There comes a point in time
when life doesn’t migrate,
it meanders.
Meanwhile . . .
morning alarms come alive
coffee is gulped, black and strong.
Commuter rails and trails
fill with busy bees,
drones and queens with tasks ahead.
Life moves on a conveyor belt,
bar codes intact . . .
while I roll over,
wiggle my toes
and let the day unfold.
Shared at dVerse, Open Link Night, a virtual pub for poets. Folks share a poem of their choice on OLN. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Photo: dawn in Provincetown, Cape Cod.
I ran outside that night,
so full of life and excitement.
Imagined your surprise and thought I would see
a grimace,
a crease,
a worried frown.
Someone finally broke through.
Landed. Slammed into you
and stepped into your heart.
Your cold, aloof self,
finally
breached.
And yet I saw nothing new.
Your face unchanged,
seeing me only
as one of many who adore you,
who live and stare each night
beneath your remote reserve.
Thirty-plus years have passed.
I arise more slowly to morning sun,
less sure of my footing,
skin aged and sallow.
I still await the end of day
to feel your face upon my soul.
I peer through clouds within my eyes
and those that skirt your skies.
For I have loved you all these years
even as you appear
and disappear
and appear again.
You my love, care not.
You seem to ignore what I crave.
All I seek these many nights
is some recognition,
some sign,
that we have been with you.
Full moon over Provincetown. Cape Cod, MA.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where Grace asks us to write about the moon as if the moon is a person – flesh, sweat and blood. “Describe him or her, and tell us about your moon.”
On July 20, 1969, I was 22, a graduate student at Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois. I’d heard about “the man in the moon” since I was a young child. You can “see” his face in the full moon, made by shadows and craters visible to the naked eye. On that July night at 9:56 PM, I watched my tiny portable television screen as Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon. I remember staring in awe and then immediately running outside, standing on the sidewalk and looking up at the moon, as if I could see some sign up there! And I remember thinking: tonight there really is a “man in the moon.” Dverse opens at 3PM EST. Come join us!
youth invincible
quick stepping through raucous times
kaleidoscope shifts
colored prisms less defined
pace slowed coming round the bend
A second Tanka shared with dVerse — although I’ve broken the rules a bit and added a title for this one. Tanka: 5 lines with syllabic count of 5-7-5-7-7. Third line contains a cutting shift; no punctuation; no capitalization.
They sit quietly side by side,
purple veined hands, silver grey hair.
Heads touch and nod in sleep,
house silent in fading sun.
Slight puffs escape their lips,
the sound of dozing love.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Walt’s prompt asks us to write about the sounds of love. Stop by to see the prompt and read other posts on this subject!
They were left behind
like empty carts in a now empty parking lot.
Once touched, then guided by sure hands
doing for others, sometimes in steady sun,
or picking up the pace in life affirming rain.
They weathered storms until they could not.
And now they sit, in that mawkish pool of wet,
that sickening smell of decay.
They sit in a place where no one comes,
drowning in their memories.
Photo by Janet Webb. Written for the incomparable Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers where we’re asked today, to respond to Ms. Wolf’s photo in 100 words or less. Word Count: 71. Rochelle: please excuse the free verse rather than fiction today!
She rocked the hours and days away
parched and drawn,
waiting for a visitor’s smile
to soothe her lonesome soul.
Tending the bar at dVerse today, Walter asks us to write a poem that somehow deals with the idea of drought. For many of our elderly, this is a condition of life, not the out-of-doors.
It was a day like any other day – until it wasn’t.
Rocking the elliptical to A Hard Day’s Night, I suddenly stopped. Did some invisible vice just clamp on to my chest? The Beatles still blared in my headset, I started to pump again . . . nope . . . can’t breathe. Off the machine . . . slowly out the club door into the sweltering day. I watched my feet in slow motion as the sun magnified everything. Sweat dripped through my pores. The elephant sitting on my chest was an unbelievable load. Takotsubo? The heart blows out in the shape of a Japanese octopus trap. Really? And everything slowed down to match the thick soup of summer’s oppressive heat. If you’re a woman who lives with stress, or has lived through stress, you should know the word: Takotsubo. I didn’t. Until I did.
octopus seeks its prey
eight suctioned tentacles grab and twist
latch on to suck out life
It’s haibun Monday at dVerse Poet’s Pub where Toni is tending bar. She asks us to write a haibun (one paragraph of prose followed by a haiku) that relates to hot hot hot — perhaps a memory from a hot summer day. This is my memory. My experience. I urge all readers to read about Takotsubo, sometimes called Broken Heart Syndrome. It is real and frightening. In most cases, women completely recover with no lasting damage to the heart. I am, fortunately, one of those women, although it took three months. We must all learn to handle stress in our lives. It is a matter of life and death. Photo on left is a Japanese octopus catcher. Xray on right shows the left portion of the heart blown out like a takotsubo….the heart does not pump efficiently. Take care of yourself out there!
