Seasonal Scenes

Summer tourist ignores gawking stares,
is scantily clad
leaving little to imagination.
Too intent on catching season’s last rays
exchanging working haze for lazy days.

Its transition, felled by floral war of sorts,
gold dipped sunflowers droop defeated.
For autumn’s hearty mums,
brass and bragadocious, now gleam victorious.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse. Today Laura asks us to write a nine line poem. To make it more challenging, she asks that it incorporate a specific line from a poem she’s cited; and that line just happens to be exactly nine words long! Each of these nine words then, in that order, become the first word in each of the nine lines of my poem. Confused?
Here’s the line: “Summer is leaving too, exchanging its gold for brass” from Dorothy Lawrenson’s September. Now, look just at the first word in each of the nine lines of my poem Seasonal Scenes. And now read those first words from top to bottom and voila, they say Summer is leaving too, exchanging its gold for brass!

Photo from pixabay.com

Nature’s Bliss

Garden me . . .
cacophony of brilliant colors.
Red roses, blue lobelia
brown-eyed susans,
and raspberry-tinted cone flowers.
Beguile me with sweet scents.
Lilacs, lily-of-the-valley
and honeysuckle too.
Nearby apple trees
offer their sturdy limbs.
I climb . . .
dislodging blossoms on the way,
sit atop and dream.

Quadrille posted to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Victoria is hosting today and the word to include in our exactly 44-word poem (sans title) is “garden” . Photos from Pixabay.com except the lilac, which is outside our building. Poets from around the world gather at dVerse. Come join us!

Early Morning Cape Cod View

Lone gull at dawn
sits calmly in repose.
Papaya stained sky,
mirrored hue on ocean tide.

Lone gull at dawn
anticipates promise of new day.
Spreads wings to full span,
ready for flight.

Pauses only moments
in rippled sand by lapping waves.
I breathe in the silence,
a beautiful hushed scene.

Lone gull runs gracefully
barely touching span of sea
then lifts, gloriously,
soars toward the unknown.

Poem written in response to Laura Bloomsbury’s prompt, Flights of Fancy, which appeared on July 28 at dVerse.  Posting it today as I host dVerse’s Open Link Night. We are a virtual pub where writers from around the world share their poetry.  Come join us!
Photo taken September 2019 at Provincetown, Cape Cod.

Country Respite

Rolling hills, 
myriad shades of green.  
Drive slowly, windows open . . .  
Fresh crisp air,  
cloudless blue sky.  
Drumlins shaped patiently by glacial ice,  
Mother Earth’s gentle curves.  
Vibrant wildflowers here . . .  
flowering brush there.  
Stop. Rest.  
Inhale the quiet calm. 

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We are to use the word “drum” or a form of the word, within our exactly 44 word poem. Image from Pixabay.com

Sweet Rose Beguiles Me

Sweet pink petals,
primrose nestled ‘midst greenery.
Worry not,
I shall not assail you.
I shall take you with me,
memorized, not plucked or bouqueted.
Summer breeze ruffles your fragility.
Nearby lilac’s scent floats round you
and your color seems to deepen.
Like a young woman’s blush
at her first lover’s caress.
Sweet pink petals,
what is it in you
that stirs me so?

Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Photo taken today in the gardens that surround our building. These may not be roses, but they motivated this poem.

Loner Interrupted

He fancied himself a loner.
Enjoyed solitude.
Cabin deep in woods.
Gardener. Hunter.
Private well and still too.
Voracious reader, simple cook.
No need for wife.
Too troublesome,
would probably snore too.
Social distancing?
Should be a snap,
except for that damned guy.
Stood in his way or followed behind
whenever the sun warmed up the day.

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Written fordVerse, the virtual pub for poets where on Tuesday, Bjorn asked us to write a poem that somehow relates to solitude, and Thursday Frank asks us to write a 14 line poem.

I See Now

It must be the masks.
Most people wear one now.
Not to avoid recognition
while performing some illegal act
like robbery or kidnapping.
Rather to avoid being robbed
or being kidnapped
by Covid-19.

I used to walk down streets
see people but not see them,
hear sounds but not listen to them.
Intent on getting to work
or the store
or the whatever.
I plowed on, looking straight ahead.
No mask. No gloves.

I could have stopped to listen,
hear the blue jay in a nearby tree.
Cracked a smile at passersby.
But I didn’t.
I just plowed ahead
to get to that place,
to that thing I was scheduled to do.
No mask. Just oblivious.

Today I walked to feel fresh air.
Gloved, masked, gasping a bit.
Breathing through a piece of cloth
rubber-banded behind my ears,
only my eyes exposed.
I have nowhere special to go
but I crave being outside.
I need to see people. . .

. . . but not coming too close to me.
In their masks. Worse yet, without them.
I gesture SINGLE FILE
as they come toward me.
I listen for footsteps from behind.
Could be someone coming too close.
Round-trip walk from home,
I decide to stop on the bridge.

Leaning over I take a long look.
See a scene I’ve seen so many times
but not really seen.
Trees along the Charles River.
Water rippling from geese swimming.
And then I see her.
Mama goose upon her nest
staring warily at me.

She moves a bit and hisses.
I see new meaning to an old phrase,
one overused today. Shelter in place.
Cracked eggs beside her,
feathers in her beak,
she shifts her body and just for a moment
I see tiny wriggling masses of yellow
trying to escape from beneath her .

Does my mask make me the interloper?
And still I stare and listen and watch.
It must be these masks affecting me.
Seeing what has always been there,
season after season.
People and nature along my way.
I notice the mundane more
and finally I understand.

It never really was mundane.

April 28 in National Poetry Writing Month where the challenge is to write at least one poem per day. This is my second for today.

This one is written for Toads where we are to choose a quotation or an impression from Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird as the motivation for our poem. I’ve chosen the quotation “People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for.”

Video is from our walk this morning. 

You may want to see my other poem, written for dVerse today. It will take you to the Norwegian fjords!

Birch Tree Lane

This place spoke to her
and she said yes.
Her party would be waiting
her bridegroom, her love.
All standing patiently
in windswept open field.

Her dress of white ethereal silk
flowed as she walked alone
oh so slowly down the path.
She held a small bouquet,
delicate white freesia
hyacinth and sweet peas.

Birch trees lined the trail,
leaning in as sentinels would
protective and quietly calm
seeming to guide her steps.
Lush greenery everywhere
leading to her new life.

This stretch of spackled white bark
delicate in its strength.
This birch tree lane
seemed an extended bridal veil
approving her decision,
her love for him.

Their lush branches
whisper-rustled encouragement.
Trees on either side,
embracing her in calm serenity
as she took step after step forward,
until at last, they were all at her back.

She turned and looked once more
these birch trees, their beauty,
leaning in to line this walkway.
They seemed now to be
her wedding gown’s bridal train
bidding her adieu . . .

and she smiled . . .
turned . . .
and stepped into the open field

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April 21: day 21 of National Poetry Writing Month. Today Kim at Toads asks us to write about trees. Photo taken some years ago when we visited our niece in Ohio.