Delectable

Strawberries.
Luscious dimpled red,
capped by emerald-leafed crowns.

Thumb and forefinger
pinch greenery,
slowly bring to mouth.

Eyes dilate.
Yearning at first sight
turns to absolute delight.

Sweetness explodes.
Taste sublime
brings smile divine.

Nectar-trickle escapes lips
stains white linen,
evidence of fulfilled lust

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Fulfilled hides the prompt word fill
Photo taken as we brought these amazing strawberries home from the Hillcrest Farmers Market in San Diego. Poem written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today De asks us to include the word, or a form of the word, “fill” in our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! 

Waiting for Spring Tending

The small San Diego garden plot lies waiting. Remains stripped bare from summer past. Green straggling leggy vines meander over and under blunt-cut branches of a now anonymous plant. Dried tall corn stalks stand in leaning stance, blown by winds or simply bent from lack of care once the cobs were picked.

Long woody stems are capped by dry flower tops, their name a mystery to me. Brown scaled outer shell still holds tight to popped open pods. Each pod is perhaps six inches across and contains what looks like spiderweb short wisps of silken threads. I am smitten by these long-past-their-prime blooms and try to capture their beauty in photos – some in monotone black and white, others in their natural earth like tones. I am sad to know these plants, beautiful in their drying state, will soon be cleared as new seed is sown.

migratory bird
transports dried seed in plumage
beauty travels far

Photos taken Saturday, on a walk through the beautiful campus of San Diego State University. We came upon a small garden plot by the art buildings. It was obviously left untended until spring, when it will be cleared and replanted.

Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Frank asks us to write about the coming spring. Haibun: two or three tight paragraphs of prose (must be true) followed by a haiku that invokes a season. 

Childhood Ditty

Skiddely-do, I see you.
Clippity-clop, clompity-clomp,
tromping loudly as we romp.

Skiddely-do, join me too.
Spinning spinning like a top
round and round we never stop.

Skiddely-do, crouch down low.
Creepity-creep, oh so slow.
Skiddely-do is so much fun
until we’re all, skiddely-done.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn asks us to write using alliteration (repetition of the same sound in the beginning of one or more words in a line of poetry).  It strikes me that young childrens’ games and songs often have alliteration, which makes them “catchy”, easy to memorize and repeat…and when they also include an action (clapping hands; stomping feet; creeping crawling) they’re even more fun!  I’m only sorry my grand daughter is not with us in San Diego to make up a tune to this little ditty.  Click HERE to listen when she put a tune to a previous poem I wrote a few years ago. Perhaps you can read this new poem aloud and come up with a tune yourself! 🙂

Haibun True

The car pulled up. I couldn’t tell the make of it. Smooth and curved. Nothing harsh, angular or metallic. It was parked and waiting for something. One long oval window stretched from end to end. There was no driver; just passengers with smiling faces. Hands waved at me, saying hello. Or motioning me to join them? Then I saw. These were beloved faces. My two aunts and uncles. My mother, father and brother. All wanting me to join them. So happy. So inviting.

I woke up groggy, sitting up in bed;  in the middle of the night. Then I remembered the car. The waving. Who they were. Wanting me to join them. But they’d been dead for many years. I whispered aloud, “Not now. I can’t. Not yet.”

Next thing I knew, the alarm was ringing. Time to rise and shine and get on with my day. It wasn’t until lunch at work that I remembered it all. Exactly as I wrote it here.

frost glazes window
dog sleeps nearby, legs twitching
runs from what in dream

I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today I’m asking folks to write a poem somehow related to a dream or dreaming….they can take us inside a dream, create a dream, write about the process of dreaming — be it a nightmare, a daydream, a hallucination, or  a suspended state. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Sweet Dreams

Dream suite décor.
Rest upon cumulus pillows
as moonbeam lullaby lulls.
Sprinkled star dust
spreads drowsiness
as deep sleep seeps in.
Spirits soar into everland,
ethereal land of smiles.
Compassion and love live,
bloom in forever springs.
Until we jolt awake,
plopped . . .
into another mundane day.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. The topic to consider is dreams / dreaming. Go to the site and listen to some wonderful songs about dreaming (Youtube links) sung by the Everly Brothers, Bobby Darrin, Bing Crosby, and the Mama and Papas. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Wildflowers Unite

Carolina Jessamine with baby blue eyes
nicknamed Monkey Flower as a tot.
Ignored social norms,
rogue shooting star in the cosmos.
Obediant plant? Spineless prickly pear?
Never.
Wild Bergamot learned,
seduced on her lady’s bedstraw.
Hybrids and selected cultivars?
Unnecessary
for a beautiful bouquet.

