dVerse

Summer Invasion

lillian20 Comments

On a rainy summer day, melted cherry popsicle juice puddles on kitchen countertop. The now bare, but somewhat red-stained stick, is a walking bridge from stainless steel sink’s edge to sticky stuff. It’s a veritable picnic spot for sugar thirsty ants. Our kids, unaware of the insect invasion they’ve created, sit on the faux-brick linoleum covered floor playing with colorful legos.

forget dull bread crumbs
summer brings popsicle juice
ants’ debauchery

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It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Gina is tending pub and asks us to write about a picnic. Haibun: short prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. Photo from pixabay.com

Haibun for Hiroshima

lillian13 Comments

There is an expectant rise to the emotions – to visit Hiroshima where terror blazed. Hear survivors’ words, see artifacts, and one-thousand colorful paper cranes made by many hoping for world peace.

from devastation
hope bursts forth in blossomed trees
cranes lift wings to soar

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Merril hosts Quadrille Monday and asks us to use the word “rise” in a 44 word poem. It can be any form, hence a 44-word haibun today.
Photos from our recent sobering visit to Hiroshima. The Atomic Bomb Dome miraculously still stands…especially considering it was so very near the hypocenter of the bomb. A three-year old boy was riding his trike at the time of the explosion…his family buried him in their backyard with the trike….and then years later, exhumed his body to place it in the family plot and donate the trike to the Peace Museum.The sculpture is the top of the Children’s Peace Memorial, dedicated to all children killed and hurt in the blast. In particular, dedicated to Sadako Sasaki who was 2 at the time of the explosion and seemingly escaped unharmed. At 9 she developed leukemia and died 8 months later. As she was in hospital, she folded (origami) one-thousand paper cranes…the crane is believed to bring health and longevity. When the memorial was dedicated many people from around the world sent chains of 1000 paper cranes. President Obama is the only US President to visit Hiroshima. He made 4 paper cranes…2 are here in the Peace Museum, the other 2 in Nagasaki. I am so privileged to have visited this place. May no one ever experience this devastation again for any reason.

Ode to the Sea

lillian18 Comments

My moon-blown dreams flutter flit.
‘Tis but water-spoken words
afloat in tide-looped waves,
gently wending their way
wave-seeping through my synapses.
Meanderments that mesmerize,
a ringed-sea within my mind.

Eyes sea-scape.
Islands seemingly afloat
shimmer on reflection,
my ‘scape
from dews of storm-clad life.
I seem to levitate
hover somewhere, not here.

No sound but water-softness,
lapping as if heaven-circling.
Eyes stair cross waters,
climb surreal to starry scrim.
Leaning against ship’s rail,
all railings retreat to insignificance.
Serenity lives upon the seas.

For April 16 Poetics….hosted by guest Laura Bloomsbury. Motivated by her prompt and our current journey, cruising through Japan, China and South Korea.

A Stellar Tale

lillian18 Comments

Lady Ursula fancied herself a star,
nay, bigger and better than that.
She with ostentatious tastes,
constellation better than most.

Daily she ate delectable treats.
Croissants, caviar, and fine patés
berries and truffles, chocolates too,
all as she sampled the finest of ports.

And as was her habit before the first snow,
into her four poster bed she’d go.
Curtains drawn, she nestled in down,
appetite sated, she slumbered to sleep.

N’er did she stir ‘till a bright April morn,
when bluebirds would warble and sun stream in.
Slowly she’d struggle to open her eyes
push herself upright, sit tall in her bed.

Suddenly famished she licked her lips
and stretching she toggled the service bell.
They chuckled and smirked hearing that sound
for they understood the secret she lived.

Their Lady Ursula, no Ursa was she
rather an Ursus she really be.

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It’s OLN at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. This means we are free to post any poem of our choosing – no prompt. I had a little fun with this one. Hope you enjoy 🙂

Calendar Crazed

lillian41 Comments

March,
that month after February,
thirty-one days before April.
A season unto itself.

A time for bluster. . .
pushy blow-hard March winds,
nature’s  ill-tempered signal
she is ready to move on.

Impatient crocus tips,
tulip and joinquil crowns,
clamor beneath the soil
desperately seeking warmth.

Sun tries to abide.
Sharpens her rays,
pierces leaden skies,
melts errant snows.

And we, with pens in hand,
cross off calendar days.
Like Sousa leading the band
we march forward . . .

wanting so badly
to pick up the pace,
to quick-step
our way to spring.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, asking folks to think about the verse from Ecclesiastes quoted below. It was set to music by Pete Seeger in the late 50s and became a full-fledged hit Turn! Turn! Turn! by the Byrds in 1965. We’re writing a poem about “a time to/for ______.”  Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time, so you can find the exact prompt there.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven:  a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.”

Pantoum Sudoku

lillian40 Comments

I sit to gather thoughts and write.
Like quickening ripples in windswept pool
ideas hurtle, thrash and roil in spite.
My mind consumed, your muse too cruel.

