Family of four, both mother, father gone now. Their love still lives on in the way their children love. Circle of love unending.
A Tanka written for Tuesday Poetics atdVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Kim asks us to write a poem using the title Where Does Love Go and answer the question within the poem.
She stood on the Trader’s Block. Men walked by and stopped to examine her. Many with whips in their hands. Some more gentlemanly with canes. Either way. They stopped and stared. Demanded she open her mouth; forced her to do so. Were her teeth in good shape? They all wanted a healthy robust woman to work in their fields. They didn’t know she could read. She’d seen the poster on display. Slaves for Sale Today. That horrible publication. Is the auction of the mind included with the auction of the body? For her, it will never be so. She can read. She can think. She can read the stars. She will not be long with whomever buys her today. She will try to escape again and this time she will succeed.
It’s Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today, we’re asked to write a piece of prose (144 words or less) that includes the line “Publication is the auction of the mind” from Emily Dickinson’s poem Publication – is the Auction. We can change the punctuation of the line, but we may not change the order of the words. Emily Dickinson lived in the time of slavery. She was not an activist on the subject however, the subject was actually or metaphorically a subject of some of her poems.
I believe this is us forever dear, painted image on a neighbor’s wall. We hold hands in permanence, street artist’s portrait of love. His rendition, always young. No furrowed brows from worries, no age spots upon our arms. He sees us somewhat oddly though, large heads upon small bodies. But we do lean in, faces touching, projecting forever togetherness. Feet dangle above his painted ground, hovering above reality’s sidewalk. He’s placed us in suspension here. . . and I can imagine, my love, this was us so many years ago. How did he know?
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today, and folks are invited to post one poem of their choosing, no required format, topic, or length. OR they may post to the optional prompt I provide which includes three photos of street art I saw in Valparaiso, Chile some years ago. The one above was one of my favorites.
AN INVITATION TO YOU:I’m also hosting our LIVE session (audio and video) on Saturday, April 11, from 10 to 11 AM EST. Please consider joining us! You may read aloud a poem of your choosing, or just come to sit in and listen! We are indeed a global group with folks from Australia, Trinidad Tobago, Kenya, the UK, Pakistan, Sweden, and across the US often in attendance. The more the merrier! If you’d like to join us, go to https://dversepoets.com on Saturday a few minutes before 10 AM EST, and click on the link provided there.
directions to self, and you, if you wish. Stop imbibing Trumpian news. Take only one small sip per day. Think revel instead of wallow. Revel in sunshine, a best seller book. Walk outside breathing in fresh air, plan for someone’s birthday surprise. Arrange day trips away from news. If you ruminate, Trump wins. Do your small part pf course. One political post per day. Donate to a cause. But do not allow him to fester in your brain, to loose fistulas of lies that chafe, clouding your eyes to the joys nearby. Take care of your mental health. That is of prime importance in these days of . . . well, I don’t know what they are of. But that’s the point. It’s our task to define them. To decide how we change them. How we live and love in them. And God knows, we must.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe! Today Dora asks us to write a poem using an imperative….a demand of sorts.
Photo from a spring walk last year along the Charles River. A habitual dog walker often takes a rest at this bench….always makes me smile. We need more smiles these days.
From the time our children were two and four, we’ve held hands before our evening meal and sung a song called The Circle of Love. With a simple and happy tune, the words go like this:
“The circle of love goes around and round the circle of love goes around. Reach out your hands someone needs you. The circle of love goes around. Amen.”
It’s not by others’ standards, a real table grace. Grace is often defined as the free, unmerited favor and love of God toward humanity. And a short prayer before a meal is often called “saying grace”. For us, this singing together before supper was and always is a moment to celebrate family. Smiling at each other, sometimes grinning, we sing loudly and with energy. What we’re really singing about is the unconditional love and happiness we share. No matter the food – from cheesey chicken casserole to shrimp scampi to Thanksgiving turkey, The Circle of Love was always the first course of the meal.
