Sun still shines at dawn to cause their demise at Charter Street Burial Ground.
I crave escape. A pen, and a plethora of words curtailing his gigolo lust, two stars over, from above the moon.
Respect provides a healthier view. Illuminated on my tree, “There is good in this world.”
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe where today is Meet The Bar Day. Laura asks us to look at the most recent poems we’ve written, preferably the last twelve poems, and taking the last lines from each of the poems, rearrange them into a new poem! A poetic sudoku! I did exactly that, not adding any words; not using enjambment (splitting words over two lines). These are the exact words from the last lines of the last twelve poems I posted to dVerse, (minus a prosery prompt since that was prose). Interesting how it turned out. Photo is from a visit to Glendalough, Ireland on a cruise a number of years ago.
I was with her when she died, only positive memories in my mind. Holding her hand, leaning down close, my mouth so near her ear.
Faith and love seemed to rush in overcome all doubt as I said, “Go toward the light mom. Daddy’s there, he’s missed you.”
Her eyes opened. She smiled at me – and then she was gone. What was the sound I heard before that last breath?
Not a death rattle. A sigh? A wooshing? Surely the machines near her. Or perhaps an angel’s wings? Helping her soar to another universe.
A place to reunite with my father, her son, her sisters and brother, her mother and father. A place with no pain, no loneliness.
I hope so. I truly hope so.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We were asked to use the word “wing” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I got so carried away in the emotional writing of the poem, that I went way over the 44 words. So posting it today for Open Link Night. Photo is one of my favorites of my mom, taken at my nephew’s cabin.
Did you know the sun is always shining, even if behind a cloud? Frowns can be turned upside down into a smile, just by remembering that. There is no distance looking blue, when we walk barefoot in dew kissed grass that tickles our feet.
Call me Pollyanna, many do, because I choose to believe there is no top to any steeple if I make up my mind to climb. Be it with strong legs or, at my age, a little blusher, mascara, a pen, and a plethora of words.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah hosts and asks us to consider the poem November by Thomas Hood. One option in today’s prompt is to use a line from his poem and include it in our poem. I’ve chosen two lines from his poem: “No distance looking blue” and “No top to any steeple”. Image from Pixabay.com
We stood on the deck of our cruise ship, warm and comfortable, having just eaten our fill for breakfast in a beautiful dining room. The night before, we’d had wine with dinner and our choice of four entrees. We were returning to the ship’s home port in Florida, to then return to our highrise condominium in Boston.
The Captain’s voice was clear and strong over the loudspeakers. “There is a small boat of refugees on our starboard side. We have alerted the Coast Guard and will hold our position until they arrive. We believe in safety at sea for all. This will not impede our itinerary. We will arrive at our home port as scheduled.“
A small boat bobbed in the ocean, the people barely distinguishable except to see they were crowded in what looked like a rubber raft. It looked so low in the water, as if it was barely staying afloat. When the Coast Guard arrived more than an hour after the announcement, our ship moved away quickly. We only saw the Coast Guard approach the refugees. We never knew what happened to them.
cherry tree blooms pink robin sits in feathered nest mole burrows in darkness
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Mish asks us to consider the word “shelter” in our haibun: two or three succinct paragraphs of prose that are nonfiction/autobiographical, followed by a classic haiku.
Photo is from November 2021, when we took a cruise in the Caribbean. It was sobering to see in reality, what we’d read about in newspapers and heard about in the news.
Chipmunk cheeks, chubby knees toddler toddles unsteadily. Plops down on diaper padded bum eyes surprised at sudden landing. Spies round unknown object in midst of packing boxes. Left-over, missed by movers, his to explore and claim. Metal globe on brass colored axis, somewhat dented but sporting what looks to him like gaily colored splotches. Blues and reds and blacks and yellows and greens and shapes that fascinate. Pudgy fingers reach out, touch cool round surface and tentatively push . . . then more . . .and more and ooooh spinning colors. Faster, faster, faster, round and round and round. Squeals of delight draw me to the door. I see this happy child, the world, a spinning top for him. Unaware of famine, wars, discord, and oh so intricately drawn borders. Imagine whirled peace with colors spun into one. Boundaries blurred and gone and laughter the only sound. Or just as suddenly, what could be. A world in shock, tipped off its axis and the only sound, disappointed screams.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics.
For the prompt, I’ve provided a list of sixteen Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavors, many of which have been retired. Writers must include the name of at least one flavor from the list of sixteen in the body of their poem – and the poem cannot be about ice cream! I’ve used the flavor Imagine Whirled Peace. It was a Ben and Jerry’s ice cream flavor from 2007 to 2013.
Writers cannot change the order of the words in the flavor, or the tense of the words. They cannnot change the words of the flavor into plurals or possessives. They cannot add words between the words in the name of the flavor. Of course, folks are free to use more than one flavor from the list. After all, who doesn’t like a double-dipper or triple-dipper ice cream cone????
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us – it should be fun!
“I’m melting, melting.Ohhhhh, what a world, what a world, destroy my beautiful wickedness.” Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz
I planned it. Me and Rudy. It was all fixed. The machines, the ballots. All a disaster.
Millions believed me. They didn’t drink bleach but they believed I won because I said so.
This commission. These videos. These emails. My people spilling it all. Gutless.
This witch hunt . . . closing in . . . my battery is low and it’s getting dark.
