Magic Awaits You

Feeling weary?
Kind of dreary?

Dial R-Oh-6  Oh-31
for fanciful fantastical fun.

Never let your troubles steep
just take a liberating leap.

We absolutely guarantee
balloon-high spectacular glee.

Exchange your world of hullabaloo.
Drive to zabba-dabba fabulah-new.

Come on and make some whoopee,
risin’ up in the jazzy jaloopy!

tag-2810648_1920

Having fun today 🙂  hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. I’ve posted five examples of street art for folks and ask them to pick one and somehow write about it. Images in public domain at Pixabay.com. Only requirement is that folks post the accompanying image.  Click here for second street art poem with different image. I couldn’t resist doing two — the second has quite a different tone!

We’ll be visiting Valparaiso, Chile in January and look forward to seeing the street art there — which is what motivated this idea for a prompt.

Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come walk the streets with us!

 

Velveteen Love

Magic is very strange and wonderful.
The moon had risen,
the fronds of the bracken
shone like frosted silver.

The windows stood wide open.
The loveliest fairy
went swooping about like a great wind
amongst the flowers and the butterflies.

At Last! At Last!
When all the house was silent,
love stirred.
To be loved
forever and ever.

woman-2124050_1920

Victoria is tending bar at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to do some Erasure Poetry. A new form for me. We choose a book or text and by “erasing words” from it (or an alternative way to say it is by choosing words from it), make up a poem of our own. We may only use words as they appear in the book/text. We cannot add any of our own words.  Each line in Velveteen Love is an exact phrase from Margery Williams The Velveteen Rabbit. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Limited Shelf-Life

Glass blown unicorn
stored on dusty shelf,
grimy and forlorn.
Mocked by pewter elf,
steals its love of self.
Always within sight,
craving touch its plight.

Hear my cries, it warns.
Save me, save yourself.
Magic turns to mocking scorn,
powers drained from self
locked upon on a shelf.
Give me freedom’s light
for only then shall I have might.

unicorn-611886_1920

Written for dVerse where Frank hosts today, asking us to write a Chaucerian Stanza / Rhyme Royal poem. 7 metrical lines per stanza with ababbcc rhyme scheme . . . can be up to 3 stanzas. I attempted Trochee Meter: first syllable accented, second syllable not, with 5 syllables per line (well, a couple lines have more than 5).  I am ALWAYS challenged by anything with rhyme and anything with meter. For me, it’s very hard to have the sense/meaning of the poem front and center when I’m consumed with trying to get the rhyme and rhythm right. Always learning at dVerse!  Muse here is a glass menagerie collection my mother used to have on a glassed-in knick-knack shelf.

Abdication By Your Design

I decree:
I am the Queen of Cooland.

See me shimmer and shine.
Bling me with stardust.
Bring me gold and silver sugar crystals
to savor upon my tongue.
Bring me dime store diamonds
glitter glue, sequins, and bangles too.

This bench, my throne.
This broken branch, my staff.
I fling riches upon my subjects,
kernals of golden corn their joy.
Why do you not share your riches with me?
No bows, no smiles, no understanding.

Can you not see me?
How can you pretend I do not exist?
My royalty wrapped in newsprint,
I wear the remains of your misdeeds.
Can you not feel shame
as I mutter my royal decree?

Pigeons shit on my command.
They coo at my feet,
jewel my crown.
I am the Queen of Cooland.
This is my decree.
The End.

mf3LZgc

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Paul hosts today, asking us to write a poem that somehow deals with “the end.” Pub opens at 3 pm.  Come imbibe some words with us!

I wonder . . .

if star dust is available
to those who seek a glimmer of hope

if lunar paths lead to satin slippered elves
ready to grant a wish

if buttercups picked yield petal tea
when imbibed bloom happiness

if imagination can quell fear
set pen to page with gut wrenched honesty

if simplicity can softly pad its way
through a cacophony of bombastic lunacy

I wonder
how to reach Neverland

IMG_0349

Shared with dVerse where it’s OLN time.  Open Link Night – no prompt. A time to share a poem of your choosing.

A Haibun for Bilbo

We drove for miles ‘cross lush countryside, the majestic Kaimai Range in the background. Rolling hills in myriad shades of green were everywhere, always dotted in white. There are more sheep in New Zealand than people.

We finally reached the sprawling Alexander family farm, centerpiece of J.R.R. Tolkein’s Middle Earth. Setting out on foot to stroll the Shire, we were enthralled by the massive pine known as the Party Tree, the scene for Bilbo’s eleventy-oneth birthday. We walked along paths that led to vegetable, herb, and flower gardens – each different in shape, texture and color – next to thirty-seven colorful Hobbit Holes. Delightful miniature sheltered smials. Underground homes built into the hills, with roofs covered in grass and clover, and windows so low we had to crouch as if to take a peek. A clothesline was strung with miniature work shirts. A small wheelbarrow leaned up against a tree stub. We were giants walking through a magical world.

lily of the valley
miniature belled flower tops
tabby cat traipsing through

 

Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse where Toni is hosting today, giving us free rein in terms of a topic. Haibun: prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku (must have a nature theme). Photos from our wonderful trip to New Zealand. We visited the 1,250 acre Alexander family sheep farm outside Auckland, NZ, home of the mythical Hobbiton. The rolling topography, huge trees and lakes were deemed the perfect spot for 17th century Middle Earth immortalized in J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. 

