Knees creak. Arms once firm, crepe in thinning skin. Hands stiff in morning show off puffed blue veins, like highways on ancient road map. Grey hair brittles, mine still thick, yours not so. Burgeoning cataracts blur our pleasure but still we embrace life and love, changed as it is.
Waltz with me, take my hand. Hear the gulls call to us fly o’er us, soar for us dance for us on the sand.
Oceanside, hand in hand me touching, you wishing souls in tune, now kissing three-stepping, lusting fanned.
You’re so strong, hold my hand dance with me, past the sun dance with me, past the clouds through the stars, never land.
Oh my dear, damn this waltz. Pen down now, poem be done. Quick-step me, quick-step me! Now . . . now . . . now . . . never to cease. Now. . . Now. . NOW! Ahhhhhhh . . . release.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late to Thursday’s post – Bjorn hosts and asks us to consider the waltz in poetic form. For example, the waltz is usually danced in 3-beat measures: 1 – 2 – 3, 1-2-3. I’ve tried to have three beats throughout, so for example, the first line is “waltz (1) with (2) me (3), take (1) my (2) hand (3)”. Tricky. I’ve given it a go and ended up with a waltz on the beach that turns quite bawdy! FYI: the quick-step is another ballroom dance, quite opposite in pacing and attitude than the waltz or tango for example. Image from Pixabay.com
Night sky’s scrim beams on us. Heads tipped, eyes heavenward, cold crisp air embraces. Hope gleams bright, if we believe.
Heads tipped, eyes heavenward, stars shine, diminish doubt. Hope gleams bright, if we believe, this truth shall live through pain.
Stars shine, diminish doubt hearts must open willingly. This truth shall live through pain, our love shall bloom again.
Hearts must open willingly, words must tumble free. Our love shall bloom again, night sky’s scrim beams on us.
Late to post to Peter’s prompt for Thursday’s Meet the Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to write a pantoum. Pantoum: comprised of 4 line stanzas the follow this pattern: 1,2,3,4; 2,5,4,6; 5,7,6,8; 7,9,8,1 In other words: * the second stanza repeats the second and fourth lines of the first stanza, in its first and third line. * The third stanza repeats the second and fourth line of the second stanza, in its first and third line. * This pattern continues until the final stanza which repeats the second line of the stanza preceding it, as its first line; and the first line of the entire poem as its final line. Quite tricky to write in the pantoum form and still have sense to the poem, without the form “sticking out” to the reader’s sensibility!
Top of the hill. Treeless. Wildflowers blanket the meadow canopied by cloudless sky bluebird blue. She stands, shear linen skirt billowing arms outstretched, face tipped toward afternoon sun.
Long ago declared their place, they still meet here every year. This day. This anniversary of his death. She feels again his touch, so real within the mountain air. Yellow buttercups glad to see her, wave spritely in spring’s breeze.
Delicate petals succumb to wind, part from stem and float toward her. Adhere to tear streaked cheeks just as his kisses did that final day. Sandals tossed aside, dew moistened grass licks her toes and she smiles.
He is with her here. Their love was real, still is, and shall be forevermore.
Bjorn from Sweden is hosting OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Tonight the pub is live – poets will gather via the miracle of technology, visit with one another and read their poetry aloud. It’s marvelous to connect names with faces and voices. Everyone reads in English and we usually have folks attend from Sweden, India, the UK, the US, Australia, and other places around the globe. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
Call me to lie down in the fragrance. – D. Margoshes, Seasons of Lilac
Bare brittle branches and snowless grey pallor, this winter’s reality. Night dawns starless as we slip into dreams. Our bed afloat in riotous blossoms, spring collaged in wildflowers cacophony of colors and scents. There is but one season with you by my side. Calendared through so many years, this season of love.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura asks us to write a poem inspired by a final line from a poem. She provides us with a number of lines and we are to choose one. We may use that line as an epigraph, but are not required to do so. The line can not be in the body of the poem; nor can it be the title of the poem. Epigraph: a line from another source, inserted between the title and content of one’s poem. It should somehow complement the poem. Photo: from a visit to Ireland’s Blarney Castle a number of years ago.
I reach for your hand, my love. I seem to do that more often as the days age on. We walk more slowly, notice things more minutely. Outside our window, that jay, perched on winter’s shivering branch. Sky blurs. Sometimes blues to hazy violets. Sometimes shifting reds to soft shades of orange, as day slips into night. There is a truth we cannot deny. The path ahead is shorter than the one we’ve tread. No less glorious, just different. Each time my hand seeks and finds yours, there is quiet reassurance. We are us for another day, another hour, another moment in time.
Photo taken at our beloved annual sojourn in Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod.
Early fall breeze wisps over me touches my brow, my nose, swirls ’round the room. Plastic window blinds plink a tune.
Lying, just barely awake, my hand touches yours. Fifty years together, twenty years enjoying this place.
Provincetown’s oceanic lullabies, gull squalls and answering calls, raucous Commercial street walks, and paint-brushed skies to end the days.
Lying next to me, this year’s fourth night, your fingers curve round mine. Your lips puff out some snoozing air and I smile.
Eye lids heavy, I imagine us young again. Dancing in the stars riding on moonbeam tails, and I grin myself to sleep.
Photo taken in Provincetown from our deck, BC (before Covid) in 2019. This year we are hunkered down, still enjoying the ocean and beautiful scenes similar to this, but maintaining our Covid-bubble. We are not walking in to town to galleries, restaurants, and shops. Here’s hoping next year will find us on raucous Commercial street again!
Standing in front of the sea, she smiles with moon-kissed lips. I immerse myself, deeper and deeper still. Explore her nautilus curves. Ebb and flow within her wake, then lie still as darkness gives way to light and dawn awakens me.
I lie stilled on deserted beach. Low tide surrounds me, as if the ocean bared its soul. Oh rapturous sleep, I question thee. Was she real, this goddess of the night? Or was she but a siren escaped from far-off craggy coast? Tears flow from my eyes staring up at blushing sky.
Spent am I, splayed out on moist and rippled sand. And then my fingers feel . . . what? Something smooth and cool to touch. A nautilus. I stare at it in wonder. Then slowly, lowered to my lips, my mouth upon its curved edge I whisper hoarsely, I shall return tonight, my love. You are my destiny.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where it’s Tuesday poetics and we are asked to explore erotica in poetry. I like to think of this as romantic rather than erotic. Simply my choice of words. Photo taken last year in Provincetown during a full moon.
We romantics ~
five decades joined,
content to lie still together.
So much love
as fingertips touch fingertips,
lips linger a bit for goodnight kiss.
My wish as eyes slowly droop,
may we rise together in the morrow
joyful for another day.
Written for Misky’s Twiglet # 183 where the prompt is “we romantics” –