Innocent child stands
kite in hand.
Optimism lives.
A lune written for NaPoWriMo Day 1. April is National Poetry Writing Month. A lune is a three line poem with either a 5-3-5 syllabic count or a 5-3-5 word count. Photo is this past Good Friday, a national holiday in Bermuda, celebrated with kite flying. It was a joy to see!
Razor edged wire, threatens no more
pock marked walls show soul’s erosion
wind, humidity and whipping post,
rotters in this Devils’ Isle.
Faceless among spirits’ wails,
I roam this prison centuries freed.
Death’s release forced my choice
and I am staid midst crumbling stone.
My crimes were but a patriot’s wish
allegiance not to putrefied wigs,
but to the poor and scrabbling ones
who sought but food and voice.
I swear to you, the sun cared more
within these exiled walls,
than in London’s teeming lanes
and me upon bended knee.
I watch you, with eyes no more
buildings turned to crypt
by guards decrepited, paneless,
upright never then, and failing now.
I see those who cannot see me
workers, reclaimers and visitors alike,
bodies who will never understand
restoration shall never be.
Motivated by dVerse Poet’s Pub: Victoria tending the bar asked us to think about Me, Myself, and I…..or Is It? and write a poem in the first person. This piece is inspired by both the ruins and the history of Bermuda. Photo is at the Royal Naval Dockyard — the Casemates, built in 1839 by British convicts. These buildings were first used to house militia and later became a prison. Some restoration work has occurred — the climate here takes its toll on the old and the new.
Asail for Jamestown, weather struck an evil chord.
Young ones lashed to timbers, screamed in terror.
Women, hands clasped, lay flat rolling with the pitch
prayers heard by gales of wind, sent from hell.
What reef was that below? That jarring impact?
Yesterday’s aquamarine, myriad shades of blue
now boiling black sea wall, impossible to climb
sails reduced to shreds, precious cargo lost.
Legs like spindles flailed in white caps
wide-eyed heads and struggling arms schooled
instinctively to shore, collapsed on sand
knowing not this somewhere land.
Awake at dawn, miraculously all ashore
but up and down the sands, bits of her, everywhere.
She is beyond sail. But we are not.
We are a hearty group, this the royals knew.
There are no Others here. No conversions
or wars divert our attention. We live
amongst fowl and fish of many shapes
and harvest abundant cedar trees.
Birds, unused to four limbed walker-talls,
never learned to fear. And so we pet and grab
and spit, until their raucous calls, cahow cahow,
forshadow their impending doom.
We are users now, building for tomorrow.
Tall cedar limbs bend and crack as they grow less
our hopes grow more. The sails shall rise
and we shall once again, ride atop these seas.
1610 ~
The time has finally come. Farewell this land
your gifts to us immeasurable.
And I wonder as I write, who next
shall see this beautiful isle
beneath the skies that never end.
Photos from Bermuda — the myriad shades of blue! Written for dVerse..Kelly tending bar at dVerse asked us to write a narrative poem, somehow including a bird — in commemoration of Harper Lee’s recent death, author of To Kill A Mockingbird. This is (with some liberty) the story of Bermuda’s discovery — totally by accident. The island was uninhabited when discovered. Sadly, the cedar timbers once so plentiful, are all but gone. And the Cahow, once thought extinct, is now making a comeback with help from naturalists here.
Much has been written about the dawn of a new day. For me, it has always been the moments before that, which stir my soul. When dark shadow clouds and navy blue-black sky meld into india-ink black sea. It is all a scrim, a gauzed blanket that lies above and beyond with no horizon line.
The shoreline blurs, smudges, like a charcoal master piece. There are no browns, only shades of ebony and beginning blue. It is a delicious hush. Before the sun begins its slow ascent from underneath somewhere, slowly tinting edges into floating worlds of pink and violet, revealing solid lines and building shapes. Before that color of pales, there is only the unseen, blurring barely to the discernable. In that moment of suspended darkness, there is the presence of hope.
Clouds before the dawn
shadows undulate with hope
darkness woos my dreams
Written for Dverse Poets’ Pub Haibun Monday — this week Grace asked us to springboard from one of three given quotations. I used the following: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” – Mary Oliver A Haibun is prose, followed by haiku and usually underscores nature and some higher truth.
The tall waving grasses are always green
in this blessed and hallowed place.
Tombstones crumble, long passed souls embrace
‘neath palmetto fronds, while angels pray unseen.
And one lone cherub, an alabaster figurine
guards still the lad beneath her, quiet in grace.
The tall waving grasses are always green
in this blessed and hallowed place.
The sea nearby crashes waves of aquamarine,
spews salted grits of sand through air to stone efface.
Sacred words, names and years, all but erased
yet bones and dust beneath, feed this earth serene
the tall waving grasses are always green.
Gayle, in dVerse, asked us to create a Rondel: 3 verses (2 quatrains and a quintet). It must have a refrain: Lines 1 & 2 are repeated in lines 7 & 8; and line 1 must also be line 13. The rhyme scheme must be ABBA ABthen-line-1-and-line-2 ABBAthen-line-1. The challenge is to have the form “disappear” within the meaning of the poem. Photos: from our walk yesterday which included meandering through St. Peter’s cemetery, established in 1854, located atop a hill in St. George’s Bermuda.
Mid night rains nurture
palmetto and loquat trees,
pinball through ridges
on Bermudian white roofs,
then steep in afternoon tea.
Tanka verse form: 5 lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables. Photos and explanation: Fruit of the loquat tree in Bermuda – ripe when very yellow. Bermuda has no rivers or lakes or island-wide plumbed water supply. Each household must collect and store rainwater. Roofs are treated and always white with ridges that take rain water to each home’s underground water tank. A household that runs out of fresh water must pay to have a company “top off” their tank. And yes, the water is absolutely safe to drink – I do it every day! Photo is taken from hill overlooking St. George’s – the town we are staying in for 2 months. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, founded in 1612, and a British overseas territory, hence the reference to steeping tea. The Kiskadee is a beautiful yellow bird found in Bermuda.
I
Swallowed by the sea
broken in anger, sharp words
shards of glass now smooth.
II
Shades of green, amber,
some clear. Smooth, mysterious
bits of tumbled glass.
Whose hands held you to their lips?
Touched where? A long time ago.
III
So reluctantly
she gave them up to the sands
sea memories in glass.
Photos from our walk yesterday to the area outside of St. George’s, Bermuda called Tobacco Bay. Beautiful day to collect sea glass! Post linked to dVerse Poet’s Pub for Open Link Night. A great virtual gathering place for poets.
lillian the home poet 