Working in the kitchen, she ruminated on the unfairness of it all. Three times passed over. For men with less experience! She propped open the instructions for how to shuck oysters. Get oriented with your oyster; nestle it in a towel. Really???? What idiot wrote this? She stabbed the knife tip into the hinge. What a jerk she was for staying. Rotate the knife blade and separate the top shell from the bottom. She dug in the knife. Twisted it. “Are you upset?” he’d asked. Stupid dull blade! The oyster shell blurred. I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife into your gut. Oh how I wish you were nestled in this towel right now! She slammed the shell down on the counter in disgust. I’m done. She picked up the phone and dialed his private line.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Lisa introduces us to the writer Zora Neale Hurston. We are to write a piece of prose that can be no longer than 144 words, sans title, and must include the line I do not weep at the world – I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife from Hurston’s “How Does it Feel to be Colored Me” in World Tomorrow (1928). Image cropped from a photo at Pixabay.com.
She crossed a bridge with the utmost faith knowing her husband, gone so long, and her Lord would be on the other side. We who wait in this waystation bid her farewell and rest and we move on as we must.
Sometimes a bridge is like a catapult, a sudden bolt from here to there. Others seem miles long as we cross treacherous waters, painful steps, unsure of where they lead, straining to make the span longer still.
I stand outside tonight, staring at the stars above our universe. I wonder and I hope. Peace and unconditional love must surely have met you as you knew it would, when you crossed over to the other side.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Merril talks about bridges and asks us to either write a poem in a particular form, or to somehow write about bridges. This poem is dedicated to my sister-in-law Starr. We lost her on April 10th. She and I were planning on my visiting in July….it was not to be. I shall miss her. I do miss her.
bother me with sunlight today, streaming through windows this crisp cool day. Bother me with good news, happiness smiles and a baby’s grin. Bother me with a romantic tale full of daffodil cups, a good merlot and love tendered kisses. Please, do bother me!
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De hosts, asking us to use the word “bother” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3:00 PM Boston time – come imbibe some words with us! Also posted at Day 19 NaPoWriMo.April is National Poetry Writing Month and the challenge is to write a poem every day of the month.
Moon sliver slice of shimmer always brings a promise. Full moon’s glory will come then shall begin to ebb but never be lost. Moon sliver slice of shimmer always brings a promise. Full moon’s glory will come and so it shall continue as we’ve seen and and those will see after us.
Written for NaPoWriMo Day 17 where the prompt is to write a poem about or related to the moon. April is National Poetry Month and NaPoWriMo challenges us to write a poem every day of the month.
Sunny daffodils, wave your ruffled heads. Delicate cherry blossoms loosed by spring breeze, softly, silently, rain pink petals upon all below. Candy-cane red and white tulips stand tall beside double-layered pinks and yellows. Soon bleeding hearts will dangle gently over sweetly petite lilies of the valley. And lanes will burst forth with lilac blooms, myriad shades of purple perfuming the air. Bedazzle me, Mother Nature. I am so ready for your greening, most especially after this long reclusive year!
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we go LIVE at 3 PM Boston time and folks have the opportunity to visit, put faces and voices with author’s names and read aloud if they wish. Come join us! Link is on the dVerse site, at 3 PM Boston time.
Swirl me. Topple me through this rabbit hole. Emerge me under a lemon sun squeezed dry beyond sour memories, yet lifegiving.
Twirl me in tuille skirt. Pirouette my toes until . . . I tour jeté into the light. Abbracadabra these Covid spikes. Disappear them to reappear nowhere.
Vamp up the timpani as brass blares. Let me wave my arms conductress supreme. Through the finale of all finales, with oxymoronic cadenza.
Cadenza me into a new world opus. Melodious, and most importantly, pandemicless, fomentless, argumentless, povertyless, violentless, hatredless, bLESSed be this world.
Cadenza, (Italian: “cadence”), unaccompanied bravura passage introduced at or near the close of a movement of a composition and serving as a brilliant climax, particularly in solo concerti of a virtuoso character. Cadenza | music | Britannicawww.britannica.com I take poetic license with the word. Here, the cadenza continues the piece, leading into a new world: thus an oxymoronic finale.