Now, approaching our octogenarian years, with five grandchildren who are twenty, eighteen, and fifteen, and our children and their wonderful spouses in their fifties, we treasure the rare times we are all together. The eleven of us, or a fewer number on occasions when busy lives and miles intervene, still carry on this tradition. When we come to the table for an evening meal, no matter the happenings of the day, the first thing we do is join hands. And then we sing, loud and clear. Grateful for each other and for the meal we share.
Wild flowers in fields different shapes, sizes, colors always face the sun.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Punam is hosting Tuesday Poetics presenting us with the following prompt: “For today’s Poetics, I would love a presence of food in your poems. You can employ any form but touch upon food; vegetables, fruits, meat, dairy, desserts you love or hate. It could be about why you love/abhor cooking/baking, your most memorable/miserable meal ever, your relationship with food…the possibilities are endless.” No particular form or length is required. A Haibun is a Japanese poetic form that combines prose with a haiku. I guess you could say I’ve written about my family’s relaionship with the evening meal!
Photo is from a family gathering about six years ago.
A mistake above? Delete that empty space. Backspace until it disappears. Or fill it up with words. Add words. Lots of words.
Or recognize its value. Listen to its open silence. Spend time there, relax in empty space. No judgement. No expectations.
Just be.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and asking folks to include the word “silence” or a form of the word (not a synonym) in the body of their 44 word poem.
Quadrille: a form created by dVerse. The poem is composed of 44 words, sans title. Within the 44 words, one word given by the pub tender, must be included.
Moonlight shimmers softly. Snowfall recently ceased, shrouds trees, covers small town’s street. Traffic absent save one car’s tell-tale tracks. Owner, probably settled in reading, nods off by flickering fire. Lone man savors silence walking slowly. Two dogs on extended leash, content with no distractions pause only to sniff the cold. Winter’s quiet stillness reverberates in late hours of this night.
I’m hosting OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Open Link Night means writers can post any one poem of their choice: no required format, rhyme scheme, topic or length OR they can write to the optional prompt I’ve given. The optional prompt? To write a poem motivated by the painting above, entitled Hushed And Still by artist Simie Maryles. The scene is representative of Provincetown, MA on the very tip of Cape Cod.
To learn more about Simie Maryles and see more of her paintings go to https://simiemaryles.com/artist/simie-maryles NOTE: writers only have permission to use Hushed and Still for their poetry.
Words spilled on a page, sentenced to death. Alphabet stews bleeding false truths.
Democracy verbified. Present tense slanted to the future, diagrammatical correction needed
Guide to collective nouns. Bloat: hippopotamuses Murder: crows Bed: sloths Shiver: sharks Scourge: mosquitoes And
Petrified: today’s Republican Congress. Sound muted. Cacophony of silence. This is the saddest story I have ever heard.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Punam provides us with a number of opening lines from various books and writings. We are to take one of the opening lines provided, and make it the closing line of our poem. We must use the line as is..no addition or subtraction of words. The line I’ve chosen to use is “This is the saddest story I have ever heard,” from The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford. Image by John from Pixabay
Tower strolls slowly searching for acacia trees. Giraffes’ favorite treat.
Bloat walks to water, waddles with heavy slow steps. Hippos seek cool bath.
Troop hops high and long. Daily constitutional, kangaroos’ amble.
Black and white striped suits mimic Armani’s men’s wear. Zebras’ dazzle style.
Alfred Hitchcock’s muse, murder gathers on roof tops. Crows screech, caw loudly.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Bjorn is hosting Open Link Night from Sweden. OLN means we are not confined to a particular form of poem, or rhythm, or rhyme scheme. Image created on Bing Create.
FYI: I’ve used the group names of animals here: a group of porcupines is a prickle; a group of flamingos is a flamboyant; a group of giraffes is a tower; a group of hippos is a bloat; a group of kanagaroos is a troop; a group of zebras is a dazzle; and a group of crows is a murder.
Summer of letters. Days of thinking slowly, rolling words around until they landed just right. Days of ink to vellum, sometimes blurred by tears. Hidden away for so many years. Flowers beneath ribbon ties, now brittle and dry. Love never consummated, memories still blush.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. It’s Quadrille Monday and De asks us to include the word “flower” or a form of the word, within the body of our poem of just 44 words, sans title. Image created on Bing Create.
lillian the home poet 