Some future Thanksgiving . . .

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.

IMG_1493

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!

Got the Zing!

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.

art-214278_1280

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Bjorn asks us to write using metaphor. Photo cropped from one in Pixabay.com. 

Fall’s Egress

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.

IMG_0896

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.