Artists stand behind easels before the sea,
subject sits beneath natural canopy.
Sun reflects off sand,
reveals delicate hollow at nape of neck.
Streaming light illuminates hair by strands
as shadows gleam, challenge brushes
to blend raw umber, titanium white,
and yellow ochre oils.
Written for dVerse where today De is tending bar, asking us to write a quadrille (poem of 44 words; no more, no less) relating to or using the word “shadow.” Last week in Provincetown, I volunteered to sit for a portrait session on the beach. Little did I know these were students of Cedric Egeli, one of America’s foremost portrait artists. The second photo shows him critiquing his students. Plein air refers to painting out doors.
Joined by a solitary heron,
I watch silently
as light begins to streak the sky.
Dawn breaks and simultaneously
this magnificent creature rises,
tucks its spindle legs
and spreads its wings to soar,
assured a new day has begun.
The peacock struts slowly.
Picks up one foot
and then the other
as oglers crouch,
cameras and smart phones in hand,
waiting.
People peer through apertures,
fingers tensed to catch the shot.
And still the bird struts.
Guards its fan of iridescent blues and greens,
that myriad of non-iris eyes,
its feathered gloriosity.
The peacock stands proudly still
waiting for the peahen to appear,
not giving a whit for humanity.
Those gullible money-paying creatures
who think their presence
could be a reason for its preening.
Today, Victoria is hosting dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to consider feathers in our poems. I’ve stood waiting, at zoos and nature parks across the U.S. and in Bermuda, waiting for a peacock to spread its glorious fan and have never, ever, seen it! Facts: the peacock is the male of the species and spreads its fan in a mating “dance/call” for the female. Only the males are peacocks. Females are peahens and quite dull colored. Peacock feathers in fan-form, emit a sound only heard by peahens. Peacocks can and do fly. And, perhaps the most fun fact: a group of peacocks is called an ostentation or a party. Photo Credit: Danny Ouellet.
Daytime, meandering through the Peabody Essex Museum. I stopped to stand and look at a painting on the wall. The looking turned to gazing. Time shifted and everything disappeared. I was under the stars, the shifting clouds. Felt night’s cool air upon my face. Marveled at the moon’s path upon glistening sea. This magical night enveloped me. There was no one else. Nowhere else. Until a tap upon my shoulder made me turn my head.
luminous moon
reflects beauty in darkened sea
neath star spattered sky
Double posting today! (see also Wishful Thinking) Written for dVerse haibun Monday where Toni, the maven of haibuns, asks us to write about the night sky. A haibun consists of a short, concise paragraph of prose that cannot be fiction, followed by a haiku. PHOTO taken at the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, MA: Moonlight, created in 1892, oil on canvas. Painted by impressionist Childe Hassam (1859 – 1935). The scene is from Appledore Island, the largest of the Isles of Shoals off the coast of New Hampshire, where he spent many a summer at the cottage of Celia Thaxter.
Crimson, orange-yellow quilt overhead,
I gaze upward, savoring the soft breeze.
Iridescent patterns shimmer, shift, and spread
a kaleidoscope of fluttering leaves.
Our days together come drifting back,
blurring soft prisms of golden memories.
And I am content.
Written for dVerse where we’re asked today to employ rhyme within our poem.
I ran outside that night,
so full of life and excitement.
Imagined your surprise and thought I would see
a grimace,
a crease,
a worried frown.
Someone finally broke through.
Landed. Slammed into you
and stepped into your heart.
Your cold, aloof self,
finally
breached.
And yet I saw nothing new.
Your face unchanged,
seeing me only
as one of many who adore you,
who live and stare each night
beneath your remote reserve.
Thirty-plus years have passed.
I arise more slowly to morning sun,
less sure of my footing,
skin aged and sallow.
I still await the end of day
to feel your face upon my soul.
I peer through clouds within my eyes
and those that skirt your skies.
For I have loved you all these years
even as you appear
and disappear
and appear again.
You my love, care not.
You seem to ignore what I crave.
All I seek these many nights
is some recognition,
some sign,
that we have been with you.
Full moon over Provincetown. Cape Cod, MA.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where Grace asks us to write about the moon as if the moon is a person – flesh, sweat and blood. “Describe him or her, and tell us about your moon.”
On July 20, 1969, I was 22, a graduate student at Bradley University in Peoria, Illinois. I’d heard about “the man in the moon” since I was a young child. You can “see” his face in the full moon, made by shadows and craters visible to the naked eye. On that July night at 9:56 PM, I watched my tiny portable television screen as Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon. I remember staring in awe and then immediately running outside, standing on the sidewalk and looking up at the moon, as if I could see some sign up there! And I remember thinking: tonight there really is a “man in the moon.” Dverse opens at 3PM EST. Come join us!
Do not be squeamish about the reptilian way.
It is in the leaving that release comes.
Rid oneself of dead skin,
not as a phoenix turns to ash
and rises again.
Rather as the serpent who uncoils,
shrugs off its past
and continues on.
Quadrille (44 words: no more no less; not including the title) written for dVerse. De asks us to write a quadrille that includes the word “leave” or a form of the word. dVerse is a virtual bar for poets and opens today at 3 PM Boston time. Come try your hand and post a quadrille of your own or just come to imbibe the words of others! dVerse offers prompts on Mondays and Tuesdays and most Thursdays are Open Link Night — a time to post a poem of your choice, without restraint or motivation of a prompt. Hope you’ll join us!
waves crash in full tide
rush starts at epicenter
full moon excitement
night’s passion touched rekindled
we lie in sweet exhaustion
Toni hosts the bar at dVerse today (bar opens at 3 PM) and asks us to write a Tanka, a Japanese form of poetry comprised of five lines with the following syllabic count: 5-7-5-7-7. This form is older than the haiku, first appearing in the 8th century! There is no punctuation, no capitalization, and no title. Third line is a cutting or pivot line. The first two lines examine an image and the final two lines are a personal response. Tankas were considered a “female” form, written more by females than males and were often sensuous. Photos from Bermuda.
