She becomes the sun in his world. Dazed, stunned, smitten. Emotions whirled. Fierce sunbeam.
Parhelion in mocking sky, her beauty shines to mystify. Burned. Sunstruck.
Moist tempting lips smile to ensnare. Hips beckon, sway in daylight’s glare. Felled. Sunstroke.
Obsessed he beds her day and night primal, neurotic appetite. Sunscalded.
His money spent, he’d been cajoled. Drugged. Job over, she leaves him cold. Done. Sunset.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Grace hosts today and introduces us to the Compound Word Verse:
This complex form was created by Margaret R. Smith: Five 3-line stanzas. Fifteen lines total. Last line of each stanza must be a compound word. The compound words must share a common stem: IE sun, sunbeam, sunstruck, sunstroke, sunbathing, sunset. Rhyme scheme must be aab. Syllable count must be 8, 8, 3.
Parhelion: a sun dog or mock sun called a parhelion in meteorology, is an atmospheric optical phenomenon that consists of a bright spot to one or both sides of the sun.
In the night of day Luna lights the path over oceans deep. Vast sea of glistening caps ever gleaming, beckoning me. Your visage when last we met, only that has kept me safely undone by storms and cloudy skies.
There is no fear, no dread, nothing vague. No questioning of time. Row on, row on, this cursed ship. My dreams, my thoughts aswirl, I shall reach you, my everlasting joy.
An Acrostic Plus, written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
I’m hosting and ask folks to either write a poem related to something that puzzles them, use the word “puzzle” in their poem . . . or extra points for writing an Acrostic Plus, a form I created: Read down the first letters in the lines of the first stanza and see what they spell; then read down the last letters of the lines in the second stanza and see what they spell. You should then have a message related to the poem!
Love and laughter abound from youngest to oldest, three generations. Memories shared, stories told, memories made. The circle of love goes around and round . . . . . . we are blessed to still be aboard. Thankful for every day.
All photos from last weekend….and what a joyful time we had at a marvelous VRBO farmhouse in Virginia!
Knees creak. Arms once firm, crepe in thinning skin. Hands stiff in morning show off puffed blue veins, like highways on ancient road map. Grey hair brittles, mine still thick, yours not so. Burgeoning cataracts blur our pleasure but still we embrace life and love, changed as it is.
They met late in life. Widow and widower, their rooms were down the hall from each other at Pine Woods Rest Home. He insisted on being called James. Everyone knew her by Sunny. They both despised bland food and working jig saw puzzles. She liked flippy organza dresses and he always wore a tie. While many dozed in front of the blaring television, they shouted out answers to Jeopardy in a friendly competition. That Christmas season, they sat beside each other holding hands during sing-alongs. On New Year’s Eve, they joined in on the countdown at 9 PM. In her silk nightie that night, as the clock glowed 11:30, she heard the pre-arranged quiet knock at her door. “If you are a dreamer, come in” she trilled. This would indeed be a dream come true. Who said lovemaking is the domain of the young?
Today I’m hosting Prosery Monday at dVerse. In Prosery, writers are asked to write a piece of flash fiction that can be no more than 144 words, sans title, and include a specific line from a poem that the host provides. The line must be exactly as written in the original poem, except the punctuation can be changed. The line I’m having people include in their flash fiction today is If you are a dreamer, come in. It’s from Shel Silverstein’s poem Invitation from his book of poetry for children entitled Where the Sidewalk Ends. Prosery Mondays are the ONLY days at dVerse where we do not write poetry – we write flash fiction that includes a specified line from a poem.
Top of the hill. Treeless. Wildflowers blanket the meadow canopied by cloudless sky bluebird blue. She stands, shear linen skirt billowing arms outstretched, face tipped toward afternoon sun.
Long ago declared their place, they still meet here every year. This day. This anniversary of his death. She feels again his touch, so real within the mountain air. Yellow buttercups glad to see her, wave spritely in spring’s breeze.
Delicate petals succumb to wind, part from stem and float toward her. Adhere to tear streaked cheeks just as his kisses did that final day. Sandals tossed aside, dew moistened grass licks her toes and she smiles.
He is with her here. Their love was real, still is, and shall be forevermore.
Bjorn from Sweden is hosting OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Tonight the pub is live – poets will gather via the miracle of technology, visit with one another and read their poetry aloud. It’s marvelous to connect names with faces and voices. Everyone reads in English and we usually have folks attend from Sweden, India, the UK, the US, Australia, and other places around the globe. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
This is not a snow globe this is me seeking refuge slipping mentally inside, beautiful crystal orb.
This is not a snow globe but a world disrupted. Lies pummeling us everywhere beliefs shaken, in disarray.
Wellbeing, within our grasp. Shake loose the tyranny. Set it down firmly and stop the madness.
This is a snow globe. Sentries within trust us. When their world is shaken they know we will reset the calm.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we are asked to write an object poem and begin with the words “This is not a ….” We are asked not to simply describe the object, but to relate to it. How does its existence affect me….what does it mean to me….how do I relate to it at this moment. Photo is the snow globe on our coffee table … a Christmas decoration I’ve had for many years. I love to tip it and see the beautiful shimmering “snow” swirl inside.
the day of and days after and after that’s leftovers
like youthful kisses I love those leftovers too
the you and me season after season, still savory good.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Sarah asks us to write a response to a poem we’ve read in the past year. Below is the poem I modeled mine after. It appears in jelly roll, a collection of poems by African American poet Kevin Young, winner of the Patterson Poetry Prize and Finalist for the National Book Award. I tried to simulate his form and like him, used a type of music as the title. And yes, that’s my husband and I fifty years ago and obviously, much more recently!