Floating on a massive cruise ship, some days with ocean on every side as far as the eye can see, I am reminded that about seventy-one percent of the Earth’s surface is water-covered. The ocean makes up about ninety-six percent of that. I am one person among two-thousand-plus, traversing just a portion of these waters on this day, in this place.
Docked in Geiranger, Norway, the fjord rises up around us. We rest at the feet of Mother Earth. Her shawl of earthen tones and greenery spills out from the sea. Her pearlescent snow capped peaks rise far into the sky. Off ship, we feel very very small. A motor coach takes us up a winding road; so steep the bus seems angled in a partial recline position. We stop where snow makes further progress impossible. Spring melt has just begun. Stepping out into fresh, clear, crisp air, we look out and down. Our ship is dwarfed by the mountains. While the ocean occupies more surface space, landmass leads in terms of relief, colors, and grandeur. I stand, a speck amongst generations who have lived before me and those who will live after me, absolutely mesmerized.
winter’s snow-capped peaks
deter footsteps upon the pristine
Seven Sisters wait patiently
Bjorn hosts Haibun Monday at dVerse today, asking us to write about water. In homage to Bjorn’s Scandinavian roots, I’m writing about our cruise through the Norwegian fjords. The Seven Sisters are magnificent famous falls in the UNESCO-protected Geiranger fjord. Alas, since the spring melt was just beginning when we were there, five were dry and two were quite small in output. They need the full spring melt to achieve their grandeur. Photos taken in this magnificent place. The sun was shifting as we were there. Just a gorgeous day!
leaf-ruffled skirts of red and gold.
Nature’s can-can dancer,
autumn kicks up her heels.
Desperate emerald envy.
Brownish grey chameleon
scampers across dirt path,
seeks scintillating shrubbery.
Ah . . . relief,
greening on a leaf.
I’m hosting dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. It’s Tuesday’s Poetics and I’m asking folks to write a poem that includes their birthstone. For example, if you’re born in May, your poem must include the word emerald; January birthdays, garnet; April folks, diamond; etc. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come on over!
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