Discombobulized,
she was like that.
Wound up tight tremors,
taut sprockets of the mind.
Spring-like nerves compressed
temper flares spewed.
Church hands folded, twitched,
flailed by noon.
Even keel sailing
turned runaway train.
Expect the unexpected,
she was like that.
Kim is hosting today’s quadrille ( a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to use the word “spring.” Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Blueprints in a cacophony of color
design my living loving house.
Angleless corners round flowing rooms,
textured floors pad souls on soleless feet.
One winding willow tree, rooted in love
grows up through every floor.
Climbs beyond skylight so all will see,
budding tiara atop our greening roof.
Two forms of light magically illuminate.
I-believe-claps activate sun in every space.
Twinkle twinkle little star releases scrim,
sparkles day dreams, night time’s too.
Inside is outside in my paneless house.
Plantings nourished from within,
grow and bloom beyond the sash.
Our family lives with open doors
and all are welcome here.
Sara hosts Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to build a house within a poem. My imaginary house is influenced by seeing the Hundertwasser House in Vienna many years ago. Friedensreich Hundertwasser, Vienna artist and architect, 1928 – 2000. Painting on top left is Hundertwasser House in Moonlight, color lithograph based on the original by Karl Goldammer, 1995. Photo on right is the actual Hundertwasser House, public housing on the corner of Lowengasse / Kegelgasse, Vienna. Third image is his painting: The 30 Days Fax Painting, 1994 and gives you a sense of his style as a painter. He defied the straight line and believed in the poetic quality of inhabited space: irregular alignments of windows, the spatial integration of trees and wavy lines in his urban plans. Uneven floors and undulating rough cast walls, tree-roofs, bearded windows, and tree tenants were features of his architecture.
Rural Iowa and fifteen acres of land. Three rusty metal cross-bars hold taut clothesline flapping white sheets and cotton diaper cloths. I stand on tip-toe, reaching high to pick low-hanging fruit. Branches sag with their weight. Nearby, the garden waits. Beet greens wilt, red-veined, atop vegetables grown too plump beneath the soil. Feathery dill goes to seed as crazed zucchini plants maze through cukes and pumpkin patch.
In the distance, I see dust rise before I hear the car. George is returning from city life to our quiet country home. A space to live simply on the land.
rolling hills of green
beribboned by dusty roads
corn silk dries in sun
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Toni is tending bar and speaks to us about the Japanese tradition of foresting — simply walking through the woods, unplugged, relaxed, listening and smelling what is true. Our Haibun must be one or two tight paragraphs of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. She asks that we write about a time we simply enjoyed the out-of-doors or a natural place. She wants us to relax with our readers — offering a post of calm.
Stones lean precariously after years of neglect. Some cracked. Others bedecked by lichen. Tall wild grasses and spindly trees surround antiquity. Tourists hike the nearby road, unaware. Disconnected to what was. But the Earth knows. She periodically sheds tears, some frozen in anguish, others gentle in their falling. Her memory forever graced by those embraced within her folds.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today’s prompt is to write prose poetry. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. This is a special place in cyberspace where poems are shared and read. Come join us!
Dried roses,
brittle as beleagured time.
This yellow, paler now,
graced a funeral spray.
Dew kissed by tears,
gathers patina of dulling dust.
This blood red, from wedding bliss.
This soft blushing pink,
remembrance lost.
Dimentia by decay.
Dried roses,
crumbling petals.
Fading synapses
midst prickly thorns.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It’s time for Tuesday’s Poetics with Mish tending bar. She asks us to write about a memento. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come post a poem or just enjoy imbibing the poetic words of others. Remember, dVerse exists in cyberspace — a virtual pub — so we have poets from around the world post with us! It’s a meeting of poetic spirits – and we call it our virtual pub! Come visit! New prompts on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays — although I try to post here every day.
Harrison Hedgehog
all a dither
in a quiver,
over Patty Porcupine.
How to propose?
The poetic one,
undone,
by a prickly giggly gal.
A note, inside a balloon,
a quadrille.
Then with her own quill,
Patty will pop the question!
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. De is tending bar and asks us to giggle today 😊. Forty-four words, not including the title, that include the word “giggle.” I figure in our crazy world, it’s a good day for a silly little ditty! Photo is of Harrison Hedgehog, in public domain.
When two become one, the base remains two.
When two multiplies to four, the base remains two.
Time invested.
Birthing and unconditional love.
Your child’s everything
until independence blooms.
Time apart increases.
They see more, learn more.
And you step in and out,
never fully immersed again.
And they leave.
You are the beginning two again.
Memories, age spots,
and more love.
Knowing as they become two and multiply,
it is a cycle born to repeat itself.
And the most important arc is the base of two.
That is the constant.
Sharing with Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today there is no prompt. We’re free to post one poem of our choosing, Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
one street after another
plat map symmetrical.
Slide rule log-a-rhythm’s
syncopated beat.
Red-amber-green lights
directing the inane.
Where are the pick-up trucks,
dust-kicking rolling roads,
clothesline flapping shirts,
and front porch swings?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where we’re asked to write suburban poetry today! Looking at my Seascape photos and post, also done today, I think I prefer the sea side to the suburbs!
In 1609, a British ship ran aground on an uninhabited island. No conversions. No wars with indigenous peoples. Bermuda is the epitome of a melting pot: British, American Indian, Portuguese, African. All came to her shores, whether willing or not.
Yesterday, I enjoyed a skirling ceremony on the parade grounds of a 19th century fort. Kilt clad drummers and bagpipers with those haunting droning tones, moved resolutely, sonorously. Today I sit, eyes and ears accosted by a Gombey Revue. One whistle, so loud it seems like twenty. And two frenetic drums reverberating through the room. A cacophony of color leaps, runs, and moves. All in seeming abandon. Every inch of every troupe member covered in cloth, sequins, feathers, gloves, masks and towering hats. Their movements tell their history. I am mesmerized.
It’s as if a coin’s been tossed. Yesterday I saw heads and today I see tails.
elegant heron
yellow raucous kiskadee
nature’s kaleidoscope
Toni hosts Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Theme today is “the best things in life are free.” A haibun is prose (nonfiction) followed by a haiku. Bermuda’s Uncover the Arts Program runs November through March, with many free and wonderful things to see and do that give you glimpses into the country’s culture, history, and scenery. Our rented apartment in St. George’s, a UNESCO World Heritage site, has a deck that overlooks the harbor. I often see a beautiful heron in the early morning. And we always see and hear the yellow kiskadee, a very loud, bright yellow bird – its “song” sounds like its name, kiss-ka-dee, kiss-ka-dee.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
to thrive in this topsy turvey world.
I shall walk upside down, toes in the stars,
leave diamond shaped footsteps in the sky.
When down is up and in is out,
I shall touch the soil with outstretched arms
fingers wriggling in earthworm rings.
I will be a handstand acrobat
padding through sunflower fields,
pollen dust knees attracting bees.
When the sun sets, I shall ride the moon,
kicking stars into nova showers
and I shall never wane.
Bjorn is tending bar at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He challenges us to make our words into the equivalent of expressionistic art. “The simplest and most effective way to define expressionism is that you present the world in a totally subjective perspective.” He also asks us to write in the first person. Bar opens at 3:on PM Boston time. Come join us! Artwork: The Starry Night by Van Gogh.
lillian the home poet 