Kim hosts dVerse today…asking us to include the word “wild” – or a form of the word – in a Quadrille. Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
I immediately thought of wild flowers and went to a seed catalog and the internet for names of wildflowers. Nine wild flowers are included in the poem: Carolina Jessamine, Baby Blue Eyes, Monkey Flower, Shooting Star, Cosmos, Obediant Plant, Spineless Prickly Pear, Wild Bergamot, and Lady’s Bedstraw. Yes: Obediant is spelled correctly here.

Hashtag Avoidance

It was a secret,
what really happened.

She swallowed it,
buried it deep.
But it festered,
gnawed at her.
Invaded her thoughts
at inopportune times.

Stuff it. Just stuff it!
She tried. Oh God she tried.
She could manage alone,
step up and lean in.
Efficient competence
clad in stern business suit.

She wore luminescent pearls,
choker style.
Eyes up here, buddy!
Words yelled at him,
but only in her head.
Feelings choked back again.

ME TOO she wanted to scream.
But it was a secret,
what really happened.
She swallowed it,
buried it deep,
again.

halloween-1720071_1920Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where Tuesday Poetics is hosted by Merril. She asks us to write a poem somehow involving a secret. I am not a member of the MeToo movement….but this is my heartfelt concern for those who have suffered abuse and hold it within. Photo from pixabay.com

Notes to Self

Perk up!
So the path behind is longer
than the trail ahead.
Wild flowers still bloom,
ready for picking along the way.

No more reins to white knuckle.
The children are loose
reining in their own foals,
galloping in fields you planted,
tended many years ago.

Embrace your lover joyfully
as days and weeks slip by.
Love more deeply, gently, surely.
Expect to share the morrow gladly
as you kiss the night goodbye.

Beautiful-Elderly-Couple-Hugging

Written fordVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Frank is tending bar, asking us to write a soliloquy poem today.  Photo from Pixabay.com

Winter Glistens

“As I left China farther and farther behind, I looked out of the window and saw a great universe beyond the plane’s silver wing. I took one more glance over my past life, then turned to the future. I was eager to embrace the world.”
Wild Swans, Jung Chang

Youth and middle age.
I am far past those lanes,
beyond that curve in the road.

Photos framed on shelves.
Who I was and who I loved
all along the way.

Mirrored image returns my gaze.
Silver haired and wizened,
in this, my final season.

No turning back.
Winter’s snow always glistens
even in the setting sun.

I shall embrace this scene.
This my new world forever,
as ever I shall be.

Mish is hosting Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to choose a book near us (or from a link she provides) and look to the last lines at the end of the book….and then let those be our poetic muse for our post today! Thus the last lines to Wild Swans, included before my poem.
Photo from our trip to Norway a few years ago.

Repercussions

Machines roar their voracious appetite.
Mill girls risk hands and limbs,
work fourteen-hour days.
River powers turbine belts,
transforms cotton bales to cloth.
Spindle City’s deleterious result,
more slaves on auction blocks.
Black hands blister in cotton fields.
Industrial revolution’s progress
paves misery’s trail.

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Written for Monday’s Quadrille at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets.  De is tending the pub and asks us to include the word “roar” in our Quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title. Photos from this past summer’s visit to Lowell, Massachusetts and the Bott Cotton Mills Museum. Lowell, once known as Spindle City, is recognized as the Cradle of the American Industrial Revolution. The first textile mill was built there in 1826. By 1850 it was America’s largest industrial center with many large textile mills and factories. By 1840 there were 8,000 workers in the mills, mostly women between the ages of fifteen and thirty. Within one year, the mills could transform raw bales of cotton into 50,000 miles of cotton cloth. The North’s increased appetite for cotton textiles led to an expansion of slavery. One side note: Some of the Southern cotton was made into ‘negro cloth’ at the Lowell mills and sold to plantation owners for their slaves.