canticle of waning light

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Photo: Victoria Slotto

canticle of waning light
a quadrille

whisper me now a lullaby
and hold me close in mystic
arms of memory

whisper me songs
of yesterday
when dreams throbbed
promises, danced
with love beneath the stars

whisper me peace
‘neath setting sun
and grace shall linger
in the gloom
of night.

Please join us at dVerse Poets’ Pub where we are enjoying Quadrille’s–poetry of exactly 44 words. This week’s word that must be included in the poem is WHISPER. The pub doors open Monday at 3:00 PM EST. De Jackson is our hostess and she pours a mean poem.

Summer Fading, 1948




Summer Fading, 1948

Photo: Randy Robertson Labeled for non-commercial reuse

Photo: Randy Robertson
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

The leaves of my pepper tree tickle me as the gnarly bark scrapes the back of my legs. I take a leave and crush it, inhaling the pungent fragrance evokes a sense comfort in me. Red berries, peppercorns, hang in clusters. What better place for a 5 year old to consider all those important things that occupy her life.

Moments later, Mama beckons to me from the back door. I scurry down the tree with conflicting feelings of regret and anticipation and slam the screen door behind me. “Take your sweater, Vicki, it will be cool when you come home.” I grab it off the dining room chair and sprint down the hill, across the dirt road to Stewie’s house where, on his 12” black and white TV, Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent has just joined his buddies.

setting summer sun
slips gently behind our hill
peace-filled memory

Happy to have Lady Nyo hosting this week for dVerse Haibun. Please join us. 

after a desert rain–dVerse Quadrille

after a desert rain

drab colors come alive
vibrant yellow silver
shimmering sand

clouds hang low
over mountain tops
wisps of mist curl
in crevices of rocky heights

I swoosh through water
puddled on the highway
watch hawk swoop low
searching for basking prey

sun peeks through

A very late entry for dVerse Quadrille Monday–44 words using the word curl.

Agon–dVerse Open Link Night

Artist: Basquiat Non-commercial Reuse

Artist: Basquiat
Non-commercial Reuse


Agon (Classical Greek ἀγών) is an ancient Greek term for a struggle or contest.

Am I alone, here
on the edge of a great

Those along the San Andreas Fault
await the “big one”
said likely to propel California
into the Pacific.
This avowed by
I can see the faultline
from my home
in the desert.

If I stand
for my beliefs
(here on the yawning maw
of tomorrow)
will I be hurled into the
yesterday of the future?

A lone sparrow
at our suet feeder,
left behind by the others
consumes uncertainty.
Hawk watches

The arts,
a vehicle of conflictual
tell our stories—
present and past.
Authentic or chaotic,
they are our stories.

a spokesman of our times
spills anarchy onto
the pages of his work
in broad lines and
dark spaces.
My gut clenches
at the underlying angst
and I long for resolve
(or indifference.)

I struggle to find beauty
in the cawing of that
crow outside my window,
in the jeering of the blue
jay, scolding the wren,

all I hold precious.
Ibsen scandalized
his era with an overdose
of unspoken reality.

I long for the illusion
of simpler times.

And now I’ll feed
the dogs, just as I do
every day at this hour.

Linked to dVerse Open Link Night where we are invited to share a poem on any theme using any form.

Intaglio-2–dVerse Poetics




there are seasons—
times when pain is etched
upon our copper-souls
with a sharp stylus

moments when the heavy
shroud of sorrow
oppresses those we love

like those black clouds
rolling into our meadow

like the slow flow of the river
fighting winter chill

Please join us at dVerse Poetics where we are poem-ing about TIME. I’ve chosen to use the Quadrille form and included the word Time. The doors open at 3:00 PM EST.


And to All a Blessed Night

Photo: Wikipedia Labeled for non-commercial reuse

Photo: Wikipedia
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

And to All a Blessed Night

“You’re not going to sleep in her room, are you?” Already my nieces had questioned my plan to spend the night alone in Mom’s house, just hours after her death. “Of course; why not?”

Night three, around four AM, a bright light awakens me from a sound sleep. I drag myself out of bed and creep to the doorway, peer to the right and left. The only lights were those I’d left on to give the impression that caregivers were still here, as they had been for several years.

I shrug, return to bed. An emergency radio/flashlight, previously unnoticed on the armoir, greets me with its intense rays, emanating a sense of peaceful energy and perhaps a bit of Mom’s most predictable sense of humor.

winter stars winking
illumine the new moon sky
most loving presence

Today at dVerse, Toni invites us to share a non-fiction account, in Haibun form, of a remembered good night, keeping in mind that phrase from Moore’s fun Christmas poem–and to all, a good night! True story, this.