Moon is a sliver of silver;
stars sparkle, shimmering
steel in space;
silky cirrus clouds
slither across silent sky
searching span for sanctuary.
Solitary soul seeks solace;
a shield from shadows of secrets
searing his serenity.
Scanning skyward, he senses sanctuary in
sacrament of silence, a sliver of silver shining still.
Written by Lindsey Ein and read aloud today at OLN LIVE, at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Image from Pixabay.com
We walk quietly through hushed forest.
Tree tops shimmer-emerald in bright sun.
Shaded lower branches,
more soft-hued green.
Leaves wave in gentle wind.
Sunray flickers through foliage,
forms mosaic patterns upon our faces,
upon our soft smiles.
We slowly walk deeper into calm.
Birch trees, conifers, cypress,
scent of damp pines.
Ancient sentinels of passing time.
Powerful strength towers above
as delicate ferns and wildflowers
thrive in earth beside our feet.
We revel in balance before our eyes.
In the midst of raw beauty, we embrace.
Feel strength course through our beings.
We will be back again and again,
witness to the healing of this place.
Dedicated to Rob and Kathy. Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today, from 3 to 4 PM EST, poets from around the globe will meet LIVE, wth video and audio, to read aloud one poem of their choice, to visit with each other and lend their support to the creative endeavors of all. Come join us HERE and then click on the link provided for Thursday’s live session!
Can’t join us on Thursday?
We’ll meet again LIVE on Saturday, from 10 to 11 AM EST. Join us HERE and then click on the link provided for Saturday’s gathering!
Photo from Pixabay.com
Some days
I’d like to be in the midst of fog.
Where mountains,
yesterday tall and imposing,
disappear today.
Where ethereal moist clouds
descend to earth,
enveloping her in softness.
Bring me serenity,
as mist hovers over land,
hides imposing granite walls
too difficult to climb.
Soften my being
with the lightest of rain that pours not,
rather drifts in swirls round my head,
my eyes, my limbs.
Take me to that weathered landscape
where nature cajoles hatred into oblivion,
and we simply marvel at beauty
we did not recognize before.
Take me there, if not in reality,
then in dense dreams of solace,
just for a little while.
I crave escape.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, from 3 to 4 PM Boston time, we shall gather face-to-face via GoogleMeet at OLN LIVE! Link to join can be found here at 3 PM or shortly thereafter. Just click and come join us! You’re invited to read a poem of your own…or simply sit in and listen…we’re a friendly bunch and it’s quite fun!
Photo from trip a number of years ago to Alaska.
Claude Monet tiptoed
through last night’s deep slumber.
Wrapped my dream in glorious blooms,
hushed pinks fading into hazy purple iris.
Calmed my senses
with myriad brushed greens.
Dewed my eyes
as undulating water lilies
nudged me into wakefulness.
I sit remembering
and smile.
Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to include the word “wrap” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Claude Monet images in public domain.
Walk with me in the fields of Glendalough,
walk quietly amongst its tipping stones.
Ancient headstones stand quietly askew,
testament to centuries of monastic life.
Sixth-century monks lived secluded here
prayed within primitive stone structures.
Evidence of their medieval dwellings
still lies scattered in verdant landscape.
Lush hills gently swell, envelop sacred history.
Hushed visitors walk through hallowed grounds.
St. Kevin of Glendalough first blessed this land,
centuries later, still a place of pilgrimage.
Many come to pray, to see, to touch this land,
seeking calm, finding a place of primal peace.
Written for NAPOWRIMO, Day 27.
Today, we have a tough prompt; what I call a sudoku prompt !
We are to write a duplex. Like a typical sonnet, a duplex has fourteen lines. It’s organized into seven, two-line stanzas. The second line of the first stanza is echoed by (but not identical to) the first line of the second stanza, the second line of the second stanza is echoed by (but not identical to) the first line of the third stanza, and so on. The last line of the poem is the same as the first. The only part of the requirements I did not follow was the bit about the last line. I like the way mine ended as is.
Photos taken some years ago when we visited Glendalough in Ireland. An absolutely beautiful and serene place. Saint Kevin is an Irish saint, known as the founder and first abbot of Glendalough in County Wicklow, Ireland. His feast day is June 3rd. He was born in 498 AD. After his ordination, he moved to Glendalough to live as a hermit in a partially man-made cave. His companions were the animals and birds around him. He lived as a hermit for seven years, wearing only animal skins, sleeping on stones and eating very sparingly. Soon others sought him out as a teacher and holy man. Glendalough grew into a renowned seminary of saints and scholars. Until his death around 618, Kevin presided over his monastary in Glendalough.
Deep into the woods, therein lies peace.
Surrounded, enveloped in green,
lush emeralds lull my spirit
birdsong’s lilt soothes my mind.
I crave thy beauty.
I bathe in your
dappled jades,
in your
calm.
Photo from our time in Ireland a number of years ago.
Looking at the ancient eucalyptus tree’s
gnarled and peeling bark
in the midst of verdant greenery,
I see beauty in its maturity
and feel content in my skin.
Photo taken yesterday from the patio of our San Diego rental, which overlooks a canyon. This stately aging eucalyptus tree fascinates me.
Escape from blaring horns,
nights filled with tossing,
project expectations and stress.
Been on two lane roads for quite a while.
Wayside diner beckons me.
Apple tree shaded walk,
bees buzz round fallen overripe fruit.
I don’t even lock the car doors.
Inside, vases with brightly colored zinnias,
oilcloth covered tables and comfy booths.
Sheila sashays over with a pleasant smile.
Nametag printed in thick magic marker.
She sets down a chipped porcelain mug,
pours in dark rich coffee right to the brim.
“What’ll ya have? Got fresh melon off the vine.
Pies are apple and blueberry today.”
“Just the coffee for now.”
She saunters back to the kitchen.
I just sit. Between sips I run my finger
slowly round the coffee mug’s lip.
I stare out the window.
No deadlines hurtling at me.
No internet connection.
I may just sit here forever.
Coffee drips create brown splotches
on my paper placemat menu.
Chalkboard over the counter
lists supper specials.
Pot roast with Betty’s gravy.
Sounds good to me.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Tonight is Open Link Night and we are LIVE for the first hour, from 3 to 4 PM Boston time. That means you can link in, see friendly faces, listen to folks read their poems and, if the spirit so moves you, join in with a poem of your own. No prompt; no required form. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
I mellow in my Provincetown days.
I watch and listen to the ocean tides,
their fidelity to lunar rhythms.
My body rests in this place.
Skies often pastel my respite.
Blushing dawns. Tinted sunsets.
Sherbet orange melts into lemon yellow.
Pinks blur into shades of grey and soft orchid.
I’m struck by how colors blend here.
As if the palette is tipped
just ever so slightly
and delineations disappear.
For two weeks every year,
I leave the world behind.
I do not come to recharge;
quite the opposite.
I simply come to be.
Before this
brick, concrete, two hospitals,
Old West’s church steeple.
My Boston’s high-rise views.
Before this
seventh floor balcony,
city walks.
My outside.
Here, the ocean lives outside my door.
Sun rises in pastel silence.
Serenity lingers on the breeze.
I can just be.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for global poets. Today the word to use in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, is linger. Photos taken from our deck this morning in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod.
lillian the home poet 