Quit yer bitchin’
and scratch where yer itchin’.
However-many years you’ve got,
light more damn candles
and quit yer complainin’.
Quit yer terminable thinkin’
‘bout pushin’ up daisies.
You best be lookin’
to pick ‘em instead.
Water ‘em good and
scratch where yer itchin’.
Happy 7th year anniversary dVerse! Back from our summer respite, Grace hosts Quadrille Monday, asking us to include the word “itch” or a form of the word in our exactly 44 word poem, sans title. dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join our anniversary celebration by posting your own quadrille, or just reading the creativity of others. Photo from pixabay.com
that sticking stuff,
for the passage of time.
Mountain mist shroud
clings wet and opaque.
Dampened earth waits
as sun inevitably shifts.
Atmosphere and temperature warm.
Suffocating clamminess transforms.
Life-giving moisture droplets
kiss ever-greening leaves.
Written for dVerse where Michelle asks us to write words of advice, in poetic form. Photos from trip to Alaska, several years ago.
. . . solitudinous people person
collector of dear days
one man woman
circle of love rippled wide.
a waving turning sunflower
old-fashioned holly hock
never lily of the valley down.
Find me next season
on your darkest nights.
I shall be the newest star
east of that famous north one
or west . . .
you’ll find me
because you’ll understand,
even in death
my geography skills
will still be severely lacking
. . . but I promise,
I’ll be there.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Amaya reminds us that last Thursday was the 199th anniversary of Walt Whitman’s birth. She asks us to write a poem somewhat in the spirit of Whitman’s Song of Myself….something personal as in an ad to someone who knows us well…to meet us perhaps, at a later date. I should add, after rereading my poem here, I am healthy, well, happy and expect to live for many many more years!
My mind says do it.
Muscle memory falters,
too many springs have sprung,
the daffodil kind.
Too many candles have crowded flowers,
the icing kind.
Life’s become a carousel ride.
I’m the unbolted horse,
slowly getting up from down
moving slower still from down to up.
Au naturel, gold gilding eroded by time
ultimately rounding the bend.
Walking to my once busy house,
I imagine that merry-go-round
music wooing, colors shimmering.
I smile as my mind reminds me done that,
and I pick up my pace,
kicking through the autumn leaves.
Day 11 of Napowrimo. April is national poetry writing month. Today’s prompt includes these words, “If you are a citizen of the “union” that is your body, what is your future “state of the union” address?”
Sunny-Side Up Daze
Serves days of happiness to the populous.
one slash of rain
dash of peppered lightning
fold in one rumble of thunder
set aside for eight hours of sunshine
Goes well with laughter and song.
Written in response to Misky’s #67 Twiglet prompt. A twiglet is a short phrase, meant to prompt a flow. In this case, the twiglet given was “slash of rain.”
when you marry your best friend
knowing he is the love of your life. . .
when your heart expands
as your family does the same. . .
when your love is so strong
that together, you could travel
to the end of the earth
and back . . .
and you do.
Photo from Antarctica. Days before we rounded Cape Horn and ferried to the last light house on the earth. An amazing journey – through the last almost 48 years with this man . . . and to the end of the earth!
nighttime tracking tool
star dusted pillow leaves tracks ~
footprints of my dreams
one christmas mass past
my hands clasped, so smooth, so young
hers riddled vein-blue ~
snow covers ground, gently still
my hands hued with age, missing hers
Our Christmas tree is a memory tree. The bell from my mother’s tree, when she was a little girl. The Santa my brother made in first grade. He was nine years older than me and died far far too young at fifty-one. The airplane from my father’s tree when he was a little boy. Christmas brings so many memories of cherished times past with relatives, friends and family. Merry Christmas, everyone!
Tanka form: 5 lines, syllables of 5-7-5-7-7. There should be a “twist” or change that occurs between lines 3 and 4.
This score’s for you.
None of that silent reading please,
move your mouth and loose those chords.
This gig is made for jumpin’ jive
words like notes, should come alive
Drum set movin’ stickin’ strong
keh-nock that rim
keh-nockin’ smooth and stickin’ strong.
Brushes swishing smoothing so
brushing brushing softly go.
Brushing cymbals smoothly now
brushing brushing, soon to splash.
Two feet pumping work the set
bouncing, grooving rhythms’ beat.
High hat moving by the left,
bopping bass drum boomed by right.
Trumpet blaring bleating high
sax is sobbing, crooning low.
Clarinet steps up to lead,
fingers pop and swing that reed.
Trombone arm moves in and out
and o-o-o-o-zing down,
gliding in and sliding out.
Pedal pumping, player plunking
blacks and whites bring pure delight.
Fingers fly then magically join
chords crescendo, conclude the jam.
So come my friends and keep it movin’
snap your fingers, sway your way.
Don’t just sit there silently still,
find your groove to rock your day.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics over at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. Asking folks how they feel today. Suggesting that they find their groove somehow and create a poem of any form, that uses the word “groove” or a derivation of the word. Come join us! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time.