Birds of a feather
argumentation our game,
friendship scores the win.
College debate partners from 1965 to 1969. Friendship scores over years and miles – that’s the real trophy in 2026. Just back from a wonderful visit with Karen in Sarasota, Florida.
Shared on dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.
Some days I feel as though I’m listing,
weighed down by too much news.
Hantavirus, gas prices,
John Roberts resurrecting Jim Crow,
taxpayer money gilding an extravagant,
exaggerated, excessive, exorbitant,
extraneous, bawdy ballroom
for Mr. You Know Who.
Perhaps a blooming list might brighten my day.
My favorite blooms then, in no particular order:
hyacinth, cherry blossoms, tulips, daffodils,
crocus, lilacs and *panties of the week.
Listing toward eighty now,
purple veined hands, crepey knees,
fading eyebrows, expanding girth.
All changes I can live with.
I can still dance the waltz,
twist lasciviously, bunny hop ridiculously
and show off my *bloomers
doing high Rockette kicks.
So the point is, listing at my age
is more than a poetic feat.
It should tell you I am alive and well,
not planning any time soon
to take a docile back seat!
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Bjorn from Sweden is hosting.
WORDS OF EXPLANATION:
1. The astericks on panties and bloomers. Back in the day, panties were called bloomers!
2. Panties of the Week were a very popular fad in the 1950s. You bought a 7-pack of girls underpants and each one had a day of the week embroidered on them!
3. The Prompt: Bjorn asks us to write a “list poem”. He says, “The use of lists in poetry can be very powerful. You can start with a list and expand around it. Maybe even your shopping list can be made into poetry by reflecting on what the list tells you about the season. The whole poem may be a list, but you may also use a section only as a list.”
So basically we’re to write a poem that involves listing. I had fun with this one!
Image is AI created on Bing Create.
Goodness blooms this time of year.
Pushy crocus show off first
then tulips admire daffodil ruffles,
hyacinths invoke delicious inhales.
Trees begin to dress for the occasion.
Don magnolia flowers, cherry blossoms,
crab apple trees defy their name.
We shed coats, walk more sure-footed
on warming sidewalks and greening lawns.
Infants’ arms wave more freely,
cumbersome snowsuit padding gone.
Robins appear, geese begin to nest.
Mountains’ winter toppings melt,
cascade in waterfalls to brooks below.
Streams rush over rocks,
gurgling their spring symphony.
And I, I smile as I step outdoors
reveling in another year of life.
Sun shimmers through forest’s canopy.
Moon cuts path across ocean’s abyss.
Infant’s mouth opens to circle small,
pink tongue slides in and out and in again.
Girl grins, pumping swing as pigtails fly.
Puddles appear inviting all to splash.
Child’s momentary shock as bat hits ball,
then small feet fly to first.
Thick carpet of pristine snow
invites children of all ages
to lie down, swooping arms.
Create guardian angels among us.
Folks sway in jazz club,
hear saxophones mellow out.
Watch nimble fingers create piano riffs,
brushes rhythmically swish on snares.
In the midst of ever present news,
cacophonies of catastrophes.
Find space to feel lightness,
safe harbors for hope.
I roam this curving shaded path.
Hopscotch through my youth in rompers
skinny legs, scraped knees, curly hair.
Naively sweet and unaware.
In my myopic teenage years
I roam this curving shaded path.
Blinders on, friends all important.
Time flies, motion undetected.
Parenting years, our sweet children.
Together we laugh and love as
I roam this curving shaded path
encouraging strong roots and wings.
Now approaching eighty years young
with less trail ahead, we rest more.
Your love, holding the light high as
I roam this curving shaded path.
Written for Meet the Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura asks us to write a Quatern. That is a poem of 16 lines, divided into 4 quatrains (4 stanzas, each with 4 lines). Each line must have 8 syllables. There must be a repeated refrain that is the first line of stanza 1, the second line of stanza 2, the third line of stanza 3, and the 4th line of stanza 4.
Photo from a vacation some years back.
. . . thrive in this topsy-turvey world.
I shall walk upside down, toes in the stars,
leaving diamond shaped footsteps in the sky.
When down is up and in is out,
I shall put my forearms in earth’s rich soil
wiggling my fingers like squiggling worms.
I will be a handstand acrobat
padding through sunflower fields,
pollen dusted elbows attracting bees.
When the sun sets,
I shall ride the moon
kicking stars into nova showers.
I shall hum joyfully in my out-of -tune way,
find greening in deserts, sunlight in shadows,
and I will always smile with hope.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
. . . ‘tis a holiday
when spring rains refresh the fields
when a babe is born into a family of love
when a home is infused with the aroma
of freshly baked bread
when a child chalks a sidewalk hopscotch
when peach nectar dribbles down your chin
when calloused hands are clasped in repose
while the body sits relaxed, belly full, mind at ease.
There is a positive sense to the word,
most especially when you believe
one moment in time can be a holiday
if we make it so.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting the pub today. Folks are free to post any one poem of their choosing, OR write to the optional prompt: create a poem that includes the word “holiday” in the body of the poem. Image from Pixabay.com
NOTE: dVerse will be LIVE on Saturday, December 14, from 10 to 11 AM New York time. Click here to find the embedded link that will take you to the LIVE session (audio and video). You’re invited to read a poem of your choosing or just sit in and listen. The more the merrier!
Place me amongst the flowers,
in the midst of petals glorious.
In my next life I shall be a bumble bee,
the queen, of course.
I shall meander regally
from one beautiful blossom to another –
savoring nature’s sweet nectar,
buzzing to my heart’s content.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to include the word “place” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Photos taken on Saturday, just outside the high-rise building we live in, in the heart of Boston.
So many questions I could ask myself.
Why this? Why that?
Why then? Why now?
Why not? Why me?
But those sound too much
like regrets.
I choose to live my life
without regrets.
Regrets indicate a desire
for change in the past.
One change a ripple makes
and then,
life would be different
somewhere along the path.
Life would be different now.
I like my now.
Written for day 25 of NaPoWriMo where the prompt is to “write a poem based on the “Proust Questionnaire,” a set of questions drawn from Victorian-era parlor games, and adapted by modern interviewers. You could choose to answer the whole questionnaire, and then write a poem based on your answers, answer just a few, or just write a poem that’s based on the questions.”
Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay
have some aches and pains
but able to walk
and reach dishes on the second shelf.
Enjoy a good book
sleep beside the love of your life
and have family that cares,
said the septuagenarian.
To be blessed is to
be with your forever family
who plays fetch for hours on end,
lets you get on the couch with them . . .
occasionally,
and get kibble treats for just sitting still,
said Zoey, the dog.
To be blessed is to
enjoy sunshine filtering through your leaves
provide shade to a couple’s picnic beneath your branches
sport reds and burnt oranges in the autumn season
mourn the dropping of leaves and skeleton shivers
knowing your resurrection will come next spring,
said the seventy-six year old Metasequoia.
Written for Day 5, NaPoWriMo where the prompt is to “try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio of very different things would perceive of a blessing.” The line “to be blessed” and the idea for my poem is taken from the poem used to illustrate the prompt, “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog” by Alicia Ostriker.
*There is indeed a Metasequoia tree planted in the Arnold Arboretum of Harvard University in 1948. It is one of the oldest and first of its kind to grow in North America in over two million years according to the City of Boston official website. The photo, however, is of a tree in Boston’s Public Garden taken during an autumn walk several years ago.
lillian the home poet 