Before this brick, concrete, two hospitals, Old West’s church steeple. My Boston’s high-rise views.
Before this seventh floor balcony, city walks. My outside.
Here, the ocean lives outside my door. Sun rises in pastel silence. Serenity lingers on the breeze. I can just be.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for global poets. Today the word to use in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, is linger. Photos taken from our deck this morning in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod.
Her tongue fumbles. Later she excuses herself saying
My brain , , , it lingers these days . . . stuck on the last good conversation we – – – had.
But that was in 2017. He’ll visit again tomorrow.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for global poets. Today the word to use in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, is linger. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Petulant nature angry at summer’s demise. Rain pelts. Thunder roars. Lightning cracks and flashes. Temper-tantrum stomping.
She pouts today. Glum gray overcast sky, like widow’s shroud. Hides distinct features, individual clouds indiscernible.
Cormorant swarm takes its leave. Thousands bob in ocean. Race forward, then streak to sky. Mass exit. Black shapes, like inkblots everywhere.
Provincetown deserters, just like tourists. Summer in their rearview mirror. Fading. Disappearing. Gone. Page turned.
Autumns’ quiet delights somewhere on the horizon, not quite yet in view.
Written for OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Photo and video taken yesterday morning in Provincetown. Sadly, I didn’t think to get my phone to photograph and video tape it until the swarm’s mass had already passed … this is the tail end and it’s still incredible to look at these images!
This is my place, Provincetown’s quiet eastside coast. Let my distant auk relatives claim the boring inlands.
Each dawn I take my perch, lone tall rock on submerged jetty. Preen patiently, wait for morning sun.
Dawn tints the sky, glistens ocean path. My rock is center stage, lone gull in nature’s spotlight.
I dipfish in shallows when schools swim by. Clams succumb to my drop and crack maneuver. I pick and peck lobsters asunder. Swallow as is. Melted butter a human absurdity.
You are not alone, you know, bragging on your mythology. Gull lore says that generations ago, pilgrims landed in Provincetown.
My ancestors met them, an entire colony of gulls. Squawked so loud those humans left, sailed on to Plymouth Rock, obnoxiously omitting us from history.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah has provided an interesting prompt entitled Creepies and Crawlies. She introduces us to the idea of writing in the first person, as a spider, a cockroach, a butterfly, a dragonfly, or, I may be taking poetic license here, an animal of our choice. Since we are in Provincetown at the very tip of Cape Cod, I’m writing from the perspective of the gull pictured in the photo I took this morning as I watched a new day dawn in this amazing place. And, it is true. The pilgrims first landed in Provincetown but for some reason, they sailed on to Plymouth and thus the famous Plymouth Rock and the overlooked history of America’s beginning.
To read a short poem about the same photo, from the human perspective, click here.
There is no silence here. Not in my mind not in the landscape not in the memories.
Damp sand between my toes. Infinitesimal salty granules gathered on my upper lip. Nothing registers.
Remnants of another time though they are happening now. You kissed the salt away and now you never will.
The swishing of waves, those white capped petals of the sea. I have stood many a time at the doorway of dreaming.
But you always stood with me. Your laughter. Your gentle eyes. Your hand holding mine.
We dreamed together. Now I stand alone facing this vast sea. Shall I simply wade into the darkness or shall I sit and pray?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Sanaa is hosting. She asks us to use one line of her poetry in our poem….but we are to substitute derivatives for one or two of the words and see where that takes us in writing an original poem of our own. I’ve chosen the line “The rustling of leaves; I have stood many a time at the doorway of dreaming” from Buck Moon ~ Part two: Seeing things. I’ve substituted “swishing” for rustling and “petals of the sea” for leaves. Photo from Bermuda a number of years ago.
Sum days her mirror reflects the years. Grooves etched beside eyes, crevices left from emotional stress. Blue veined highwayed hands tattle, leaving behind tremor shaken script. But open-toed shoes reveal her true self. Shining sterling peace-sign toe ring, defiant purple glitter-polish on her nails.
Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today De is hosting and asks us to use the word “groove” or a form of the word, in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Image from Pixabay.com
In the night of day Luna lights the path over oceans deep. Vast sea of glistening caps ever gleaming, beckoning me. Your visage when last we met, only that has kept me safely undone by storms and cloudy skies.
There is no fear, no dread, nothing vague. No questioning of time. Row on, row on, this cursed ship. My dreams, my thoughts aswirl, I shall reach you, my everlasting joy.
An Acrostic Plus, written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
I’m hosting and ask folks to either write a poem related to something that puzzles them, use the word “puzzle” in their poem . . . or extra points for writing an Acrostic Plus, a form I created: Read down the first letters in the lines of the first stanza and see what they spell; then read down the last letters of the lines in the second stanza and see what they spell. You should then have a message related to the poem!
Far too long my creaking, rocking prison, this whaling ship asunder, lost at sea. Why can I not be flung to shore? Neptune, why so intent on punishing me?
My dear wife’s visage alive within my soul. Grant she knows this forever more. Neptune, why so intent on punishing me? Why can I not be flung to shore?
Her lips, her breasts, I long for deeply. You roiling monster, you unforgiving sea, why can I not be flung to shore? Neptune, why so intent on punishing me?
My death is near and she so far. I curse and scream at thunder’s roar, Neptune, why so intent on punishing me? Why can I not be flung to shore?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the world. Today Grace is hosting and asks us to write a Mirrored Refrain.
A Mirrored Refrain “is a rhyming verse form constructed by Stephanie Repnyek. The poem is formed by three or more quatrains where two lines within the quatrain are the ‘mirrored refrain’ or alternating refrain. The rhyme scheme is as follows: xaBA, xbAB, xaBA, xbAB. x represents the only lines that do not rhyme within the poem. A and B represent the refrain.”
What I always find most challenging in following a particular form, is letting the poem make sense such that the form doesn’t stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. I’m alwaysup for a good challenge!Image is in public domain.
Standoffish elitist mother newsstand famous dad outstanding intellectual brother. She never fit in. Headstands, handstands, she tumbled through life. But the joke’s on them. She wandered into a club, took the mic and found her voice. Highest paid standup comic, guess who’s laughing now?
A bit late, but written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe…responding to Monday’s Quadrille prompt. Use the word “stand” or a form of the word, in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I decided to see how many words I could use that include the word “stand” in them! Had fun with this one. Photo from pixabay.com
This Iowa field, this Iowa day. I stand in the midst of flowers green grasses waving, sun’s warmth soaking my skin. Double hollyhocks stand tall. Gaillardia faces blush, edged in sherbet yellow ruffles. Ethereal clouds float lazily, cotton ball fluffs like white misshapen dots on seersucker blue sky. Newly painted barn gleams surrounded by emerald shrubs, trees and hills. Ah yes, Iowa, you are indeed the heartland, loved by so many.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for global poets. It’s OLN (Open Link Night) and Mish is hosting. We’ve not lived in Iowa since 1997, but oh the glorious memories we have of our days there. From teaching in a small rural high school, to owning our first home on 30 acres of land, to raising our children in a University town and earning my PhD there. Iowa is known as the Heartland – we surely found it that.
Photo is from Nancy Mast who often posts Iowa farm photos.
