Waltz with me, take my hand. Hear the gulls call to us fly o’er us, soar for us dance for us on the sand.
Oceanside, hand in hand me touching, you wishing souls in tune, now kissing three-stepping, lusting fanned.
You’re so strong, hold my hand dance with me, past the sun dance with me, past the clouds through the stars, never land.
Oh my dear, damn this waltz. Pen down now, poem be done. Quick-step me, quick-step me! Now . . . now . . . now . . . never to cease. Now. . . Now. . NOW! Ahhhhhhh . . . release.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late to Thursday’s post – Bjorn hosts and asks us to consider the waltz in poetic form. For example, the waltz is usually danced in 3-beat measures: 1 – 2 – 3, 1-2-3. I’ve tried to have three beats throughout, so for example, the first line is “waltz (1) with (2) me (3), take (1) my (2) hand (3)”. Tricky. I’ve given it a go and ended up with a waltz on the beach that turns quite bawdy! FYI: the quick-step is another ballroom dance, quite opposite in pacing and attitude than the waltz or tango for example. Image from Pixabay.com
Hopscotch my sidewalk
ten in pink chalk,
singin’ hippity hoppity, bippity bop.
Friendship and freckles
grow in the sun.
singin’ as one.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Mish is hosting and asks us to include the word “freckle” or any form of the word in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo from Pixabay.com
Photo from our Iowa garden many years ago! Posted to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We lived in Marengo, Iowa from 1970 through 1974 and then Iowa City until 1997. Had amazing gardens! Learned to can and freeze much of our homegrown vegetables and fruits. Somehow, our zucchini plants seemed to explode and we ate zuchinni bread all winter long! Lavonne Heitman’s recipe for freezer butter corn was delectable and oh those bread and butter pickles that took up so much refrigerator space! Our apple trees filled many a frozen aluminum pie tin. Blueberries graced sourdough pancakes on cold winter mornings. One year, I even canned homemade ketchup! Fireflies were always the magical part of Iowa summers – sorely missed in Boston. Ah sweet Iowa memories! Deserving of the title, Heartland!
On a rainy summer day, melted cherry popsicle juice puddles on kitchen countertop. The now bare, but somewhat red-stained stick, is a walking bridge from stainless steel sink’s edge to sticky stuff. It’s a veritable picnic spot for sugar thirsty ants. Our kids, unaware of the insect invasion they’ve created, sit on the faux-brick linoleum covered floor playing with colorful legos.
forget dull bread crumbs
summer brings popsicle juice
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Gina is tending pub and asks us to write about a picnic. Haibun: short prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. Photo from pixabay.com