Spring Greeting

Windows open to spring,
soft breeze rustles lace curtains.
Backyard crocus peek about
as lawn greens ‘neath lemon sun.
Down comforter billows on clothesline,
and one feather floats gracefully
toward cirrus clouds above.


My granddaughter and I are trading poetry prompts each month. For April, she asked that I write a poem using the word “gracefully.” Stella is 10.

What Is Shall Be Was

Shadows tread in life’s past.
Embers gleam red passion,
pale to ashen grey.
Ship wakes sink into oblivion.
Sand dollars, once much more.

Faces unknown
posed in serious countenance,
fade frozen in corroded frames.

Vestigial pock marks upon the earth.
Life marches forward
directionally unaware,
into the past.

Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. April is national poetry month so drop by to imbibe some words with us – or better yet, step up to the bar, no prompt on OLN. It’s an opportunity to share as you wish! Bar opens at 3:00 PM Boston time. Photo in public domain

Iowa Haibun

Rural Iowa and fifteen acres of land. Three rusty metal cross-bars hold taut clothesline flapping white sheets and cotton diaper cloths. I stand on tip-toe, reaching high to pick low-hanging fruit. Branches sag with their weight. Nearby, the garden waits. Beet greens wilt, red-veined, atop vegetables grown too plump beneath the soil. Feathery dill goes to seed as crazed zucchini plants maze through cukes and pumpkin patch.

In the distance, I see dust rise before I hear the car. George is returning from city life to our quiet country home. A space to live simply on the land.

rolling hills of green
beribboned by dusty roads
corn silk dries in sun

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Toni is tending bar and speaks to us about the Japanese tradition of foresting — simply walking through the woods, unplugged, relaxed, listening and smelling what is true. Our Haibun must be one or two tight paragraphs of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. She asks that we write about a time we simply enjoyed the out-of-doors or a natural place. She wants us to relax with our readers — offering a post of calm.

Ancient Burial Ground

Stones lean precariously after years of neglect. Some cracked. Others bedecked by lichen. Tall wild grasses and spindly trees surround antiquity. Tourists hike the nearby road, unaware. Disconnected to what was. But the Earth knows. She periodically sheds tears, some frozen in anguish, others gentle in their falling. Her memory forever graced by those embraced within her folds. 

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today’s prompt is to write prose poetry. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. This is a special place in cyberspace where poems are shared and read. Come join us!