Charles Andrew Jr.
birthed before the War,
nine years my elder.
Took leave far too early
buried deep atop grassy hill,
mountain range across the way.
I see your image
every day,
looking out at me.
Framed and under glass,
always smiling.
Forever fifty-one.
It was Quadrille Monday at dVerse. The prompt word was “early” and somehow, I’m late to post for it! Photo is my brother…..hard to believe he’s been gone almost 30 years.
Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
There is a beauty in the withering . . .
as if through sheer will power
life endures in fragility.
Color long faded
veins protruding
curling inward . . .
Death shall not win
until snow blankets the earth
to comfort its fall.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Mish is hosting and asks us to write a poem in which we find beauty in the ugly. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Farm house apple trees,
harvest never picks them clean.
Fruit rots ‘neath baring branches,
bees buzz drunkenly in mashed pulp.
Sickly sweet scent hovers,
annual fall perfume.
Gina is our guest host for today’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to write about a scent we remember. Apple Me Too Many is drawn from my memories of living in a farm house on 30 acres of land in rural Iowa, from 1974 to 1976. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Mother’s treasured knick knack,
miniature rotary telephone.
Two metal pieces, one with delicate dial,
still turns by clumsy finger tip.
Second piece balances on first,
receiver, small enough I’m sure,
to span from fairy’s mouth to ear,
to listen and to talk.
Mother’s treasured knick knack,
best friend’s gift in ’37.
Yellowed fragile note,
pristine cursive of the day.
My dear sweet Helen,
Always remember,
girl talk makes our days go faster.
Love from Franny, forever.
Mother’s treasured knick knack
sits on dusty shelf,
beside great-grandmum’s cameo brooch,
glass hat pin
and wound-to-tight music box.
Worthless items today,
to you.
Priceless to me.
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Sarah is hosting and asks us to be mindful about a particular object….any object. Pick it up, examine it, write anything that comes to mind from it…and then from those thoughts, write a poem.
You are harborrific.
When squalls appear,
dark clouds that threaten hope
creating an eclipse hard to swallow,
you are my comfort place.
I love our passion.
But mostly . . .
I love lying beside you.
Our hand-touching-hand
breath-slowing-to-sleep
end-of-day soothing, calming
togetherness time.
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, I’m asking folks to consider the word harbor. Use harbor or a form of the word in your quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). I’m looking for harborlicious poems — taking a bite of poetic license with the word is allowed — as long as we see the word. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
He spun a sugar-coated tale.
Bright lights and sequins,
adoring crowds.
Come join me and be a star!
So I went.
Believed that sweet talking ringleader . . .
and his beguiling eyes.
Spot lights fell on sawdust stages
again and again in tawdry towns.
Love is blind – too late I saw.
Following him, I lost my way.
He prances about, cajoles the crowd.
I traipse ’round makeshift bleachers
sans sequins, sans fame.
Get your cotton candy here!
I am the busker
for his spun-sugar tale.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Sarah hosts and wants us to go to the circus! Pub opens at 3:00 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Squint your eyes,
tantamount to willful aperture.
Unsee dissonance, the ugly, the bad.
Visualize instead the good wherever it may be.
Work it. Become it. Traverse only there.
X marks the spot and if you believe, it can be found.
I’m hosting Meet The Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. At MTB, a particular form of poetry becomes the prompt. Today, I’m asking folks to write an Alphabet Sestet! A poem of 6 lines that uses an alphabetical sequence that appears in the first word of each line. Hence, I’ve used the alphabetical sequence S-T-U-V-W-X in my poem. The first word of each line, begins with the corresponding letter of the alphabetical sequence. Line 1 starts with S; line 2 starts with T; line 3 starts with U; etc. Any alphabetical sequence may be used: writer’s choice!
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us. It’s easy as A-B-C, 1-2-3 in the words of the Jackson Five’s wonderful early hit! 🙂 Image from Pixabay.com
Evil incarnate soared that day
then plunged metal-searing hot,
into the hearts of thousands.
We reeled through dust laden,
tear and shock stained weeks –
searching, then praying
for departed souls.
Six-thousand-two-hundred-
and-four days have passed.
For many, all colored
by loss tinctured dawns.
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets….and coincidentally, the 17th anniversary of 9-11. Amaya is hosting and asks us to go “on a loop.” Return to a poem we wrote/posted on a previous September 11th and take a word or phrase from that poem to create a new one. We were in our beloved Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod, on September 11th, 2016 — as we are today. I posted a poem then, Cape Cod Lure, that included the phrase “tinctured dawns” which is used again in this 9-11 commemorative poem. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Magician, sleight of hand his trade.
Quick undetected moves.
Misdirection while abracadabrahing.
No white rabbits.
No multicolored scarves
tucked up his sleeves.
Ladies’ man supreme,
handsome and mysterious.
Meandering lover, he savors the travel,
one step ahead of wanted posters.
Disappearing wives his specialty.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where it’s Quadrille Monday! De hosts and asks us to include the word “quick” within our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo from pixabay.com
I rarely write the prompt first…but this time I must. Bjorn is hosting dVerse and we’re to use onomatopoeia in our poem – words that imitate sounds. Think “pluck” or “splatter.” He really wants us to concentrate on the SOUND of our poem. SO – in that spirit, don’t read my poem below. Sing it to the tune of The Farmer in the Dell – if you remember that from your childhood. Apologies in advance to those who don’t appreciate political satire/humor.
With Apologies to the Farmer in the Dell
The donald in the dell
The donald in the dell
hi-ho, the derry-o
the donald isn’t well.
Splitter, splatter, splat
Pluck it, plaudit, pratt
hi-ho, the derry-o
his lies are tit for tat.
Duplicitous as hell
His double-dealings smell
hi-ho, the derry-o
the donald isn’t well.
The donald gathers rats
The rats eat the cheese
hi-ho, the derry-o
the donald is a sleaze.
lillian the home poet 