Bench in Spring

Sit and be still with me.
This quiet bench beside daffodils
ruffle-edged tulips and hyacinth.
Savor sun as do these flowers of spring.

Memories seared in my mind.
Sharing dreams of spring
‘neath comforter of down,
lifted up by love to sound of song.

Seasons’ promise from death to life,
blooms of rebirth near my feet.
I cry out loud so silently,
my questions float upon the breeze.

Why can’t my love return to me?
Your body too deep to feel this sun,
craves warmth from mine, a simple plea,
to sit and be, still with me.

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Photo taken this morning. Spring abounds in the beautiful grounds around our condo building in the city. Written for Open Link Night at the dVerse Poets’ Pub. If you’ve not come for a visit, drop on by and meet some of these amazing writers – or post a poem of your own. The more the merrier at a virtual pub!

Passage

You carried me
over the threshold…
alice found crazy hats
and a tea party…
stalactites dripped slowly
until they began to fall…
fissures…
apertures…
this time
you cannot be
with me…
door to something
somewhere…
and I must
pass
alone.

chairTending the bar today at dVerse’s virtual Pub for Poets. It’s Tuesday Poetics and I’ve asked folks to write a poem relating to the word “door.” Although I provided a number of photos for possible use, writers can also use one of their own. This one was taken at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts a few days ago – a space you enter wtih three walls, ceiling and floor covered in mirror or mirror-like materials with beads and jewels hanging from various areas. Looking back at the photo – it seems a passage to another world — perhaps an afterlife?  Who knows? You’re invited to visit dVerse and pop through some doors with a group of wonderful writers!

undone one

Double bed
two crowded,
they shifted to a king.
Never to touch again.

She said double or nothing,
hoping to return
to their double standard
sheets and colorful duvet.

He walked out the door,
double helix done.
One line veered off the path
unraveled, broken, gone.

Double-paned glass installed
shut out shout outs.
Final jeopardy achieved
immunity from pain.

Doubles life, double downed.
Left alone she was.
No one else.
None, no one but one.

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NaPoWriMo Day 15: a poem that incorporates the idea of doubles.

Notes from a Musical Interlude Fantasia 2

It was the big band era, lots of brass
Billy whalin’ on the drums
while Johnny waited for his riff
makin’ the keyboard swing.

And me, standin’ on the riser
my long arms waitin’ too.
“Wing span of a hawk” mama said,
just the ticket for a trombone man.

Yeah, I could slide that brass
hear the notes clear and smooth
no strings or keys,
just that long sleek glide.

And Mabel at the mic,
feathers clipped in henna dyed hair
sultry voice in the sweet spots
hips, always swingin’ to the beat.

Never made it big like the Duke
but we had our gigs.
A glass of gin between sets
and smoke swirlin’ round our heads.

They’re all gone now.
Pawned my ‘bone long time ago.
But sometimes, while I’m sittin’ here
I can put myself there.

I close my eyes and start to sway
Mabel leanin’ real close like she did.
I wheel this chair around a bit
and I can feel us back there again,
swingin’ to that big band sound.

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Rescored for dVerse Poetics Fantasia. This was originally posted in 2015, inspired by Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia. I’ve reworked it a bit — thinking it a good one for today’s prompt. I am hosting dVerse today — wonderful experience. In the words of Carl Sandburg, Go to it oh jazzmen!

Lovers

Sun slips into sea
tinging waters pink
as first love’s blush.

Their love, sowed and tilled
through leaving tears,
rekindled in this place

where sky melts blue
into waves of aquamarine.
Bodies meld familiar

then spark as old wick
stammers then flames,
passion reborn.

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Quadrille (44 word poem) using the word “melt” as prompted by Grace, tending the bar at dVerse, a poet’s virtual pub.  Photo: sunset from our deck in Bermuda.

Ganache

Ma cherie, mon amour, au naturelle
like dew drops upon rosebud petals,
champagne bubbles tickling my nose.

Sweet crème fraiche atop fresh picked berries,
whip cream dollups daubed scoop by scoop
on thick chocolat pâtisserie.

Quite simply put, my dear,
you are my ganache.

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Quadrille (44 word poem) for Monday’s dVerse, and today, De Jackson our bartender at the pub, asks that we include the word “bubble.”  Photo Credit: Enrica Bressan.

Scissor Me You

Two young blades were we
all shear joy
making lacey hearts
and peek-a-boos too.

Red crayons broken,
black marker now dry
we’re older, less sharp
and rusted with age.

In synch through the years,
our curves more rounded
our pace less quick,
we still meet at the heart
you and I.

We make each other
our valentine.

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Photo credit: Julia Freeman-Woolpert

Victorian Love

It was a summer of letters,
you there, me here.
The days of thinking slowly,
rolling words around
until they landed just right.

The days of ink to vellum
and a blotter for splotches,
hand heavy with emotion
or tear drops of missing.
And sometimes our words crossed

like a wind shift, dropping seeds
too early to be devoured or take root.
That summer of letters,
so many years and memories ago,
carefully bundled with dried lavender
tucked away in the back closet shelf.

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Photo Credit: Alex Drahon

Angels Along the Way

Six minute eternity,
seventy-two hours ago.
A cardiac arrest.

Doctors talked incessantly,
you may return or not.
And if yes . . .

Then a voiceless lull
filled that sterile beeping room
and angels’ wings were heard,
as they carried you back to me.

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Dylan Thomas, in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dog [first published by Dent on 4 April 1940] provided a whimsical explanation of the word “lull” – A host of angels must be passing by. What a silence there is!  

Angels Along the Way is  a quadrille (44 word poem) using the word “lull” — the prompt given by Bjorn at dVerse, a Poet’s Pub.  Do visit this fabulous site!
Photo credit: Benjamin Earwicker.
Thankful for every day!