She walked the lane alone but not lonely in her solitude. Sun deserting the sky above, unforgiving stone beneath her feet. Cold seeped into her bones. Barren trees stood starkly, as if joining in her grief. This day she walked to the burial ground, basket of pinecones in hand. She would spread them on his grave, autumnal offering for her sin.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today we’re working with ekphrastic poetry: poems written about works of art. Merril asks us to choose from several paintings she provides, and write a poem inspired by one of them. I’ve selected the painting, A November Morning (1883) by John Atkinson Grimshaw. I’ve taken the liberty of borrowing his title for my title as well.
O Tannenbaum, holding warm memories. Mother’s eggshell thin glass pink bell, father’s fragile airplane ornament, each almost one-hundred years old. Brother’s handmade Santa with sparse cotton beard, seventy-seven years old. Family long departed from earth, always here this beautiful season, illuminated on my tree.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where today Lisa asks us to write a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, that includes the word “warm” – or a form of the word.
Yes, our Christmas tree is up! And always hung first on the tree, are my three most precious and fragile ornaments: the pink bell was given to my mother’s parents when she was born; the airplane was given to my father when he was about five; and my brother made this Santa Claus when he was in first grade. He was nine years older than me and tragically died of a massive heart attack at age fifty-one – before either of my parents died. All three have been gone for many years. I always hold my breath when I open the box to see if these ornaments have made it to another year. Many other meaningful ornaments on our tree – I actually call it our memory tree. The Unicorn marionette was made by my daughter when she was eight, forty years ago. The orange giraffe with white bird on its head, to the right of the unicorn, was a wooden piece from the mobile that hung on my children’s crib: daughter now forty-eight and son now forty-six. There’s a traditional red ball ornament that has Lillian printed every-so-neatly on it, made by Mrs. Boomer, my first grade teacher. I’m now seventy-five. And so it goes. That’s a cream-colored garland I crocheted many many years ago. I love putting up my tree.
I was with her when she died, only positive memories in my mind. Holding her hand, leaning down close, my mouth so near her ear.
Faith and love seemed to rush in overcome all doubt as I said, “Go toward the light mom. Daddy’s there, he’s missed you.”
Her eyes opened. She smiled at me – and then she was gone. What was the sound I heard before that last breath?
Not a death rattle. A sigh? A wooshing? Surely the machines near her. Or perhaps an angel’s wings? Helping her soar to another universe.
A place to reunite with my father, her son, her sisters and brother, her mother and father. A place with no pain, no loneliness.
I hope so. I truly hope so.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We were asked to use the word “wing” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I got so carried away in the emotional writing of the poem, that I went way over the 44 words. So posting it today for Open Link Night. Photo is one of my favorites of my mom, taken at my nephew’s cabin.
sipping chardonnay cold, crisp, oak tinged mysteries celebrating love
once more round the sun older, wizened, holding hands thankful every day
gathering blessings from days past and those to come sun still shines at dawn
Image from Pixabay.com
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Punam asks us to consider wine or whiskey or any beverage, and somehow incorporate that beverage into our poem. Go here for a better explanation of the prompt.
To my readers: Since October 13th, I’ve been going through the “process” of cataract surgery. In the scheme of things, it is a piece of cake. However, I’ve found it difficult to read and work on the computer – hence my participation in dVerse has been limited and I’ve not responded to other posts as I usually do, or to comments on the poems I’ve sporadically posted. I am happy to say, I am coming out on the other side of this process – and the results of the surgery are, to me, miraculous. I see colors in their brightest hues. I see print on my computer that is clear and straight. I look out the window and the world is no longer blurry. I am without glasses for the first time since I was twelve years old and am now half-way through my septuagenarian years. I only wear inexpensive “cheaters”, otherwise known as readers when I want to read or write. All of this to say, age brings cataracts to almost everyone. It is one malady that can truly be reversed. One type of anti-aging procedure that really works. I don’t mind silver hair (a nicer way of saying gray) or wrinkles or crepey skin or the inability to do some of the physical things I used to do in my forties or sixties. But I did mind seeing a blurry world. And that is over! All this to say, I’m back to my writing and back to dVerse!
Did you know the sun is always shining, even if behind a cloud? Frowns can be turned upside down into a smile, just by remembering that. There is no distance looking blue, when we walk barefoot in dew kissed grass that tickles our feet.
