The Old Lamp Lighter

Lamplighter of yesteryear
resides light years away.
Nightly strolls relocated,
he illuminates the stars.

Written for dVerse where I’m hosting today, asking folks to write a poem that contains the title of a Billboard Magazine #1 hit recording from the year they were born, or their early years of growing up. The Old Lamp Lighter, recorded by Sammy Kaye and His Orchestra, 1947. Below is a drawing my 10 year old grandson did for this post.

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Helen Cecile

Discombobulized,
she was like that.

Wound up tight tremors,
taut sprockets of the mind.

Spring-like nerves compressed
temper flares spewed.

Church hands folded, twitched, 
flailed by noon.

Even keel sailing
turned runaway train.

Expect the unexpected,
she was like that.


Kim is hosting today’s quadrille ( a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to use the word “spring.” Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! 

One narrow drawer . . .

for putting in.
Rarely
taking out.

Three corroded pennies.

One pale yellow
Tupperware bottle cap.

One hair comb.
Strands
stuck in teeth.

One black and white
cracking
turned grays
dime store photostrip.

Sachet
absent scent.

Seven holy cards.

Lipstick bottom
almost empty
vibrant
red.

Tumbled
left behinds.

Bits
of
her.

Written for day 3 of my poetry mentor’s March 21 Day Challenge online poetry class. We are to write a poem of short lines with many stanzas.

Mementos

Dried roses,
brittle as beleagured time.

This yellow, paler now,
graced a funeral spray.
Dew kissed by tears,
gathers patina of dulling dust.

This blood red, from wedding bliss.
This soft blushing pink,
remembrance lost.
Dimentia by decay.

Dried roses,
crumbling petals.
Fading synapses
midst prickly thorns.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It’s time for Tuesday’s Poetics with Mish tending bar. She asks us to write about a memento. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come post a poem or just enjoy imbibing the poetic words of others. Remember, dVerse exists in cyberspace — a virtual pub — so we have poets from around the world post with us! It’s a meeting of poetic spirits – and we call it our virtual pub! Come visit! New prompts on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays — although I try to post here every day. 

This I’ve Learned

When two become one, the base remains two.
When two multiplies to four, the base remains two.

Time invested.
Birthing and unconditional love.
Your child’s everything
until independence blooms.

Time apart increases.
They see more, learn more.
And you step in and out,
never fully immersed again.

And they leave.
You are the beginning two again.

Memories, age spots,
and more love.
Knowing as they become two and multiply,
it is a cycle born to repeat itself.

And the most important arc is the base of two.
That is the constant.

Sharing with Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today there is no prompt. We’re free to post one poem of our choosing, Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! 

I see a suburb . . .

one street after another
plat map symmetrical.
Slide rule log-a-rhythm’s
syncopated beat.
Red-amber-green lights
directing the inane.

Where are the pick-up trucks,
dust-kicking rolling roads,
clothesline flapping shirts,
and front porch swings?


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where we’re asked to write suburban poetry today!  Looking at my Seascape photos and post, also done today, I think I prefer the sea side to the suburbs!

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

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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!

The Visit

The earth moved, an aperture in time.
Tectonic plates shifted within her soul
left behind an open space,
a void within her life.

She stood above where he lie.
Moist grass licked her ankle bones,
feet planted firmly as she stared down,
eyes a spiral, boring deep and deeper still.

And when the summer storm came
she gently lowered herself,
a prostrate form upon the mound,
to protect him from the pelting rain.

She imagined his shape beneath hers,
tucked her arms close in beneath her chest.
Face resting upon the stone
she felt the granite, cool upon her cheek.

I love you always she whispered.
And lying still among the tombs
lying with him once again,
she felt his love within her heart.

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