Arboreal cobwebs.
Ethereal threads glimmer in sun,
intricate patterns
cling leaf to leaf.
Familial cobwebs.
Wisps of the past,
displayed on tables
ready for yard sale.
Charlotte’s cobwebs.
Eager youngsters
admire the spinning,
imagination’s delight.
Gray matter cobwebs,
clammy uneasiness.
Disturbed cluttered thoughts
provoked by age,
exasperated by twenty-four-seven news.
beneath the window
of an unsuspecting lot.
Ashes mixed in dirt
under nondescript bush.
Mother’s gone,
long since moved away.
Current tenant leans out,
shakes rug as dust balls fly.
Leg lifted, dog pees,
unaware its daddy’s spot.
Occasionally, in summer’s sun,
butterflies grace his unmarked grave.
She left today.
Someone else packed her things
shrink-wrapped paintings
boxed up lamps, books.
But they had no idea
how to fit memories
into the moving truck.
So they left them all behind,
for me.
Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. While dVerse take its summer hiatus, I will continue to share my somewhat poetic thoughts here….and invite you to read, like or dislike, comment or not, as you wish. Sometimes the muse strikes, even in the midst of a beautiful summer day!
Somedaze
life is like a giant Sudoku.
I should fit in here.
So (how) do I?
So-do I do ok
with you?
I’m good with Jumbles.
I can fill in those kind of blanks.
______ and I are ______.
But I don’t do numbers.
Not like that. Not linear.
So not Sodoku.
Can we just
turn the puzzle page . . .
please?
Better yet,
let’s get a different book . . .
can we paint by numbers instead?
I‘m hosting OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. Why not drop by and post any one poem of yours so we can all enjoy? Photo from Pixabay.com
She stumbled through life, nomadic in her search for meaning. Somehow alone when surrounded by others. Even more alone with the one identified by many, as her true love. She finally fled the good life in New York City, to homestead in Montana. Cleared the land, blisters budding on calloused hands. Days passed into nights and nights into days. She savored their rhythm, beginning to understand who she was. Only then did she put pen to paper . . .
. . . Please know, we never could be, even when we were. My voice was too matched to yours. I am not who you heard or saw. I never was. Do not search for me. When far away, an interrupted cry reminds you of that last night, please know that cry, from wherever it comes, is my spirit thanking you, for letting go.
Word Count: 144. Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn hosts, and begins, a new category of writing for dVerse: Prosery. Prosery is similar to Flash Fiction, but with a dVerse spin! Writers must write a piece of fiction with 144 words or less, that includes a particular line of poetry, provided by the dVerse host. For the inaugural Prosery prompt, Bjorn asks us to include the line “When far away an interruped cry” taken from the poem acquainted with the night by Robert Frost.
Lost too soon . . .
gathered in pews
eyes tear-glistened,
memories spill from pulpit.
Amazing Grace reverberates
voices swell in unison.
Hear us missing you,
lost too soon.
Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya prompts us to “Cry Me a River” — write about a song that brings us to tears or makes us melancholy.
Photo from Pixabay.com
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth, you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Khalil Gibran
Twelve voices soar,
faces aglow.
Response to powerful words.
Reach out your hand
And I’ll be flying home.
Twelve voices soar,
touch us.
Emotions enveloped in yours.
My work is finished
The angel’s command.
Twelve voices soar,
pull us
into a new world.
Carry me on . . .
I’m flying home.
Twelve voices strong.
Thank you,
we heard your song.
Italicized words in poem are lyrics from Jason Robert Brown’s Flying Home – a song from his musical Songs for a New World. Last night we were privileged to see this show, which is literally a song cycle without any dialogue between performers, sung by 12 students at Phillips Academy at Andover. It was hard to believe these were high school sophomores, juniors and seniors. They literally carried us through a gamut of emotions as they sang (lived) moments of decision by the characters they became. If you’re not familiar with the song, Flying Home, click here and you’ll understand the power of the piece – stick with it to the end. And yes……it was powerful in last night’s Phillips Academy production.
labeled Taurus by sun,
emerald green by hue.
Fire and earth,
my elements.
1947,
year of the pig.
All this I am told.
All this I read . . . and ignore.
You are my mirror.
In you, my reflection
has no labels,
no boundaries.
You release me,
you always have.
I suspect
you always will.
Stalwart, loving,
supportive, accepting.
Together,
two individuals
side by side,
in sync.
Two harmonious melodies
with unique time signatures.
Two strong vines,
you and I, intertwined.
We blossom sans labels,
sans categorizing systems.
We soar in harmony,
Zodiac be damned.
Amaya is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to consider cosmology, the various systems that define us by elements, astrology, etc. Image is from a family album of geneology I am creating. That is my writing…and this is actually a page from my father’s desk calendar, ripped out the day I was born; laminated, and carried by him in his wallet until the day he died. He had another one from the day my brother was born. That small block printing “LILLIAN” below the calendar, is his handwriting. A draftsman, he always wrote in block print.
Maneuvered.
Layer upon layer,
expectations for perfection.
Like yeast-leavened dough
worked and plied,
slathered with to-dos.
You-wills pummeled into thinning skin.
Turned again and again by strong hand.
Beneath the slamming and kneading,
beginnings obliterated.
Raised to croissant elite.
Bran muffin, never an option.
Posted for dVerse Quadrille Monday, a bit late! Quadrille is a poem composed of exactly 44 words, sans title. The prompt word, to be included in some form for this post was “up” — I’ve used “upon”. dVerse is a wonderful virtual pub for poets at http://dversepoets.com. Prompts are given every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. Come join us!
Like a peregrine
caught in a tailspin,
hard pressed
to find calm within.
To escape the din,
to rest,
seeks his lover’s inn.
Ah sweet nest of skin,
sweet breast.
Form of poem is a Lai: nine-line stanza with syllabic and rhyme requirements as follows:
line 1: 5 syllables, rhyme word a
line 2: 5 syllables, rhymes with a
line 3: 2 syllables, rhyme word b
line 4: 5 syllables, rhymes with a
line 5: 5 syllables, rhymes with a
line 6: 2 syllables, rhymes with b
line 7: 5 syllabkes, rhymes with a
line 8: 5 syllables, rhymes with a
line 9: 2 syllablesm rhymes with b
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets.
Photo from pixabay.com
