Mother sang about the man in the moon.
I don’t understand how he can wax and wane.
Like that maxim “love one another”
seems to wax and wane
if people are others instead of another.
Reality morphs, contorts,
always in flux.
Except for you.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where today we’re asked to use the word “moon” in our poem of exactly 44 words sans title. Image from Pixabay.com.
My kaleidoscope memories,
colorful because they feature you and me.
Time before you
sepia toned, indistinct.
Like a deeply embedded sliver
tender to the touch,
fear festers
as you sleep beside me.
I need
longer days
and many many more,
to continue being us.
Written for dVerse where today it’s Quadrille Monday. Kim is hosting and asks us to include the word “sliver” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Image by Dmitri Posudin from Pixabay
Take my hand. Travel with me
through starry starry nights
to a new place not yet discovered.
Not yet befouled by humanity,
but still palpable in its existence.
Happiness, serenity, joy,
jubilation, celebration, exuberance
good works and caring,
and most importantly,
optimism shall color this world.
All peoples dwelling here
shall live within the light.
None shall be unseen, unheard,
besmirched, assigned to the shadows.
If I were to paint this place . . .
it would be spills of pastels
and primary hues
beginning at the bottom of the canvas
and rising until they meld
into a crescendo of love.
If you take my hand this day,
this hour
this moment
to embark upon this journey,
might others join our endeavor?
Can it only be achieved on a small scale,
two people within a cocoon?
Or can we gather together
creative spirits of master artists
from centuries past?
Might they join today’s artists
and somehow . . .
paint our dreams into a reality . . .
into a place of life
and joy and hope
for you and me . . .
and for the many.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
I’m hosting OLN LIVE at dVerse on Thursday from 3 to 4 PM EST and again on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM EST.
It’s an opportunity to join us via video and audio, to read a poem of your choice and listen as others do the same. OR, just come to sit in if you prefer.
Go to https://dversepoets.com beginning at 3 PM Thursday, EST, and you’ll find a link for Thursday’s LIVE session and one for Saturday – just click on the link and you’ll be with us LIVE!
Image is of course, Starry Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh and is in public domain.
Gustav, cloak me in yellow.
My golden mantle shimmers
as does my heart in your embrace.
Your mouth meets mine,
a kiss divine.
Surround me in yellow, Vincent.
Bouquet me with sunflowers.
Run beside me round yeasty haystacks.
Worry not my darling,
your works shall be loved
Dazzle me in yellow, William.
Ease my loneliness,
wander with me beneath cumulus clouds.
Dance with me, as daffodils do,
waving brightly in the hills we climb.
Someone, please, mesmerize us with yellow.
Glaze our eyes in sunshine.
Brush merriment into wildflower scenes.
Blend colors into happiness upon your palette.
Make this world a wondrous place.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah asks us to consider the color yellow. My poem references The Kiss by Gustav Klimt; Sunflowers and Haystacks, both paintings by Vincent Van Gogh; and the poem Daffodils by William Wordsworth.
Art work images are in public domain. Daffodils image from Pixabay.com
I was not there, the day everything changed.
When was that? When World War II ended?
When Einstein discovered relativity?
When nine-eleven crashed into infamy?
Or when Harry really met Sally?
Or when you simply ate a peach that summer day,
juice deliciously dripping down your tanned wrist.
Somewhere at that moment, I suppose a child was born.
Truth is, everything changes
with every breath we take.
Every pivot, every spin, every loping run,
something new becomes.
Nothing stands still. Except perhaps
sentinel mountains in the Norwegian fjords.
Yet even they are marred by subtle granular shifts
as we gaze up at their rugged rockface surface.
Like when we turned around
and our children became adults.
We noticed when their braces came off that summer,
but we didn’t register the daily shifts.
I don’t understand my image in the mirror.
I know it’s me. But how did it become . . . that?
Wasn’t it just yesterday, I was a brunette
and you introduced yourself to me?
Fifty-seven years later, we walk more slowly,
still hand in hand more often than not.
We’ve passed through so many seasons together,
the path is now longer behind than in front.
And so my love, in this moment
that shall also pass by all too quickly,
I simply must tell you.
I am thankful for every day.
I am thankful for you.
Written to share with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Saturday, March 18, dVerse will go LIVE with audio and video from 10 to 11 AM EST.
Folks from across the globe will meet face-to-face via Google Meet to read a poem of their choosing, and to visit across the miles.
Click here between 10 and 11 AM Boston time on Saturday, March 18th to join us — you’ll find an easy link that will open in your browser so you can meet everyone. Be sure to click on the SATURDAY link. Come and read a poem of your own OR just watch and listen. We’re a friendly goup and the more the merrier!
