Join me here to rest, to smile . . .

Might I take a seat here, please,
inside this idyllic photograph?
Feel tall grasses brush against bare shins,
wiggle toes in flower petals and stems.
Gaze at pristeen white barn
settled in among the green,
all quietly still that day.

I would lie back, eyes softly closed.
Breathe in deeply, fresh cool air,
untainted by cruelty, division, or derision.
Eyes open, I would swim deeply
amongst wispy billowing clouds
dancing in sky blue patches above my head.
Then . . . stretching my arms wide,
I would move them up and down at my sides
until a gentle flower/grass angel’s wings appear,
unlike winter’s icey-cold snowy counterparts.

Rising up, I would take two giant steps away,
look down and smile.
There is my impression.
Where grasses and blooms lie flat,
there resides spring’s angel imprinted on the field.

In reality, I hold the photo in my hand.
Its freshness, its simple beauty,
reminds me of that which once was me
many many years of springs ago.
Naively unaware, just living in the moment,
in those myriads of moments,
unaware of bends in the road ahead.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting OLN (Open Link Night). Writers are welcome to share one poem of their choosing, no required length, format, or topic. ALTERNATIVELY, they may use the OPTIONAL prompt which I provide: write a poem inspired by the photograph above.

Lessons from the Bard

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
There is a man among us
who struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
leading others who listen blindly.
His words, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing
that is truth.

What is past is prologue.
Poets shouldst therefore heed the Bard,
his timeless words meaningful yet today.
There have been many great men
that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them.
But how is one to label this man as great?
Perhaps in the way of Satan’s greatness
controlling some, luring others.
After all, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
Oh what men will dare to do!
Let no such man be trusted.

What of those who follow, whose integrity be lost?
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
There’s small choice in rotten apples.

In these chaotic times,
what is our fate, my friends?
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny
but in ourselves.
For each of us can add to the light,
hold our candle high in windows across the land.
One will become many, and many become a multitude.
In light’s refraction, his rabid followers stagger.
They shall greet fear in their mirror.
Positions no longer secure
as multitudes greet them shouting “SHAME”.
Truthtellers stand in solidarity,
voices raised, we cannot be ignored.
THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!

The Bard penned:
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; 
And thereby hangs a tale.
Loud enough, persistent enough, we must be the solution.
Hands that right the scales of Justice.
We must take control of the tale.
Destiny be in our hands.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril hosts and asks us to consider fate. She suggests we could, for example, consider Frost’s or Shakespeare’s words on fate. I’ve chosen to refer to the Bard himself, within my poem. All of the bolded lines are quotations from Shakespeare. Let the Bard speak to you in these chaotic times!

All images except the scales of Justice are from recent demonstrations I’ve participated in. The scales of Justice image is from Pixabay.com

Palette Lacking

some days
it seems a stick figure world
sketched in
lines only
charcoal lines
no curves
no tints of color
no punctuation
negation
no positivity
stuck motionless
mural of ethnocentrism
narcissistic me-ism
artists and poets needed
to add crimson hearts
splashes of love
everywhere

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to include the word “sketch” or a form of the word, in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words sans title).