Snowflakes on lashes
tip of nose
caught on tongue.
sleet and ice.
‘neath gramma’s quilt.
days grow long.
De is hosting dVerse Quadrille Monday. She asks us to include the word (or a form of the word) “kiss” in our exactly-44-word-poem (sans title). Thought I’d go lighthearted today. Seems to me we can always use some smiles. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time….come on over for some smooching! Image from Bikes And Books on Flickr.
Earth warms herself
sun gazes more deeply.
Snow crystals liquify,
through softening hillside,
quicken to rushing rivulets.
Winter stillness disappears.
Stream babbles, meanders,
gains strength through shifting pebbles
as plant life regenerates.
Grasses wave to river’s symphony.
Nature steeped in spring song.
Mish is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. “Steep” or a form of the word must be used within our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo in pixabay.com
There is a beauty in the withering . . .
as if through sheer will power
life endures in fragility.
Color long faded
curling inward . . .
Death shall not win
until snow blankets the earth
to comfort its fall.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Mish is hosting and asks us to write a poem in which we find beauty in the ugly. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Day dallies before night,
languorous not angry.
No streaks of orange-red.
No temper tantrum flares.
No sinking glaring half-orb
stamping her rays.
This evening she dabbles,
pastel palette en plein aire.
Blushing, she rouges blue sky.
Sun butter yellows upon her brush,
delicately blend into rosey hues.
Bending closer, stroking more,
soft kisses touch ocean calm
till violet hues meld into scene.
She pauses quietly in her beauty,
then softly fades farewell.
Sunset photos I took two nights ago in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. No photoshopping; no edits. Just pointed my phone and clicked. Breathtaking evening as you can see. Easy to understand why artists and poets (including Mary Oliver) flock to Provincetown. Sadly, our annual two weeks here ends on Saturday as we take the ferry back to Boston. Provincetown, you never disappoint!
Mish hosts OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Open Link Night means anyone can share one poem of their choosing.
to pearlescent cream,
nature’s demarcation divides the sky.
Storm cloud tier looms,
like heavy horizontal quilt
atop matte-dull strip of bright.
Ocean broods below,
accentuates smudged palette
in film noir scene.
Cape Cod indecisive morn.
dares the gazer –
define the coming day.
Photo taken several days ago from our deck in Provincetown, Cape Cod. This is in color. I did not photo shop to black and white. The day did turn into a blustery one, as if the sun had taken leave.
caught in summer storm
damp hair curls on neck
feet squish inside shoes
skirt billows in gusty wind –
tears masquerade as rain
Child of the moon, wed to earth.
Mossy slippers quiet her step.
Willow frond skirt swishes in breeze,
natural scent blends with trees.
Seek her healing balm
amongst urban parks, forest glens.
Or retreat within your mind,
savor soothing rivulets of calm.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where it’s Quadrille Monday. Kim is our able and creative pub tender. She asks us to use the word “earth” in our exactly-44-word poem. Photo taken on our trip to Ireland. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
He waited in the garden.
Their daily early tryst,
always morning glory.
bursting his bachelor buttons.
Dainty yellow lady slippers
softened her step
coming closer, closer still.
draped in ivy,
touched by morning dew.
Primrose to many,
but he knew better.
Those swinging rosehips,
passion flower in disguise.
Written for Misky’s twiglet # 88, “ivy draped.” There are seven flowers mentioned in this poem, in addition to ivy. Can you find the all? A twiglet is a short phrase or word that is aimed to prompt.
‘Tis a bleeding heart she kneels to touch
twixt garden replete with anemones.
Tears fall, drenching red-lobed blossoms,
whilst silent sobs take leave from half-bent frame.
Loneliness stalks her vulnerability
as sun begins to fade and violet shades the sky.
Fragile moss roses shrink within themselves
having lost the rays of day.
Anguish struck, she sags at the sound
as wrought iron gate clangs shut.
Lover no more, their friendship spent,
mounted, he urges steed to faster speed.
Digs, indeed embeds, his silver spurs
into rippling sweating flanks.
He rushes, nay, he flees from her,
she ripe with unborn child
his seed within her womb.
Hapless garden waiting but to bloom.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Sarah hosts today, asking us to consider the language of flowers….a popular craze within the 19th century when writing was how people communicated over distance and time. Within a list she provides, Garden Anemones are equated with “forsaken.” Trying my hand at a Victorian tone here.
What is a venial sin? What is the Immaculate Conception? What are the Ten Commandments? What are the seven mortal sins?
As a young child, I had to memorize answers to Catholic Catechism questions before I could make my first holy communion. One of the greatest benefits I gained from my early Catholic education was the ability to memorize. I spouted off those answers quickly and matter-of-factly as my father patiently sat in his big green fake-leather chair, asking the questions. He never went to church – except for mother’s day, Christmas and Easter. Yet he sat patiently, testing me on my catechism questions.
I remember my father as undemonstrative. I don’t remember being hugged or hearing him say, “I love you.” But I understood years later. He showed his love in different ways. For example, listening to me spout off doctrine he didn’t believe. The one answer I parroted, but could never ever understand, and never dared to ask a nun or priest about, was the one that basically told me my father would go to hell because he didn’t believe. No way. He had the patience of Job. He was a good man. And he was my dad.
huge white pelican
rules of gravity be damned –
soars in autumn skies
The White Pelicans migrate every fall to Florida. With a 9′ wingspan, they are one of the largest birds in North America. And they soar.
Amaya hosts dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to considerthe 7 deadly sins, and/or the 7 virtues. We may consider our relationship to them — or how they affected us at some point in our lives. I’ve written a haibun: 2 or 3 tight paragraphs of prose (must be true), followed by a traditional haiku.
Missing my dad….