Alter Ego

Trash art.
But not to me.

Paint brush body
bottle opener arms.
Metal disk eyes
always open.
Clock innard springs
‘neath blooming heart.
Curved metal strip
forever smile.

They say
art speaks to you.

 Pull yourself together,
use what you’ve got.
Uniquely assembled,
bloom where you are.
Wear a perky hat
eyes wide open,
smile at the world
and they’ll smile back.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets – which means I create the prompt. And today’s prompt is “Come hang with me!”  Choose something hanging in your house (on a wall, from a bookcase, in your closet, etc) and write a poem about it! I’ve asked that folks include a photo so we can see what they’re writing about. This lovely piece of “trash art” hangs in my study, on the side of my desk. I see her every morning and she always makes me smile! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Empathy

What if I became you?
A three-letter being instead of a one.
Not won but lost.
In your shoes with one lost sole.
A lost soul.

What if you became them?
A four-letter being instead of a three.
Not a one. Never won.
You as them. Not allowed in.
On the other side.

Outside, like them.
The other’s side.
Not here. Never here.
What if you were them?
You, an other.

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Merril opens the new year at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to consider time and space and what if. Her prompt: “What if you – or someone else – or some THING else – took that less or more-traveled path? Would it make a difference? Will it make a difference?  Look backward, forward, inside, and out. Then wonder, what if?” Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and begin your 2019 by imbibing some words today!

Love Unwrapped

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.

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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!

Fashion Forward

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.

 

Thank You

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.

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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!

Immigrants

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.

What is that? And where has it gone?

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.

letter-1077860_1280It’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.