Like quickening ripples in windswept pool
your face appears in waves to take control.
My mind consumed. Your muse too cruel,
like fists that pummel a dying soul.

Your face appears in waves. To take control,
eyes wide, I gather strength. My voice attacks
like fists that pummel a dying soul.
You shall not rule as I defy all impacts.

Eyes wide, I gather strength. My voice attacks
ideas. Hurtle, thrash and roil in spite.
You shall not rule. As I defy all impacts,
I sit to gather thoughts and write.

Gina hosts MTB Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today we are exploring a particular form of poetry called a pantoum. It’s made up of quatrains (4 line stanzas). BUT, they have to be in this pattern:

A (has to end rhyme with C)
B (has to end rhyme with D)
C
D

B (Exact same line as B in first stanza; and has to end rhyme with D)
E (has to end rhyme with F)
D (Exact same line as D in first stanza)
F

E (Exact same line as E in second stanza)
G (has to rhyme with H)
F (Exact same line as F in second stanza)
H

G (Exact same line as G in third stanza)
C (Exact same line as C in first stanza)
H (Exact same line as H in third stanza)
A (Exact same line as A in first stanza)

Hah! Did you follow that?  And now you know why I titlee this post Pantoum Sudoku!

Cruelty, Thou Art Life

lillian46 Comments

Is there a beauty in insipidity,
blending in to all around? Stupidity
amassed beyond the pale,
in group-think, mass-appeal.
Invisibility, thou art cruel
spiteful invalidity.
Tread instead through morbidity
following ancient ways
as Plato did with Socrates.
Follow deeper still
with final sip,
hemlock
release.

Mish is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today she asks us to include the word “sip” within our exactly 44 word poem, sans title. For some reason, I went to the dark side with this one: “insipidity” and “sip.” Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Ode to the Lost

lillian50 Comments

1972 . . .
High school field trip chaperone
battered yellow school bus,
ear plugs needed.
Kids chatter
shout across aisles.
Loud and louder voices join,
belt out singing, grins on faces

bye bye Miss American Pie
drove my Chevy to the levee
but the levee was dry
and them good old boys
were drinking whiskey ‘n rye
singing “This ‘ll be the day that I die
This’ll be the day that I die.”

2019 . . . 11 AM
High school field trip chaperone
battered yellow school bus,
kids plugged in.
Heads down, thumbs fly.
Some lips move
no sounds heard.
Eye contact? There is none.

2019 . . . 5 PM
Commuter rail, going home.
Same scene,
different place.
Heads down, thumbs fly.
Some lips move,
no sounds heard.
Faces never seen.

Don McLean’s American Pie
turned sardine humanity,
schooling no more.

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I’m hosting OLN today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Folks can post one poem of their choice – no particular form, length or topic. By the way, “schooling” is a very social behavior of fish. It requires coordinated body positions and synchronized movements. And for those of you not familiar with the song American Pie, click below for a listen – topped the Billboard charts in 1972. Photo from pixaby.com  Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Lost at Sea

lillian27 Comments

Her calloused feet didst plod cross ominous ocean shore
while howling winds lashed her face and whipped the gown she wore.
Oblivious waves roiled. Her pleas screamed through salted lips
till sudden chill filled her heart. Head bowed, she hoped no more.

Spirit crushed she sank to sand. Broken shells with cruel tips
rushed into her hands. With closed fists, she squeezed tight, both grips
till blood was drawn. Then dragged herself into heartless sea,
palms stinging, she whispered hoarsely. My blood flows with thee.

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At dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, we are working on Rubaiyats: originally a Persian poem with 4 line stanzas, each line with 13 syllables, rhyme scheme of AABA, BBCB. Jilly is hosting MTB today and asks us to amplify the Rubaiyat with imagery that appeals to the senses. I’ve cheated a bit on this one….my second stanza is BBCC rather than BBCB. As most of my readers know, I struggle with form and rhyming…I’m a free-verse person. But dVerse does challenge us and I learn a lot from the folks here! 

You are my touchstone . . .

lillian38 Comments

You were my honey mine,
sipping bubblicious.
Feeling passions quake
in hot and youthful ardor.

You proposed with golden band
rich in love, but not in funds.
Hearts expanded, two to four,
those we called our wonder years.

Till suddenly we caught our breath,
their childhood gone, somehow over.
Watch we did as they left home,
amazed were we, as two again.

Seasons passed and reappeared
our path ahead, much shorter now.
But kisses still doth kindle joy
for you and I, our love defined.

Love divine, a decoupage
years layered upon years.
Passion flows through comfort,
your skin next to mine
love within familiar folds.

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Sarah hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She is thinking about all the computer games that occupy so much time of some people. She asks us to choose three games from among those in a list she provides; and use those three names in our poem. I selected the games Honey Mine, Quake, and Overwatch – the latter split between two lines in stanza 3. Photo is taken at Pilgrims First Landing Park in Provincetown, MA. Most folks don’t know the pilgrims first landed in Provincetown but did not find it to their liking and went on to Plymouth. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time: come join us!