me. Digging into soil, finding my own way.
Gangly seedling teenage years with
autumnal outbreaks. Cacophony of colorful
fashion fad flairs. To sentinel oak standing
with quiet grace. Am I there yet?
I still feel dandy and fierce. Dandy lioness am I.
Elderly dandelions’ delicate translucent skin
fades slowly until a passing by small child delights
in one puff from chubby cheeks. Giggles as seeds
soar on spring’s born-again breezes.
Dandelionalicious me with walks, hand in hand.
Stops along the way to collect bouquets of flowers
and skip rocks across the pond. With many smiles.
All the while acknowledging life’s delights.
NAPOWRIMO Day 25. Prompt: Write your own poem in which you use at least three metaphors for a single thing, include an exclamation, ruminate on the definition of a word, and come back in the closing line(s) to the image or idea with which you opened the poem.
DEDICATED to my dear friend, Lindsey. Wishing her well.
Metaphors used: comparing my life (anyone’s life) to a dandelion, a grizzly bear, and an acorn growing into an oak tree. Within the grizzly bear section, I ruminate on the meaning of old age. Had fun with this one once I decided how to approach it!
Photo taken many many years ago. And yes, it’s a dandelion in its old age!
I roam this curving shaded path.
Hopscotch through my youth in rompers
skinny legs, scraped knees, curly hair.
Naively sweet and unaware.
In my myopic teenage years
I roam this curving shaded path.
Blinders on, friends all important.
Time flies, motion undetected.
Parenting years, our sweet children.
Together we laugh and love as
I roam this curving shaded path
encouraging strong roots and wings.
Now approaching eighty years young
with less trail ahead, we rest more.
Your love, holding the light high as
I roam this curving shaded path.
Written for Meet the Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura asks us to write a Quatern. That is a poem of 16 lines, divided into 4 quatrains (4 stanzas, each with 4 lines). Each line must have 8 syllables. There must be a repeated refrain that is the first line of stanza 1, the second line of stanza 2, the third line of stanza 3, and the 4th line of stanza 4.
Photo from a vacation some years back.
In the waning days of autumn
nature sheds its hilarity.
Crimson red, halloween orange,
and golden yellow leaves shrivel,
lose their vim and fall.
Farmers’ fields, stripped of crops
seem eeirly clold and barren.
I seek warmth, light and respite.
Candles lit, afghan wrapped,
mulled wine and book at hand,
I hibernate.
I am, afterall, a creature of nature.
Slowed by age
and sensitive to seasonal biorhythms.
Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
parched petals litter tabletop
tears cling to eyelashes
skeletal tree limbs crack
as blizzard careens from sky
sunrise announces joyful day
as cherry blossoms bloom
yes bedazzled by love
bouquet gifted, she smiles
seasons and emotions change
age wizens beauty
Your love,
her always
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting our Quadrille Monday and asking folks to write a poem of EXACTLY 44 words, sans title, and include the word “petals” (or a form of the word) in the body of the poem. A synonym will not suffice.
Image by Andreas Lischka from Pixabay
Time moves incessantly
ambles as we stroll
rolls as we revel
cascades in times of joy
turning, flowing, always forward.
Time separates, even while moving forward.
Distance added to time.
Friends diverge to their own paths
amble, roll, cascade.
But true friendship transcends time.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Lisa is tending the pub today, as we return from our two-week summer hiatus to celebrate dVerse’s 14th anniversary! She asks us to include the word “turn” in our quadrille: a poem of exactly 144 words, sans title.
My poem today is dedicated to dear college friends, Brian and Cher. I’ve included a few photos from our friendship over the years….the last one is just this past Friday night. Brian and Cher spent 5 wonderful days with us….reminiscing, laughing, sight-seeing, and playing cards at the same card table we sat at with them 55 years ago! Can you guess which photo is from our college days? And which one is from 1974, when our daughter Abbey was born?