Call me Pollyanna, many do, because I choose to believe there is no top to any steeple if I make up my mind to climb. Be it with strong legs or, at my age, a little blusher, mascara, a pen, and a plethora of words.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah hosts and asks us to consider the poem November by Thomas Hood. One option in today’s prompt is to use a line from his poem and include it in our poem. I’ve chosen two lines from his poem: “No distance looking blue” and “No top to any steeple”. Image from Pixabay.com
Some days I’d like to be in the midst of fog. Where mountains, yesterday tall and imposing, disappear today. Where ethereal moist clouds descend to earth, enveloping her in softness. Bring me serenity, as mist hovers over land, hides imposing granite walls too difficult to climb. Soften my being with the lightest of rain that pours not, rather drifts in swirls round my head, my eyes, my limbs. Take me to that weathered landscape where nature cajoles hatred into oblivion, and we simply marvel at beauty we did not recognize before. Take me there, if not in reality, then in dense dreams of solace, just for a little while. I crave escape.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, from 3 to 4 PM Boston time, we shall gather face-to-face via GoogleMeet at OLN LIVE! Link to join can be found here at 3 PM or shortly thereafter. Just click and come join us! You’re invited to read a poem of your own…or simply sit in and listen…we’re a friendly bunch and it’s quite fun!
The lonely lady sat under the cherry moon drinking beer from the dregs of a can. Battered and bent, the can that is, found behind nearby trees.
She sipped the tepid stuff with a straw found in a Dairy Queen cup. She didn’t begrudge the stray cats who found it first and licked it clean.
Holding her pinkie up as she sipped she fancied herself a queen, enjoying her finely steeped tea from a delicate porcelain cup.
Nose held up high between her sips, she imagined herself at a cocktail party. She’d never admit she was simply avoiding the stench from dog feces nearby.
She turned down an indecent proposal from the man two benches down, never one to be swept away by anyone’s grandiose airs.
Mirabelle maintains her standards, her dignity and pride shining through. “I once was a wealthy Contessa, dear two stars over, from above the moon.”
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and introducing people to the Golden Raspberry Awards. They’re the opposite of the Academy Awards. Instead of presenting an Oscar for the Best Movie of the Year, Best Actor, Best Documentary etc, they present Razzies for the Worst Movie of the Year, the Worst Actor etc. A piece of trivia: Sylvester Stallone has won more Razzies as Worst Actor than any one else: he has ten!
In today’s prompt,I’ve provided a list of thirteen movies that won a Razzie as Worst Movie of the Year and asked folks to write a poem that includes at least one of the movie titles, word for word, in the body of their poem. Folks are free to use more than one. I’ve used five: The Lonely Lady (1983); Under the Cherry Moon (1986); Cocktail Party (1988); Indecent Proposal (1993); and Swept Away (2002). Photo from Pixabay.com
She dreamed of becoming a famous poet. On her eighteenth birthday, she outgrew the foster-care system. She walked out of old man Henrys’ flat for the last time, carrying her journals, writing supplies, toothbrush, two pair of socks and underpants, two flannel shirts, and twenty dollars, all stuffed in her backpack.
In Central Park, she sat down and began writing about what she saw. Children playing tag; people jogging; women pushing baby buggies. As the sun set, she lay down on the bench, looking up. Just to get a different perspective. Everything was upside down. She saw how in the street of the sky, night walks. Scattering poems in her head, the stars blinked telling her it would all be okay. She’d sleep now. In the morning she’d stop in Starbucks and see if they’d hire a poet who could double as a barista.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today Linda is hosting Prosery Monday where we’re given one line from a poem, and expected to insert that line, word for word, into a piece of prose that is 144 words or less, sans title. In essence, it’s the one time poets at dVerse write flash fiction! We may add punctuation to the line; but we may not insert into or delete any words out of the line.
The line Linda chose for us to use is ‘In the street of the sky, night walks. Scattering poems.” It comes from Tulips & Chimneys by E. E. Cummings and is the last line of IX- Impressions.
I was born to die pushed out into life as were you, screaming curdling wails.
Each night we bid goodbye slipping off to sleep. Each day we greet anew, seek love amidst our trails.
I simply want to clarify, all one species are we. Pray tell and think it through. Reject bigotry, all else that ails.
Hatred twists judgement awry. Respect provides a healthier view.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn is hosting and introduces us to a new form, the Bref Double. It consists of three quatrains (stanzas of 4 lines) and an ending couplet. The rhyme scheme is axbc, axbc, axbc, ab BUT the second lines in each of the quatrains do not have any rhyme, hence the x designation.Image from Pixabay.com
‘Tis scared she’d been, two hundred years ago. He’d locked her away in the family mausoleum, she crying to be free. Abandoned, starved, she suffered a godforsaken death. Her curdling wails still heard in howling winds on stormy nights at Charter Street Burial Ground.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to use the word “scare” or a form of the word, in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Photo was taken a number of years ago when we visited the Dissidents’ Cemetery in Valparaiso, Chile. Image is of a lock on a mausoleum, obviously not opened in many many years.
Also note: the Charter Street Cemetery is Salem, Massachusetts’ oldest cemetery, founded in 1637. Salem is of course, the home of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692.