Photos: That’s George, the love of my life, and I our freshman year in college – many many years ago. Second photo is of us this past summer.
Steeped in amniotic fluids,
ejected from maternal womb –
dropped into parents’ environment.
Simmered in their care, their beliefs,
their modeling behaviors and aspirations.
Children grow roots where they are planted.
Tend your garden wisely.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today Bjorn hosts OLN LIVE from Sweden, from 3 to 4 PM Boston time. Click here between 3 and 4 PM EST for the link to join us live with audio and video. Come read a poem of your own or come just to listen. The more the merrier!
Rosary tied to box spring
beneath where my father slept.
God, have mercy on him.
He did not worship You,
but lived You in relationships.
I was taught Papal invincibility
as priests preyed on youth.
They forgave others
behind confessional screens,
required rosaries for penance.
My father,
God rest his soul,
more a father than them.
He didn’t need a rosary,
but many of them did.
Explanation: When I was away in college, I received a phone call from my mother. They’d just had a new mattress and box spring set delivered. And the strangest thing, she said. When they went to remove the old box spring, they found a rosary entwined in the bottom of it. Did I have any idea why it was there?
And then I remembered. When I was in Catholic grade school, learning my catechism, I feared my father wouldn’t go to heaven because he didn’t go to church and he wasn’t a Catholic. So I sneaked into my parents’ bedroom, crawled under their bed and tied a rosary to the boxed spring, on the side of the bed my father slept on. Imagine the indoctrination that happened to make me think that and go to that extreme to save him. I was probably in third or fourth grade when I did this. I just couldn’t understand, I suppose, how such a good man as my father, wouldn’t be allowed in heaven.
Image by Richard Revel from Pixabay
“How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.”
Valentine’s Day,
definitely the time
to answer that query.
One, two, three, four . . .
forty-seven, forty-eight,
fifty-three wedded years.
Seven dogs we called our friends,
two children, nurtured and loved,
five wonderful grands.
Strolling Singapore’s orchid gardens,
admiring Japan’s cherry blossoms,
walking atop the Great Wall.
Meandering beside Lake Michigan’s shores,
through London’s fog, Alaska’s snow,
Bryce’s hoodoos, Yosemite’s trails.
From Iowa to Sweden to Australia too.
Easiest answer to that question?
So many ways over so many years.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, on Valentine’s Day, Sanaa is hosting and asks us to write “plainly” about love.
Photos top row, left to right: summer 1974, pregnant with Abbey, our first child; at the Great Wall outside of Beijing; in Japan enjoying the cherry blossoms. Bottom row: in an underground cave in Bermuda about 8 years ago; and finally, us here in San Diego just seven days ago, February 7th, celebrating our 53rd anniversary! Thankful for every day.
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways” — from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 43.
Born in May these many years ago,
amongst lily of the valley
and gaiety of tulips bright.
I am like the crocus
enjoying first rays of spring sun
in the midst of winter’s final stance.
Assertive, I push forward
first to appear,
even when slicked with chilling frost.
During coldest of times
I burrow in found comfort.
Your arms, ready to enfold me.
Like Mother Earth,
you are my home
in every season of the year.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa asks us to “become the embodiment of winter. Tell us what you feel during this season.” Crocus Me is where my muse took me!
NOTE: HOPE you will join us this Thursday, Jan 19, from 3 to 4 PM EST for OLN LIVE . . . OR . . . for the first time, on Saturday, Jan 21, from 10 to 11 AM EST.
You’ll find two links on Thursday’s dVerse: one for Thursday and one for Saturday. Clicking on the link will bring you to a live session with audio and video! Come meet your fellow dVersers and either read one of your poems aloud or just come to listen! The more the merrier! We’re a very friendly bunch!
May you burn in hell,
I truly hope so.
Sun still shines at dawn
to cause their demise
at Charter Street Burial Ground.
I crave escape.
A pen, and a plethora of words
curtailing his gigolo lust,
two stars over, from above the moon.
Respect provides a healthier view.
Illuminated on my tree,
“There is good in this world.”
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe where today is Meet The Bar Day. Laura asks us to look at the most recent poems we’ve written, preferably the last twelve poems, and taking the last lines from each of the poems, rearrange them into a new poem! A poetic sudoku! I did exactly that, not adding any words; not using enjambment (splitting words over two lines). These are the exact words from the last lines of the last twelve poems I posted to dVerse, (minus a prosery prompt since that was prose). Interesting how it turned out. Photo is from a visit to Glendalough, Ireland on a cruise a number of years ago.
lillian the home poet 