Crimson, orange-yellow quilt overhead,
I gaze upward, savoring the soft breeze.
Iridescent patterns shimmer, shift, and spread
a kaleidoscope of fluttering leaves.
Our days together come drifting back,
blurring soft prisms of golden memories.
And I am content.
Written for dVerse where we’re asked today to employ rhyme within our poem.
I ran outside that night,
so full of life and excitement.
Imagined your surprise and thought I would see
a grimace,
a crease,
a worried frown.
Someone finally broke through.
Landed. Slammed into you
and stepped into your heart.
Your cold, aloof self,
finally
breached.
And yet I saw nothing new.
Your face unchanged,
seeing me only
as one of many who adore you,
who live and stare each night
beneath your remote reserve.
Thirty-plus years have passed.
I arise more slowly to morning sun,
less sure of my footing,
skin aged and sallow.
I still await the end of day
to feel your face upon my soul.
I peer through clouds within my eyes
and those that skirt your skies.
For I have loved you all these years
even as you appear
and disappear
and appear again.
You my love, care not.
You seem to ignore what I crave.
All I seek these many nights
is some recognition,
some sign,
that we have been with you.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where Grace asks us to write about the moon as if the moon is a person – flesh, sweat and blood. “Describe him or her, and tell us about your moon.”
On July 20, 1969, I was 22, a graduate student at Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois. I’d heard about “the man in the moon” since I was a young child. You can “see” his face in the full moon, made by shadows and craters visible to the naked eye. On that July night at 9:56 PM, I watched my tiny portable television screen as Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon. I remember staring in awe and then immediately running outside, standing on the sidewalk and looking up at the moon, as if I could see some sign up there! And I remember thinking: tonight there really is a “man in the moon.” Dverse opens at 3PM EST. Come join us!
waves crash in full tide
rush starts at epicenter
full moon excitement
night’s passion touched rekindled
we lie in sweet exhaustion
Toni hosts the bar at dVerse today (bar opens at 3 PM) and asks us to write a Tanka, a Japanese form of poetry comprised of five lines with the following syllabic count: 5-7-5-7-7. This form is older than the haiku, first appearing in the 8th century! There is no punctuation, no capitalization, and no title. Third line is a cutting or pivot line. The first two lines examine an image and the final two lines are a personal response. Tankas were considered a “female” form, written more by females than males and were often sensuous. Photos from Bermuda.
They sit quietly side by side,
purple veined hands, silver grey hair.
Heads touch and nod in sleep,
house silent in fading sun.
Slight puffs escape their lips,
the sound of dozing love.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Walt’s prompt asks us to write about the sounds of love. Stop by to see the prompt and read other posts on this subject!
Hand in hand, we explored the ports of call: Cartagena, Puntarenas, Puerto Quetzal, Puerta Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas. The cruise of a life-time through the Panama Canal in its 100th anniversary year.
We extended our trip by two days in the final port, San Diego. Our last dinner began at dusk and ended in the dark. Sitting in a pedicab with tiny white lights round its surrey, we wended our way down the esplanade, beside city trolley tracks. Music from the driver’s battered boom box played romantic songs. And then my husband’s voice surprised me: An extra twenty bucks if you play The Time of My Life! And so the surrey stopped and we danced in the night. One year after almost losing the love of my life, I was dipping, swaying, laughing and twirling in his arms. Two lovers having the time of their lives. Thankful for every day.
ebony still night
interrupted by joyful shimmer
two shooting stars
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse where we’re asked to write about a romantic moment. Prose should not be fiction (it’s not), followed by a traditional haiku (nature based with a cutting pivot in the second line). Video was taken by our driver – you can see the train/trolley go by near the end. Photo below is earlier that day, The Kiss — statue of the famous photo taken at the close of World War II. That’s us at the bottom of the statue 🙂 Statue is near the USS Midway — which you can tour in San Diego.
Footprints disappear
in cool damp sand ridges
as low tide changes course.
Sun light
does a glisten dance,
as waters disappear in clouds.
We share our solitude,
grateful for the off-season
to rediscover love.
Written for dVerse where Victoria asks us to rewrite an older poem and add some imagery. The original Glisten is the first poem I posted when I began this blog in March 2015. Photo: Provincetown, on Cape Cod.
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.
…as we round the bend.
Steps less sure, pace more slow
hand in hand, loving still,
leaning toward the end.
Slivers of stardust
xxlie
xxxin
xxxxhis
xxxxxpath.
Stairway to heaven
lightens the way.
Paint me a rose garden
petal by petal
thorn by thorn
a microcosm of life.
A primrose kind of gal
petite with pastel temper,
wed to a brooding man,
morose and prickly by nature.
They live in a rosemål house,
flowers etched in love.
It’s quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets’ Pub with Bjorn tending bar. He asks us to write a quadrille (poem of 44 words) using the word rose (primrose, morose, rosemal). Photo is an example of the Norwegian art of rosemal.
lillian the home poet 