Pick a plant most like you.
Obviously, she said,
Rouged pink bosom blossoms,
bursts forth from green signature gown.
Rapier scathing words,
thorns thrown at his every overture.
but peeling away her defenses?
Nigh to impossible.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Mish asks us to include the word “peel” or a form of the word, in our quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
What plant best describes you?
The small San Diego garden plot lies waiting. Remains stripped bare from summer past. Green straggling leggy vines meander over and under blunt-cut branches of a now anonymous plant. Dried tall corn stalks stand in leaning stance, blown by winds or simply bent from lack of care once the cobs were picked.
Long woody stems are capped by dry flower tops, their name a mystery to me. Brown scaled outer shell still holds tight to popped open pods. Each pod is perhaps six inches across and contains what looks like spiderweb short wisps of silken threads. I am smitten by these long-past-their-prime blooms and try to capture their beauty in photos – some in monotone black and white, others in their natural earth like tones. I am sad to know these plants, beautiful in their drying state, will soon be cleared as new seed is sown.
transports dried seed in plumage
beauty travels far
Photos taken Saturday, on a walk through the beautiful campus of San Diego State University. We came upon a small garden plot by the art buildings. It was obviously left untended until spring, when it will be cleared and replanted.
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Frank asks us to write about the coming spring. Haibun: two or three tight paragraphs of prose (must be true) followed by a haiku that invokes a season.
Carolina Jessamine with baby blue eyes
nicknamed Monkey Flower as a tot.
Ignored social norms,
rogue shooting star in the cosmos.
Obediant plant? Spineless prickly pear?
Wild Bergamot learned,
seduced on her lady’s bedstraw.
Hybrids and selected cultivars?
for a beautiful bouquet.
Kim hosts dVerse today…asking us to include the word “wild” – or a form of the word – in a Quadrille. Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
I immediately thought of wild flowers and went to a seed catalog and the internet for names of wildflowers. Nine wild flowers are included in the poem: Carolina Jessamine, Baby Blue Eyes, Monkey Flower, Shooting Star, Cosmos, Obediant Plant, Spineless Prickly Pear, Wild Bergamot, and Lady’s Bedstraw. Yes: Obediant is spelled correctly here.
Eucalyptus trees stand tall.
Look up, look down and feast your eyes.
Lily pad shaped quilt of greenery
melding into rolling hilly ground.
Brambles. Clover flowered shrubs.
All revel beneath blue sky canopy,
clouds banished in sun’s reign.
Sit. Breathe in.
Photos taken this morning from deck at our rental apartment in San Diego.
There is beauty in ash
as embers glow brightly.
Once sapling, resilient to touch,
life juices now almost gone.
Last moist quiet hiss
escapes crumbling sinews
as ashes join earth.
Glowing flecks break free
catch wind, flicker and float.
in darkening sky.
Posting to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today I’m hosting the final Quadrille Monday of 2019. Quadrille: poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I’ve chosen the word “glow” as the Quadrille prompt. Folks must use the word “glow” or a form of the word within the body of their poem. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop on by!
We hiked across lava fields
steam rising in the distance.
Kilahuea, birthing new shoreline,
slowly spilling into the sea.
Lagoon House was our delight
on beautiful Kapoho Beach.
Delerious with plumeria’s scent,
we swam wth sea turtles oh so close,
in nearby Champagne Pond.
No longer content with shoreline,
Kilahuea’s temper rose.
Eruptions spewed farther, fiercer,
gave birth to graveyards deep.
Solidified lava, fifty-feet thick,
buried that beloved place.
Homes gone. Plumeria gone.
Pele, Kapoho’s sole resident,
silent in her new abode.
Photos from our stay at the Lagoon House in 2001. That’s me floating/snorkeling in Champagne pond, just beyond the house. We really did swim with the sea turtles there. And we took our children and their spouses on a lava walk tour — obviously Kilahuea was very tame then – although it was HOT and hissing and the hardened lava was very sharp.
Kilahuea’s angry eruption in 2018 and the result today. The beautiful home we stayed in, and that entire area, is now covered by fifty-feet of lava. The last photo is a rendering of Pele, the goddess of volcanoes.
Thank you Amaya for our dVerse Tuesday Poetics prompt — to address “birthing” in some way.
sunrise red softens
sky stains blur gorgeous pastels
tint sea pearly-pink
curmudgeon sea gull
squawking, scolding, guarding catch
flaps wings, screaming MINE
stealthy no more, gulls swoop in
garnet red sunset
crimson canopy save gull
streaking across sky
Photos from the past two weeks in Provincetown….all as seen from the deck of our annual rental. No photo-shopping….these are the real colors as we saw them.
Ptown, at the very tip of Cape Cod, has been a muse for many an artist as well as literary giants including Mary Oliver, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, Norman Mailer, Eugene O’Neill, and John Dos Passos.
Layers of putty grey clouds hover on the horizon. Empty masts jut upward from small boats bobbing in waking waves.
Look right: off in the distance, pale blue sky meets roof tops of white clapboard buildings; the town, a twenty-minute walk away. Look left: eyes squint as water glitter-gleams. The sun appears then disappears, valiantly trying to break through slow moving, darkening clouds. A lone gull perched on jetty’s peak, preens itself then sits, nature so statuesque, as waves slap against stone, lap into shore.
Morning pauses, weather waits . . . deciding on its temperament for the day.
early September ~
dalliance between summer
and crisp autumn days
Posted to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Frank asks us to write a poem that includes descriptive detail.
My haibun (prose followed by a traditional haiku that includes a seasonal reference) is about what I saw this morning, sitting on the deck of our annual two-week rental in Provincetown. Photos document the view! Provincetown is at the very tip end of Cape Cod.
Wooooshhhh . . .
wooooshhhh . . .
waves sweep in,
rhythmic oceanic refrain.
Sun glittered ripple-path
narrow at shore,
widens to horizon by risen sun.
Solitary floating cormorant
stretches sleek neck,
floats . . . then dives under,
resurfaces yards away.
in the nick of time,
news cycle left behind.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Prompt word for today is “nick”. It must be used within the body of a poem that is exactly 44 words in length, sans title.
Photo from yesterday morning — sitting on the deck enjoying our beloved Provincetown…at the very tip of Cape Cod – just beginning our two week respite here.
serene me, lull me
autumn morn in Provincetown
ocean sings its song
Just beginning our annual two weeks in our beloved Provincetown.