A Sign of the Times

Day after day, he stacked the mail
catalogues, ads, all on the steps
in rain and sleet, and snow and hail.

So I sat by the window, waiting one day
caught him as he was walking away,
and queried him nicely. Why?

Why don’t you use the LETTERS slot
that’s right on the door, quite plain to see.
He stared and looked blankly at me.

“Well ma’am, I see the sign on your door
capital block letters, all in blue,
and that little slot thing too.

But I have no idea what LETTERS means
and the slot’s too narrow to ever fit
all this important stuff you get.”

Ping.

“Excuse me ma’am,”
the young man said with a grin,
“That’s an important text coming in.”

 

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Mish is hosting Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to write a poem about signs. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and join in the fun! Photo in public domain.

Rat Race on a Horse

They live a merry-go-round life
maniacal calliope music
spinning circles, senses blurred
chasing what could lie ahead.

Blue horse, her mount
golden mane rich in gilt
cold cylindrical pole
clutched in lust.

Two steeds behind
eyes wild, hair disheveled
desperately out of synch
he up-downs as she down-ups.

Desire fuels the chase
bolted to spinning floor
moving unmoved
money, sex, fame
forever around the fluid bend.


I’m hosting dVerse today, the virtual bar for poets, asking folks to think about amusement parks, fairgrounds, carnival barkers. Write a poem that somehow uses an image from that scene – or captures a memory one has from going to such a place. Bar opens at 3PM BOSTON time, in the midst of Boston’s blizzard today! Come share a poem of your creation or just imbibe some words from poets around the world.

I see a suburb . . .

one street after another
plat map symmetrical.
Slide rule log-a-rhythm’s
syncopated beat.
Red-amber-green lights
directing the inane.

Where are the pick-up trucks,
dust-kicking rolling roads,
clothesline flapping shirts,
and front porch swings?


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where we’re asked to write suburban poetry today!  Looking at my Seascape photos and post, also done today, I think I prefer the sea side to the suburbs!

Sea Glass Beatitude

Shards tumbled, churned.
Misshapened shapes
amber, green, clear.
Once broken, glint in sun
smoothed by roiling seas.

Are these but reminders
of those who washed ashore?
See me. Know me.
Value lies
in that which is made anew.

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Bermuda sea glass. Bermuda was originally an uninhabited island. All Bermudians are either immigrants or descendants of immigrants. There are no indigenous peoples.

Nature Knew

All they needed
was a gardener’s catalogue.
They should have known.

Tumpet vine,
also known as trumpet creeper.
Common colors, orange and orange red.

Some consider the plant invasive.
Drops hundreds of seeds
sending up suckers.

Keeping size under control
with aggressive pruning
is often necessary.

If allowed to grow,
can easily take over.
Extremely difficult to get rid of.

Containment
is a
consideration.

Prevent the plant
from reseeding
in other areas of the landscape.

Tumpet vine
can work its way
under shingles

and
cause damage
to foundations.

They should have known.

Stanzas 2 through 9 are quoted from two on-line garden sources. Shared with dVerse OLN, the virtual pub for poets where it’s open link time – share a poem of your choice today – no prompt. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come imbibe some words or pour your own!

Predilection

First grader. Never mulled
no twists, just straight up.

Shaken on the playground,
meets bully spirits with bravado.

Some day, she’ll pass the bar.
And she’ll be the one.

We’ll toast her as she takes the oath.
Hail to the Chief.

Posted for dVerse Tuesday Poetics where De asks us to “mix it up a bit” by using terms having to do with the bar / pub scene, drinking terms. IE in Predilection’s case: mulled, twist, straight up, shaken (not stirred), spirits, bar, and toast. The trick is, the poem cannot be about the drinking scene! A fun prompt. Hail to the Chief is the music played at the inauguration after the presidential oath is taken, and thereafter when the President of the United States is introduced. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop on over and imbibe some words!

 

 

 

Quadrille Me a Dawn

We are immersed.
Polar night
darkness unseamed.

Evil dawns as sun does not.
Erodes hope,
essence of democracy.

Revels in abysmal decrees
hurled again and again,
narcissistic plague.

Scepter spews clues
to personality disorder,
alternative reality.

We know however,
the midnight sun
shall rise.


Quadrille (poem consisting of exactly 44 words – not including title) posted for dVerse, virtual pub for poets. Today Björn asks us to use the word “dawn.” Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! Photo from 2015 Alaska cruise. 

Resistance

Hear the guttural call
a loon in the midst of porous fog.
Tall ships tack ‘gainst angry waves
sails unfurled defying blowhard wind.
Sturdy spruce dig in, roots entangled,
stand valiantly in permafrost.

Voices merge, rise from depths,
like dawning sun they swell.
Their magnitude undeniable,
push their way
gain strength and energy,
overcome darkened skies

You cannot dim her torch
it shines her promise for the many.
Those who passed her by in awe
eyes raised, hearts knowing
hope lives and shall
forevermore.

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