She lives her life as a barnacle would,
clinging tenaciously to faith
in an eroding world.
inspiration
Resistance
Hear the guttural call
a loon in the midst of porous fog.
Tall ships tack ‘gainst angry waves
sails unfurled defying blowhard wind.
Sturdy spruce dig in, roots entangled,
stand valiantly in permafrost.
Voices merge, rise from depths,
like dawning sun they swell.
Their magnitude undeniable,
push their way
gain strength and energy,
overcome darkened skies
You cannot dim her torch
it shines her promise for the many.
Those who passed her by in awe
eyes raised, hearts knowing
hope lives and shall
forevermore.
Haibun Delight
I sit waiting. Orchestral music building. Gilded theatrical surroundings. Audience hushed. Clara, in white flimsy floating gown, on pointe. Drosselmeyer’s back to us. His arms outstretched dramatically. I know what is coming. The audience knows what is coming. And yet we gasp as the tree begins to increase in size, taller and taller. And our applause grows louder and louder and spirits soar higher and higher.
darkness waits for dawn
sliver grows to orb of light
always gifts the morn
Today we have a surprise guest host at dVerse. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time for haibun Monday. A haibun is prose, which cannot be fiction, followed by a haiku. My prose refers to that most magical scene in the Nutcracker when the Christmas tree grows before our eyes. Photo: best sunrise photo I’ve ever taken in Provincetown!
My Choice
Crimson me
solitary vibrant leaf
bright among the detritus of fall
Crimson me
rising sun ‘neath lone streak of cloud
splashing daylight into roiling ocean’s blue
Crimson me
hand-tied twisted rambling tail
flying high with diamond kite in sky
Crimson me
red rose beribboned bright
silent love song from stoic gone rogue
Palette of smudged pastels and oils
color me in life’s brightest hue
more than a blush, a sheen
I choose patina
to shine, to soar, to sing
I choose to live in love
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Victoria is tending bar today and reminds us how important the role of repetition is in our lives. As it can be in poetry. So today we write using repetition – a phrase, a line; a sound or a syllable within a line or stanza.
Photos are from Bermuda and Cape Cod, except for the rose which is in public domain. B
The Awakening
Tis a holiday morning
to stir, to awaken,
to rise from the chrysalis anew.
Twiglet Prompt #7: “holiday morning.” A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Maybe two. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. The idea is to create a poem or piece of prose using the twiglet as the jumping off point – the shorter the better! New twiglet prompts from Misky appear each Tuesday — join the fun! Photo from our recent trip: at the Australian National Butterfly Garden in the village of Karuna outside Cairns.
Defarge She is Not
She be a knitter and weaver of love,
needles held surely in confident hands.
Magical work with rainbows of color
wee dresses, wool caps, and warmest afghans.
Strands of affection twist patterns supreme,
yarn disappearing at quickening pace.
Fingers so agile, loop thread over thread
artist sans easel, her lap as her base.
She smiles at her world and when she does err
pauses, examines and looks to assess.
What has been done? Rewind. Amend. Restart.
Good pattern for all, for life of success.
Late for dVerse Tuesday’s Poetics. Kim asks us to write a poem about an artisan, using the form/style of the famous Irish poet, Seamus Heaney. I chose to emulate Heaney’s poem Follower: written in stanzas of 4 lines, each 10 syllables in length. Also, two of the lines in each stanza rhyme — most often ABCB. This was a real challenge for me. Which is why I’m posting on Wednesday for Tuesday’s Poetics! I do enjoy a challenge…and always learn when I’m dealing with rhyme which I find the most difficult aspect of poetry. You’ve probably noticed that I mainly write in free verse. The title refers to Madame Defarge, the villainous woman in Tale of Two Cities who sits and knits, seemingly innocuously. In reality, she is knitting into the garment, the names of those to be executed.
. . . and their spirits shall descend
like tears gathered in veiled mist.
No loud incendiary words
nor rattling of chains.
Whisper soft,
they cling to mountains
obscure city views,
tall buildings topless
windows moist with deeds past.
They await a new awakening
renewed warmth of will,
a dawn of hope.
Quadrille (44 words) written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today’s word is “whisper.” Photos: left, taken on our trip to Alaska; right by Jesse Miksic.
May the spirit and hope of Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Barrack Obama, and John Lewis infuse our land.
For Louise
Littered path
fallen leaves like trodden dreams.
Though the way be narrow
quaking aspen still shimmer gold.
Sun shines through tallest trees
as faith dissipates clouds of doubt.
Lean. Push. Persevere.
March through unmarked trail.
Steps may stumble, pace may slow.
Hope shall light your way.
Poem dedicated to my dear friend. Her two year battle with ovarian cancer inspires so many. She reminds us that every day is a new beginning.
It’s Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Mish reminds us the New Year means new beginnings. She provides paintings of 8 gifted artists and asks us to choose one or more “and let the words flow.” The pub opens at 3 PM Boston time….stop in and add your thoughts or just enjoy the words of so many.
Painting credit: New Beginnings. “Jennifer Vranes is best know for her large and vibrant paintings of Aspen Forests and European Landscapes. Her trademarked technique of using a pallete knife to ‘sculpt’ in thick textures has become a favorite among collectors and Art Galleries world-wide.” ~ About the Artist-Jennifer Vranes~ jensart.com
for unto us a child is born . . .
Sweet fawn, framed by forest clearing
breath vapor hangs in air,
eyes wide alert, stare through snow.
Crystal flakes cling to coat,
velvet brown ears quiver
hear soft cries and crooning sounds.
Hooves muted by drifted snow
young woman and man oblivious
as wet nose pushes stable door ajar.
Innocent deer stands quietly,
sees calves lying in tussled straw
lambs nearby, quietly sleep.
And there, wrapped in woolen shawl,
a small babe with contented smile
held close to mother’s breast.
A simple pastoral scene,
Love and Light born this morn.
Photo credit: Benjamin Earwicker. Title from Isaiah 9:6
Poetic license taken (creativity beyond the traditional story).
That Christmas Eve . . .
White crystalline flakes
cascade from dark skies
falling, drifting quietly,
upon the rural scene.
A lowly ass plods slowly
pulled forward by a bearded man.
They lean forward,
tandem force against the wind.
The young woman huddles, sways,
shifted side to side by the animal’s gait.
Feeling movement from within,
she burrows into her woolen shawl.
Talons sunk in frozen bark
feathered body blending into frigid tree,
the snowy owl stares steadily
at the slow motion scene,
watches the couple disappear
over the hill beyond,
unaware, in the darkness,
of the Light that is to come.
Photo in public domain. Poetic license taken (beyond the traditional story).
lillian the home poet 