Squint your eyes,
tantamount to willful aperture.
Unsee dissonance, the ugly, the bad.
Visualize instead the good wherever it may be.
Work it. Become it. Traverse only there.
X marks the spot and if you believe, it can be found.
I’m hosting Meet The Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. At MTB, a particular form of poetry becomes the prompt. Today, I’m asking folks to write an Alphabet Sestet! A poem of 6 lines that uses an alphabetical sequence that appears in the first word of each line. Hence, I’ve used the alphabetical sequence S-T-U-V-W-X in my poem. The first word of each line, begins with the corresponding letter of the alphabetical sequence. Line 1 starts with S; line 2 starts with T; line 3 starts with U; etc. Any alphabetical sequence may be used: writer’s choice!
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us. It’s easy as A-B-C, 1-2-3 in the words of the Jackson Five’s wonderful early hit! 🙂 Image from Pixabay.com
Do not ruminate.
Savor the past but live now,
today has choices.
I remind myself today
and will tmorrow,
happiness is a choice.
Mish is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks folks to write about lessons they are still learning in life. Photo from our time in Norway last year.
Eyes closed, gaze within
picture sun and feel its warmth.
Searching deeper . . .
deeper still . . .
seek the ocean’s glistening path.
Breathe in . . .
and now sigh out . . .
bask in rest within your mind.
Permit the balm, accept its calm.
Slowly begin to open . . .
eyes . . . heart. . . soul.
You are a gift within the gift,
God’s new day.
Napowrimo Day 6: Pay particular attention to line breaks, pauses, space. A poem a day until its May. April is national poetry writing month.
Photo is Easter morning’s dawn from our deck in St. George, Bermuda. We return to Boston today.
the twenty-four-seven variety.
a listening ear,
open heart and mind.
Willingness to wear another’s shoes.
Must self-identify with humanity
not gender, race,
or place of origin.
We need you,
I’m hosting dVerse today and asking folks to think about the words “super hero” and “super power(s)” and write a poem that is somehow related to or motivated by those words. The words themselves may or may not be in the poem. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come on over to read some super posts!
georgia on my mind.
androgynous. severe. erotic.
enigma of your times.
independent by design,
plainspoken in style.
red canna. female genitalia?
we think, you denied.
energized by the big apple,
southwest weathered and drawn.
artist who became,
middle name unknown to most.
artistry praised by many,
alive beyond your death.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today, Bjorn asks us to write a letter poem. S/he is inspired by my visit yesterday to the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, MA to see a Georgeia O’Keefe exhibit. Photos above all appeared in the exhibit, in addition, to one erotic nude photo of her (taken by Stieglitz), behind a very sheer curtain. Her middle name was Totto. These are all photos of her. You may be familiar with her abstract depictions of brightly painted flowers and leaves. Feminists believed her red canna flower series were abstract representations of famale genitalia, which she adamantly denied. She is also famous for her landscapes of the Southwest. Post written in all lower case, to exemplify her simplistic clothing choices and style.
She moved to New York City and married Stieglitz, a famous photographer who would take over 300 photos of her. Midway through their marriage, she began to travel between New York City and New Mexico. When Stieglitz died in 1946, she moved soon thereafter, permanently, to New Mexico. She was also good friends with the famous American photographer, Ansell Adams. I would love some day, to visit the Georgia O’Keefe museum there.
Can you recall her?
Elfin sprite, youthful innocence.
from rose petals tipped toward sun.
Turned acorn crowns upside down
savoring drops of morning dew.
Danced with snowflakes
tasting cold on outstretched tongue.
Cup your wizened hands
‘neath steady drizzling rain.
Raise them to cracked lips
eyes closed, sip deeply.
Written for dVerse Tuesday Poetics where Paul asks us to pen a poem about “drinking”; being as creative as we wish with the word.
She, the earliest of living things.
Her strength, serenity.
Eternal for the ages.
Birthed ‘neath a solar scrim
stars and silver moons afloat,
heavenly aura ’round her soul.
In her hand she held thee, wren.
Firstborn feathered creature
created from wisps of love.
Genesis of multiples
winged in soaring flight,
traversing through her skies.
Red blossoms, thorned and not,
suckled from her bosom soft
kindness sipped by every bloom.
Life seeded within her mind
begat entangled branches,
generations of humankind.
Earthly homes imagined
crowned forth upon her head
’til eyelids softly closed,
whispered words escaped her lips.
Now they must live.
I’m hosting dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, asking folks to chose one of four images that I’ve provided, from talented artist Catrin Welz-Stein.
I also published The Cat and the Elephant, using another of her images.
I love the serenity of this image. If you click on her name, you’ll get to her website which includes much more of her artwork. Thank you, Catrin, for letting us use your beautiful images for motivation today! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and be inspired!
I sit silently this early morn,
scenes from yesterdays
flickering through my mind.
Their childhood. My childhood.
Her sliver-thin sugar cookies,
his wool overcoat and black galoshes.
These scenes from Christmas past
remembered through the hush of time.
Light shafts begin to intrude,
cast shapes upon the floor.
Today encroaches as the rising dawn.
Reluctantly I stir,
take up requirements of the day
but a promise I do make.
On Christmas Day, in early morn
I shall return to these shadows,
to this quiet place of calm.
I shall recall again the way it was,
the ones who were, those many times.
And I shall whisper to my memories,
Merry Christmas to all.
I am with you still.
embued within the sky
floating midst the clouds
cool mist above rushing waters.
I walked this earth
stacked small rocks
in special places.
Grieve not for me,
Between your steps
feel me still.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. And we begin anew. Week 1 with 43 more to come. Today, Quadrille Week 1, the word to use within our poem is “rock” – or a form of the word. Come join us! A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words…sans title.
Slip on spectacles;
do not seek spectacles.
Seek slightly furrowed brows
tear drops forming in their duct
delicate veins on clover leaf
cloud wisps tinctured in palest pink
puddled reflection of toddler’s yellow boot
catsup melding into whole wheat bread
smiles of mirth ‘neath crinkled eyes.
Slip on spectacles to see the good.
In the spirit of the poem, no photo or illustration included.
Motivated by a prompt from Holly Wren Spauldings online class…a list poem.