She spoke to me
among all the junk art
hanging in that gallery.
She spoke to me.
Look at her!
Wine-opener for arms,
I do love Chardonnay.
my emotions do flow.
that’s Pollyanna me.
Beaded, feathered earring-skirt,
like miniature dream catchers
always at hand.
Glued on wire, forever smiles.
Whimsical socks with moving feet,
will gladly tap dance, to any beat.
Forget all the photos
down through the ages.
I knew it then, and I know it now.
She’s definitely me
and that’s why I bought her.
So I’m thinking this morning
sitting staring at her,
what are we made of
and who really are we?
Haphazardly or carefully,
crazily cobbled together?
Maybe that’s it then . . .
and she smiles down at me.
We’re all cobbled together.
We’re all just junk,
junk art at heart.
Day 3 of NaPoWriMo, national poetry month, where the challenge is to write a poem every day in April! Today’s prompt from Imaginary Garden with Toads deals with existentialism, as in anything to do with “what is the meaning of life?” What are we really all about?
Photo of junk art bought in Bermuda a number of years ago. She hangs in my study where I see her every day – and she makes me smile.
cuticles freshly nipped, filing complete,
pomegranate red lustered.
Fingernails tap on table top
waiting for him to call.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where the prompt word was “red”. Image from Pixabay.com
It was to be a celebratory long weekend in Washington DC. We would all gather in a large rental house to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary. Our children. Their children. The Circle of Love as we call ourselves. Dinner reservations made. Photographer arranged. So long in the planning. Fifty years in the making.
And then the unthinkable took hold across the globe. It became clear we would not be “eleven total in raucus revelry.” Instead we are sheltering in place in our individual homes. Venturing out for groceries. Taking our own walks on separate unbeaten paths in three different cities, in two different states. We do connect with phone calls and Facetime to insure all are well. We share tales of in-house projects, board games, and home schooling. Love is always heard in our eleven voices – no matter the distance. And for this we are grateful.
spring time daffodils
untouched by Covid-19
dance closely in sun
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Kim asks us to use a previous poem we’ve written about ourselves, and from its core, create a haibun: 2 paragraphs of tight prose followed by a haiku with a seasonal mention.
My haibun today is based on my previous poem Solitude and quotes one line from it.
Photo taken on our walk yesterday — keeping “social distance” from others but enjoying the hope spring brings. So many daffodils planted along the banks of the river Charles…so close together. Would that we can all soon embrace our loved ones and walk arm-in-arm again.
To all my readers: stay safe, stay healthy, stay positive.
The angry eyes do frighten me.
The mane, his crown, doth cause great fear,
and I recoil, my wish to flee.
The angry ayes do frighten me,
my voice, once loud, drowned out. His glee.
The king now rules, his roar severe.
The angry eyes do frighten me.
the main, his crown, doth cause great fear.
Poetry form is a TRIOLET, suggested by Frank who hosts Meet the Bar today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. A TRIOLET = 8 lines with iambic pentameter and an abaaabab rhyme scheme. If that’s not enough of a poetic sodoku for you: the 1st, 4th, and 7th lines must be the same; and the 2nd and 8th lines must be the same.
PHOTO taken yesterday at the incredible San Diego Zoo Safari Park. Yes, the lion was that close to me….but there was glass between us!
Pick a plant most like you.
Obviously, she said,
Rouged pink bosom blossoms,
bursts forth from green signature gown.
Rapier scathing words,
thorns thrown at his every overture.
but peeling away her defenses?
Nigh to impossible.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Mish asks us to include the word “peel” or a form of the word, in our quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
What plant best describes you?
Fifty years . . .
we’ve had the privilege of growing old together.
May there be many more.
Carolina Jessamine with baby blue eyes
nicknamed Monkey Flower as a tot.
Ignored social norms,
rogue shooting star in the cosmos.
Obediant plant? Spineless prickly pear?
Wild Bergamot learned,
seduced on her lady’s bedstraw.
Hybrids and selected cultivars?
for a beautiful bouquet.
Kim hosts dVerse today…asking us to include the word “wild” – or a form of the word – in a Quadrille. Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
I immediately thought of wild flowers and went to a seed catalog and the internet for names of wildflowers. Nine wild flowers are included in the poem: Carolina Jessamine, Baby Blue Eyes, Monkey Flower, Shooting Star, Cosmos, Obediant Plant, Spineless Prickly Pear, Wild Bergamot, and Lady’s Bedstraw. Yes: Obediant is spelled correctly here.
It was a secret,
what really happened.
She swallowed it,
buried it deep.
But it festered,
gnawed at her.
Invaded her thoughts
at inopportune times.
Stuff it. Just stuff it!
She tried. Oh God she tried.
She could manage alone,
step up and lean in.
clad in stern business suit.
She wore luminescent pearls,
Eyes up here, buddy!
Words yelled at him,
but only in her head.
Feelings choked back again.
ME TOO she wanted to scream.
But it was a secret,
what really happened.
She swallowed it,
buried it deep,
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where Tuesday Poetics is hosted by Merril. She asks us to write a poem somehow involving a secret. I am not a member of the MeToo movement….but this is my heartfelt concern for those who have suffered abuse and hold it within. Photo from pixabay.com
So the path behind is longer
than the trail ahead.
Wild flowers still bloom,
ready for picking along the way.
No more reins to white knuckle.
The children are loose
reining in their own foals,
galloping in fields you planted,
tended many years ago.
Embrace your lover joyfully
as days and weeks slip by.
Love more deeply, gently, surely.
Expect to share the morrow gladly
as you kiss the night goodbye.
Written fordVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Frank is tending bar, asking us to write a soliloquy poem today. Photo from Pixabay.com
If I could choose, let us be a kaleidoscope.
Created by One with artistic eye,
teacher of Truth who understands,
together, we all shine best.
You, me, everyone as glass shards.
Infinite hues, shapes and sizes,
knowing we are at our finest
melding into one design.
Sun and moon do shift their paths,
causing solar temperaments to flare.
Tempted to mirror that discord,
reflections may tip, slightly askew.
Then quietly, with kindly understanding,
One gives but a gentle twist.
We realign, nudged ever so slightly,
even more beautiful than before.
None of us misshapen.
No color better than another.
We mirror each other’s good will,
design so glorious to behold.
Would that we could truly be
one magnificent kaleidoscope,
birthed within the cosmos.
Each bit valued,
an intricate part of the whole.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Mish is hosting and asks us, “Do you ever wish you could just wave a magic wand, eliminate everything that creates havoc, unrest, uncertainty, injustice? I do. Today I am asking you to do the same. Dream with me. . . create and describe a ‘new world’ as you envision it.”
Photo from Pixabay.com