Does the sun, obscured by gray clouds,
feel like she’s brushing clammy cobwebs
from her perspiring face?
Do stars sputter when meteorites flash by,
hogging their solar spotlight?
As the moon waxes,
does she feel guilty about her expanding curves?
Does the sky feel belittled
when her brilliant blues blend with ocean hues,
blurring her celestial hemline
with saltwater slurps in a hazy horizon?
Are clouds frustrated
when winds blow them off course?
Do tides falter
when lunar rhythms lose their beat,
as if the maestro’s baton
has developed a score of its own?
Looking up, I wonder . . .
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Bjorn asks us to write a poem that consists only of questions. And indeed, we are looking to the skies as Cape Cod is under a tropical storm watch tonight and tomorrow, expecting residuals of Hurricane Jose.
He lived a crab’s life
sidling through his world
without confronting anything head on.
She never knew who she was.
Today, servant to his whims
yesterday his foil.
Tomorrow, his jewel case on display.
In her youth, the obedient child.
Perfect pianist stretching to reach the pedals
daddy’s little girl,
Turn this way, look here.
Here, not there.
Do this. Do that.
She’d led a kaleidoscope life
until all the pieces crumbled,
reduced to shards.
Two poems, one short, one a bit longer, written for dVerse. Today, Bjorn hosts and asks us to write metaphorically. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. For those who need a quick review from their highschool poetry unit, very basically stated, a simile is a comparison using the words “like” or “as.” A metaphor is a comparison without using the words “like” or “as.” Both photos in public domain at http://www.pixabay.com
even in the serenity of Cape Cod’s seashore
there are reminders of life’s turmoil.
Sea grass, once vibrant green
turned darkly dank
littering the shore,
forced asunder by ocean waves.
Three molted hermit crabs
espied at low tide,
battling over prized shell
future home for only one.
Salt water and mold
slowly rotting undersides
of aging, once sleek sloops.
In one’s calm,
one must not forget
those living through the storm.
Posted on my blog on 9/13 —- but seems it fits beautifully for Bjorn’s 9/14 prompt at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. If you already read this yesterday, apologies. But I did want to repost for dVerse. Bjorn remins us that life has meaning metaphorically speaking. A metaphor is a comparison, without using the words “like” or “as.” As I relax at the beautiful Cape Cod seashore, I am reminded by bits and pieces of nature, that others are struggling to recover from recent hurricanes and monsoons — struggling to regain a sense of calm and balance in their lives. For them, the storm, even when the rains and winds have ceased, continues.
usurped by Thor.
Relentless temper rains
ruinous torrential tomorrows,
inundates the land.
Cloud-sieves drain seemingly forever.
Altruism birthed midst missing sun.
Notable acts of kindness shine,
emerge, kindled by catastrophe.
Frank hosts dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets, asking us to write an Acrostic. An acrostic includes a word or phrase hidden within the first letter of each line. You find the word by reading vertically down the left side of the poem. Image in public domain at pixabay.com
In the neighborhood where we raised our children, there was a beautiful weeping willow in the front yard next door. Our children loved to have picnic lunches beneath its low bowing branches. Other times, all the children in the area gathered and played tag, running in and out of the green lacey-leafed cascading curtains, sometimes tripping on the roots that made the ground lumpy beneath its shade. Laughter abounded around the tree.
The only day it earned its name was the day the arborists came. They sawed it into pieces. Drilled out its heart-stump, and carted it all away. My children watched the scene in horror and cried their hurt that night as we sat at the dinner table. Mother nature wept her disappointment in a summer evening storm. Strands of weeping branches littered our street, until the street cleaner arrived early one morning and swept all evidence away.
birds sing sweet sorrow
weeping willow cracks in grief
earth disrobed by man
Thursday is Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Gail is hosting and asks us to come imbibe some words and post one poem of our choice – no prompt given. We’re a friendly bunch. Come enjoy!
She remembers hot spots,
hands thrown up in disgust.
spewed words laced in spittle.
She walks this Icelandic landscape alone
breathing sulfuric stench.
Eyes sting, nostrils flare.
She feels and sees and hears
the earth stew, bubble,
seethe and steam.
Flumes sputter, gain strength,
spray vitriolic anger.
Shielding her eyes,
she searches for some shade of green,
some sign of hope
beyond this godforsaken land.
If she stands still
she understands now,
she will be consumed.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Our host is Kim and she’s talking about “flexing your verbs” in a poem about a landscape. Photos were taken outside Reykjavik, Iceland on our recent trip. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come imbibe some verbs with us!
instinctively gaze toward warmth
nature’s weather vanes
dry themselves to seed.
Inside-out they sow themselves
to green and bloom again.
Written for Misky’s Twiglets. Two word prompt given this week, “inside” and “out” to spark a thought, a phrase, a poem. The shorter the better, hence the name twiglet. Photo: taken last year on the Rose Kennedy Greenway in Boston.
Imagining herself on silver screen,
seductive in lace, she hosts a soiree.
She lures her guests, her evil goal unseen,
with delicate threads to lead them astray.
Her hourglass figure, tempting when seen,
is summoned to weave a web for her prey.
Beware, Miss Arachnid’s truly notorious.
Her venomous kiss, always victorious.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today, Frank is hosting and asks us to write an Ottava Rima. A new form for me, and quite challenging. It is actually an old Italian form of poetry that has multiple stanzas of 8 lines, in iambic pentameter (10 feet per line), with an ababababcc rhyme scheme. Frank gave us a reprieve and said one stanza was acceptable. Iambic pentameter also involves a pattern of unstressed and stressed syllables — which I find extremely difficult — so I originally went with 10 syllables per line and avoided the stress! The version you just read, went back and aimed for the iambic pentameter. I have new admiration for Will Shakespeare! Stop over and see what others have done with the form — or better yet, give it a try yourself and join us — we’re a very friendly bunch! Photo in public domain.
Descending into Earth’s belly
we clamber over solidified lava,
misshapen slabs, coarse and sharp.
Crouch. Walk. Crawl in darkness.
Her innards surround us.
Two thousand years have passed
since she belched fire
spewed molten fury
encased this land.
Liquid anger flowed and ebbed
cracked in cooling drafts
left behind tunnel pathways,
cold witness to those fury days.
My mouth agape,
body chilled to the bone,
we move through this, her confession,
the scars of a temper once unleashed.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Paul asks us to write a poem from our underground travels. Paul opens Tuesday Poetics at 3 PM Boston time. Photos: from our recent excursion into the lava fields and extinct volcanoes outside Reykjavik, Iceland. We actually went underground and explored a 2,000 + year old lava tube. That’s me in the purple. Last photo is what the land above the tube looks like — that’s lichen growing on ancient lava fields. Very barren and harsh. Iceland is one of the world’s most sparsely populated countries. It has extensive volcanic and geothermal activity (see photos with my one sentence poem entitled Geyser. About 50% of Iceland is mountainous lava desert. Only 1% of their land is cultivated.