There is vulnerability
in unconditional love.
Sensual giving,
baring our souls.
We commune
in tonight’s passion
and tomorrow’s mundane.
We are,
as love is.
Anmol (HA) is guest hosting at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. He asks us to explore desire and sexuality in poetry – and to write about desire and identity. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time…come join us!
Dancer by trade,
she entered and exited on cue
shuffled feelings and muffled flaps,
anger building as he controlled every move.
Until she left.
Shuffled off to Buffalo,
her patience finally tapped out.
Hats . . .
so many in a lifetime
exchanged with curves in road.
Strapped on through squalls,
gently worn on balmy days
stored on shelf when out of style.
Mother-hat,
adjustable as needed
blessed to wear.
Daugher-sister hats
occasions departed,
retired too soon.
Yourlove-hat
once perky, so with-the-times
never veiled.
Labelled vintage now
slightly creased with age,
worn with gentle smile.
Yourlove always,
shining in my mirror.
You are harborrific.
When squalls appear,
dark clouds that threaten hope
creating an eclipse hard to swallow,
you are my comfort place.
I love our passion.
But mostly . . .
I love lying beside you.
Our hand-touching-hand
breath-slowing-to-sleep
end-of-day soothing, calming
togetherness time.
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, I’m asking folks to consider the word harbor. Use harbor or a form of the word in your quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). I’m looking for harborlicious poems — taking a bite of poetic license with the word is allowed — as long as we see the word. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Pastry chef by trade,
she specialized in delicate souffles
risen to perfection.
Until he stormed out that night,
slammed the door hard –
and everything collapsed.
Our ancestors. Our families.
They sailed through rough seas.
They worked hard, dreamed big.
We are us because of them.
Their identities may fade but
Their determination remains apparent.
Pictured and posed in family albums,
They live on in sepia tones.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It’s Meet The Bar Thursday (MTB) and Frank hosts, asking us to write a Reverse Poem. Read it top to bottom. Read it bottom to top. Line by line. It makes sense both ways. Quite challenging!
Photos:
Left: Hjalmer Siegfried Hallberg, born in Sweden, 1884. Arrived Ellis Island, NY at age 22, in 1906. My husband’s grandfather.
Right: Adam Gruenwald, born 1857 in Germany. Arrived in U.S. in 1880. Grandfather to my father.
And here it is in reverse, including the same punctuation at the end of each line.
Immigrants
They live on in sepia tones.
Pictured and posed in family albums,
Their determination remains apparent.
Their identities may fade but
We are us because of them.
They worked hard, dreamed big.
They sailed through rough seas.
Our ancestors. Our families.
Mr. Rogers . . .
putting on his sweater.
Not Angry Birds.
Pen Pals . . .
Waiting . . .
for book three,
Harry Potter
and the
Prisoner of Azkaban.
Not a Netflix binge.
Family vacation . . .
road trip
with I Spy
and
the license plate game.
So . . .
tell me.
How are you,
really?
To listen . . .
leave space . . .
to wait . . .
slow down . . .
to appreciate time.
To think . . .
before we blurt.
A skill.
A common sense attribute,
I fear is becoming a lost art.
Patience.
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Jill asks us to consider unseen things, reminding us that only about 5% of the universe is visible matter. Patience is something you cannot hold in your hand.
Tiny Tina Twinkle
flit about the pumpkin patch.
Her little voice like merry bells
she readied for the snatch.
Magic dust in her wee hand
she sought out Peter’s wife.
Took her from that horrid shell
to share her fairy’s life.
In response to Misky’s Twiglet # 85, “voice like merry bells.” A Twiglet is a short phrase or a word. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. In a whimsical mood today 🙂 And posted, although rather late, to dVerse OLN with Kim hosting.
I have no need for mirrors
or overly affective words.
Aging is reality.
I need not be reminded
of it stealing time
elasticity and
dew-fresh skin.
But you, my love,
wrap me as if in gold,
caress my heart.
You hold my hand
and walk with me,
as if we are young love
now as then.
Wrapping up our dVerse 7th anniversary week, Frank asks us to write a septet. It can be a single 7-line stanza or a poem with two or more 7-line stanzas. Image is one of my favorite Gustav Klimt works, The Kiss (from Wikipedia Commons).
Mood swings
like a funicular,
she caught you in the ride.
Racing high on her glory-buzz
till you she blamed and screeched to stop.
Spittle flew as vicious words she flung.
Careening down tracks so worn
you knew the path to come.
And when in final years
rolling rosary beads
unable to ascend,
she waited still
oh so silently
to exit her
living
hell.
