angry winds swell waves
rock ship tossing bed fellows
sweet dreams dissipate
Written about last night, sailing from Kobe to Shimuzu, Japan. Today we hope to see Mt Fuji. Japanese say she is quite shy, often hiding in the clouds. Perhaps she is a distant relative of Denali?
Yes, we’re a bit bleary-eyed today!
Fair warning, dear shadow of mine,
tonight we tinker with time.
Clocks are set anew,
springing ahead one hour.
I tell you now, dear shadow of mine,
hoping that when we walk tomorrow
you shall not lag behind.
Day light savings time starts tomorrow. image from pixabay.com
Winter kisses.
Snowflakes on lashes
tip of nose
caught on tongue.
Winter fury.
White-out curtain
howling winds
sleet and ice.
Winter warmth.
Wooly mittens
snuggle downs
‘neath gramma’s quilt.
Winter leaving.
Snowman drooping
puddles form
days grow long.
Winter gone.
Crocus pop-ups
daffodils shine.
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,
trickle downward
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
veins protruding
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!
Darkest grey
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
Nature’s nymph.
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.
Impatiens,
burning desire
bursting his bachelor buttons.
Dainty yellow lady slippers
softened her step
coming closer, closer still.
Beautiful bosom
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.
lillian the home poet 