Eyes droop in early morn,
pen moves slowly as words dribble.
Muse remains softly ensconced,
asleep in warm bed across the hall.
inspiration
Be Ye Not Desolate
White curtains flutter.
Breeze billows through fabric,
createing long cloth ripples
filled and unfilled by unseen wind.
Door left ajar.
The void space within its frame,
a vacancy that waits
filled with hope.
The null set.
Emptiness that knows,
change by one
changes everything.
Written for dVerse, a virtual poets’ pub, where Bjorn is tending bar today and asks us to write a quadrille (44 words, not including title) that makes use of the word jar. A bit of poetic license: did include a jar (ajar).
At the Gate
The mare, so far away,
a sense of movement in the fields.
I stood watching,
belly nine months large.
Motion rippled through the grass
matched by rushing winds.
Mane flowing, she galloped toward me,
legs in synch with some internal pace
ears pinned against the breeze.
I stared, mesmerized.
She sauntered close, approached the gate
then slowly turned and bent to graze,
beads of sweat upon her flanks
breathing deeply at her task.
I stood watching quietly
until arms jerked reflexively,
hands to back as waves within me
grew to jabs, a quickening pace.
And so I left the mare that day,
neighing softly in the winds.
She watched me as I’d watched her,
when I placed the latch upon the gate
and crosed the creek toward home.
Posting today for OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Gayle opens the bar at 3 PM – drop in and imbibe some words!
joyfulJOYFUL
One dot from a pointillists’s brush,
starts the ripple in a river’s sheen.
Grab the energy of love,
fling it long and fling it wide.
Build positives and can-do-its
into mountains of hope.
Add a life-time partner
and work together
to pass it on.
Tending the bar today at dVerse, asking everyone to write a self portrait quadrille: 44 words – no more, no less; not including title. Stop by and see how folks paint themselves with words rather than a brush! Photo Credit: Pointillism by NikkiNavaille.
Blue Bird Nest
Four tiny eggs
nestled in matted twigs.
A blue impossible to describe.
Beauty in miniature.
Hope personified.
Photo: My son holding a bluebird nest outside his home. He “hosts” bluebirds several times a year.
i am…a frog?
like a pollywog
but continual
constant metamorphosis
life’s playpen journey
never habitual
every step negates that
sister, wife, mother,
teacher, painter, dancer,
sometime-poet
daughter
daughter is missing
from the list
pollywog always
pollyanna mostly
metamorphopolly
named wrong
should be polly
could be…
because
i am…
we are…
you are…
a becomer
photo credit: Hyunhee Park
Passage
Slivers of stardust
xxlie
xxxin
xxxxhis
xxxxxpath.
Stairway to heaven
lightens the way.
Summer Solstice
Who made this day?
This longest day in the journey.
Scarf thrown off, head tilted back,
away from ticking hands.
No clocks in sight.
More time to revel in the sun.
And she shall do a walk about.
About the bird who places one more
blade of new mown grass upon her nest
and then another and another still.
About time that cannot stop,
but will elongate,
prolong the light on this day,
a broader spectrum in which to heal.
She sees you seeing her.
Watch longer. Hold tighter.
Her body whole, a holy place,
where prayers of so many reside
and battles will be won.
Walk about this longest day,
savor life and love.
Dedicated to my friend, Louise.
Walter is hosting Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse and asks us to consider the Summer Solstice, perhaps beginning with the idea of another poet. I looked to Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day which begins, “Who made the world?” Photo from Cape Cod — sun rise —
Finding Me
My job surprised me. I was a person I thought I was not. Travelling the world alone, meeting with corporate VIPs like I knew their business. Their eyes looked for someone else when they entered the room. And they found just me. India, Morocco, Germany, China, Thailand. And just me.
In Brazil, on a rare no-appointment day, I took a flying leap. Quite literally.
Strapped to a stranger, we took five running steps to the mountain’s edge and I was hang gliding. He started to talk. Point out landmarks below. Shhhh. Please, no. Silent exhilaration as we drifted through rays of sun. Slow banks turned me to a spiritual place: empowered, thankful, proud. I am doing this. Feet touched earth after ten minutes of solitude strapped to a man I knew not. And during that time, a lifetime of time, I became a new me.
Breeze flows midst rays of sun
clouds drift through golden shimmer
let go, let God, and soar.
Haibun written for dVerse Poets’ Pub, Open Link Night. Poets may post a poem of their choice. Photos: yep – that’s me.
Memorial Day 2016
Stars and stripes ripple in the breeze,
spirits from thousands past
breathing life into those folds of cloth.
The lone sound of Taps cuts through crisp air
bearing witness to their sacrifice,
the price they willingly paid
that we might live in freedom’s path.
Bjorn is tending the bar today at dVerse Poets’ Pub and asks us to write a quadrille (44 words) using the word “breeze.” Taps is a slow haunting melody, traditionally performed by a lone bugler, at military funerals and ceremonies. Today, May 30, 2016 is Memorial Day in the USA – a day on which we honor those patriots who died serving our country; and give thanks to all veterans who have served or are serving today.
lillian the home poet 