mists swirling over a fen,
sips of wine, river wind, and spray
peace with no regret,
the touch of lost ones she dreams,
may gentle cheer come here
where she dwells trapped by disease
in this shrinking unkind world
soon to let her go.
For dVerse Monday our quadrille must include some version of the word ‘cheer’.
Once there was a girl who loved to watch her father light his pipe. One morning when her parents were still in bed she climbed the kitchen counter and took matches from the top cupboard. She burned a hole in her shirt.
I once wondered how humans learned to make fire. Forest rangers are probably not amazed. They know about cycles of growth, decay, flame, ash. Early man saw burning bushes.
Folks escaping wildfires know
about scorched breath,
that fire melts, turns all to dust.
How tragic that, over the centuries,
flames that warmed us,
lit our cabins, cooked our food
burned fuel in engines,
empowered us to multiply, travel vast distances at unimagined speeds, clear acres of land and run factories
are slowly cooking the planet.
For dVerse Tuesday Poetics: Fire up that Creativity
Waiting for her to wake up from an afternoon nap, I think of the small thing I need to mention when she wakes up. I move quietly in the kitchen. The cupboard bangs and I flinch with regret, but her slumber is undisturbed and Bentley continues to lick his paws. I sigh with relief.
grey dampness chills
my grip on this metal pen
warmed by silence
For dVerse Haibun Monday: Waiting
To blame is to disown. My cereal curdles as California wildfires turn homes to ash and, yet again, power trumps empathy and expertise. The vitriol and forest management tales emanating from Washington threaten to spoil my breakfast.
the President’s fire fighting
New York Times:
Trump Says California Can Learn From Finland on Fires. Is He Right?
In response to dVerse Poets Pub Monday quadrille prompt (‘spoil’) I have written this 44-word haibun.
Closing one eye
I am not winking
I am blinded by sunlight
Posing on one leg
I am not avian
I am practicing yoga
Singing the blues
I am not downhearted
I am indigo
Closing both eyes
I am not tired
I am listening
The Monday afternoon dVerse challenge from WhimsyGizmo is to write a quadrille (44-word poem) using the word “wink”.
Early autumn is gone,
dried leaves scattered,
marigolds dead from frost,
yet, Sun sparkles ochre colours,
pulses from behind grey clouds,
at night, waxing Moon lingers low,
two matches striking,
begging sparks of happiness
from cold bones who mourn
that what has been departs.
A quadrille (a 44-word poem) for dVerse Poets Pub using the word ‘early’.
Autumn leaves scatter on the sidewalk a block from home
Back from a first day of school inhaling musty maple
Cool breeze, long sleeves, polished shoes and a flutter of news
Days of firsts dangling fresh books, a new teacher and friends
Etched in memory, each September of slanting light
Fuel for a spirit treading toward dark December nights.
Lillian at dVerse challenged us to write an ‘Alphabet Sestet’, a six-line poem using any consecutive series of alphabet letters to commence each line. I went with ABCDEF.
sunken steps of stone,
history rustling in the trees,
nothing but worn footholds left,
when those who remember are gone
the universe sighs final breaths,
ripples of joy and sorrow.
This small poem emerged today from a haiku that I posted on September 18, 2017, almost one year ago:
sunken steps of stone
under ancient canopy
The idea to do this came from Amaya at dVerse who, for Tuesday Poetics: On a Loop, invites us to loop back to a past September 11 (or date nearby) to create a new poem from a piece of an old one.
Photo Credit: bonitavista.tumblr.com
into the ‘fiery wind’ what would I say?
scratched dirt jams my nails to the quicks…
this heaviness of breath, this seeping energy
if I ask…
will you admit your unspoken truth?
or brush it off with a laugh?
next time, I may speak.
This is a quadrille (poem of 44 words) using the dVerse prompt word ‘quick’. Thanks and credit must go to Jane Dougherty whose use of the phrase ‘words in the fiery wind’ in a recent poem, inspired me to write today.
There are cicada calls
down at the park,
the intermittent kind.
A long high buzz
followed by a gap.
High court in the trees
with nasal drones
tight as a wire.
dVerse Poets Pub Meet the Bar with Onomatopoeia