Laura provides a unique prompt for today’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She provides seven quotations of famous departing words. We must choose one and include it in a “deathbed poem of our imagination.”
The line provided by Laura: “My battery is low and it’s getting dark.” Mars rover ‘Opportunity’
The prompt got me thinking about Donald Trump and the January 6 Commission. May the vast amount of evidence presented be the demise of the Big Lie and expose the danger Donald Trump presents to democracy and the well-being of this country. May his power and cult-like status among otherwise sane people melt away, similar to what happened to the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz.
So many have blood on their hands. Mirrors avoided to save face hands folded to avoid guilt tremors heads bowed – horse blinders unavailable.
In another world, nineteen children don angel wings. Their days playing on the beach never to be again.
Together with angels from Sandy Hook they hover, watch intently, hope . . . surely this time change will come.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril asks us to consider summer and write an ekphrastic poem. She provides a number of paintings that are in some way related to summer. We are to choose one or more to work with. Our poem should be inspired by the painting; not describe the painting. The painting I chose from among those provided is Summer Day, Brighton Beach by Carl Zimmermann.
To clarify the references in my poem:
On December 14, 2012, in Newtown Connecticut, twenty children, ages 6 and 7, were murdered at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Attempts to enact stricter gun laws in the United States failed. On May 24, 2022, in Uvalde, Texas, nineteen children, ages 9, 10 and 11, were murdered at Robb Elementary School.
I promise you, there is beauty somewhere. Stand quietly outside to hear birdsong. See stars shine in the ebony of night. Hear the innocence of a small child’s prayer. Marvel at harmony in evensong. Your freedom as a right, shines ever bright.
In our war, even as lives are taken there is pride, resolve, purpose in the fight. One newborn who survives shines hope ‘ere long. The world’s sense of justice shall awaken.
Help us.
First and foremost, the illustration is titled Freedom and is painted by Ukranian artist, Vika Muse. This past Tuesday, she gave permission for dVerse Poets to feature her artwork and write poems inspired by them.
Vika Muse wrote about another of her paintings, The Air of Freedom, “I wish I could have manta rays in the sky…instead of Russian bombs and military airplanes. I’ve noticed that my disturbing paintings didn’t make me happier. They cause even deeper depression. So I’ve tried to draw my future. It is bright and sunny. There are no bombs and war…Only beautiful landscapes and dreamlike sky. I hope I’ll meet such a future some day.”
Vika Muse says this about Freedom, the painting that inspired my poem today: “This artwork was made due to the hope, that we have the light at the end and the name of this light – is the Victory. That we will survive and rebuild our country.”
And a thank-you to Mish at dVerse for discovering this artist so we can all see and marvel at her wonderful work.
Today’s post was specifically written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 16. We are asked to write a Curtal Sonnet, a poetry form invented by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
A Curtal Sonnet is 11 lines (actually 10.5) which is precisely 3/4 of the structure of a Petrachan sonnet which is 14 lines in length. That is, it is shrunk proportionally. The rhyme scheme is abcabc dcbdc The final line is a tail or half line. Another, what I call, sudoku prompt! I’ve taken poetic license because of the intensity of the poem, to ignore the final line’s “c” rhyme requirement, but it is the requisite 2 syllables. The other lines are all the requisite 10 syllables.
She paints a different scene different from the devastation of war. One of deep meaning to her people.
Far from crimson-orange flames, bomb bursting flares in night skies, blood-stained rubble covered streets.
She paints a girl with auburn hair back to us, looking out at sunburst sky in the midst of dandelion fields.
Beautiful broadleaf perennial weed, dandelions bloom brightly yellow, steep in teas and make fine wine.
Notoriously challenging to remove, ten-inch-long taproots deep in soil tenaciously hold their place in earth.
Sunflowers may be the national flower, but this upstart weed personifies her people. Strength, perseverance, and beauty, just as she painted, the dandelion field.
Written for Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Mish is hosting and gives us an inspiring, beautiful and timely prompt, acquainting us with Ukrainian artist, Vika Muse. We are to select one of her remarkable paintings and be inspired by it. As Mish writes: “During this unfathomable yet very real situation in her homeland, let us bask in the light of her artistry and be a reflection of light with our words.”
The work of Vika Muse can be found on Instagram at @get.muse and is featured on the website http://www.inprnt.com (just do a search on this site for Vika Muse and all her artwork will come up).I selected her piece, The Dandelion Field.
dVerse pub opens at 3 PM Boston time, featuring this prompt.
I stand at water’s edge on the precipice of new day as darkness surrounds me. Cold damp salted air clings and coats my upper lip.
Cinnamon colored strips jut their way through ebony sky. Monotone scrim begins to fluctuate as dark clouds differentiate themselves, shades of grey against paling black.
There, there in front of me hints of red-orange light. Shards of yellow tinted crimson elongate, stretch, and slowly shift until my chill is forgotten.
Glorious golden orb begins to rise. Sole cormorant on jetty stone shadowed now in rising dawn, my only company as I smile. Today is indeed, a new day.
Laura is hosting dVerse and shares with us the background and meaning of aubade. It is a serenade to dawn. She asks us to write a melodious poem evoking day break and using either the word “morning” or “aubade” in our title.
Photo is from one of our annual two-week stays in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod, where dawn never ceases to amaze.
lillian the home poet 