That Evil Night

A winter tale of gusting winds
the might-have-beens
his tale of woe
forsaken beau

She left him ‘neath the midnight moon
collapsed in swoon
his feet like stone
his heart didst moan

Her kiss did curse his soul that night
his monstrous plight
’tis blood he needs
on necks he feeds

fear-653629_1920Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets.  Today Frank asks us to write a Minute Poem. Another poetic sudoku!  Entire poem contains three 4-line stanzas and a total of 60 syllables. Each stanza must have 20 syllables and a syllabic structure/ rhyme scheme arranged in this manner:
Stanza One: line 1 = 8 syllables, end rhyme word A; line 2= 4 syllables, A again; line 3 = 4 syllables, end rhyme word B; line 4 = 4 syllables, B again.
Stanza Two: identical to above EXCEPT rhyme scheme is CCDD.
Stanza Three: identical to above EXCEPT rhyme scheme is EEFF.
And to throw in one more constraint for good “measure” — it should be in iambic meter
which is short, long accent; short long accent; etc.
And of course, the challenge is to have the sense of the poem outshine the form!

A Telling Tale

He looked back one last time. No one noticed as he left. People milling about mistook the bright wormhole for a full moon. But he knew. They’d come back for him.

He was not of this time. But because of her, he desperately slithered toward the machine. He’d shapeshifted somewhere between town and this desolate field. She’d touched . . . what? His synapses? Some seed of humanity roiling within these tentacles? He’d followed orders. Assessed the creatures.

There are more good than bad! She and I can turn this earth! The energy field engulfed him. They would never know.

dale-rogerson4

Flash Fiction (exactly 100 words) written for Friday Fictioneers where the masterful Rochelle Wisoff-Field provides a photo and challenges us to create a story for it. This is actually from last week’s challenge. Have not done fiction here for quite a while. A good change of pace! Photo Credit: Dale Rogerson.

Mugshot Poetry

The infamous Flowers Act,
high-steppers of vaudeville fame.
Two performances a day
forty-two weeks a year,
those days before the movies talked.

Flunkie acts started shows,
as rows began to fill.
Maybelle and her off-key dogs?
Surefire way to empty the house.
The best was always in-between.

Operatic divas with mighty breasts
Mr. Visser and his singing duck
acrobats performing impossible knots
and in the midst of all this prime time,
René strutted onto the stage.

Deflowered early in her career
she’d made the best of it.
Twirled baby Rosebud overhead
tapping away to the newest tune,
audience clapping with glee.

Child-stars grow as years move on,
mamas trying to keep them young.
Highlight move of the Flowers act
dancing with Rosey held overhead,
harder and harder to do with a smile.

Teenage angst festered full-bloom.
Rosie kicked higher and higher still,
belligerantly balked at precarious lifts.
Brass played louder, drummer too
covering angry words that flew.

And then . . .

The nefarious night of 1929.
Outdoor billboards proclaimed,
See Our Flowers Tap To Delight.
Spotlights cued, the band played
and curtains rose to a barren stage.

As talkies came
and vaudeville disappeared,
their billboard photo gathered dust.
Missing persons,
never found.

Advance the reel please,
to 1932, in the Big Apple.
Crowds waited raucously.
til Radio City Music Hall
flung open her art deco doors.

The organ played and the audience cheered.
High steppers fanned across the stage,
kicking their way into Billboard fame.
Including one with a rosey attitude,
because her time had finally come.

IMG_0343

It’s Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today I’m hosting, asking folks to write a poem motivated by mugshots from the 1920s (all in public domain). Folks can use their imagination and take their post anywhere the photo inspires, as long as they include one of the photos, all of which can be found here. I did some research on vaudeville and Radio City Music Hall. Vaudeville acts were arranged as mentioned in stanza two. There actually was a very popular vaudeville act, Gus Visser and his singing duck! Radio City Music Hall did open in 1932. All else….your guess is as good as mine! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.  Come on over and enjoy a mug!

Her World

Head cleared of cotton candy
and spider webs,
she begins to write
backwards and up-to-down.

Fairy tales
beginning at happily ever after,
famous quotations
from future generations.

Temporary lodger on Rainbow Lane,
dreamer extraordinaire.
Fuscia and chartreuse stripes
appear on sidewalks and gutter spouts.

Her wings, still nubs,
keep her anchored to earth,
impatiently waiting
for thirty-three o’clock.

Then, and only then,
will she dust herself in stars
summon her steadfast unicorn
and ride to the century’s morrow.

IMG_0349