early monday morning

Photo: Peter Barr Labeled for Non-Commercial Reuse

Photo: Peter Barr
Labeled for Non-Commercial Reuse

early monday morning

at first light, i fall into demi-
wakefulness, cover naked flesh
with wings of want.
inside, within a holy place
a sacred secret swirls
and i am one with universal
longing, hidden ‘neath the guise
of ordinary days.

at this hour, just yesterday,
i walked beside the river—
its early morning mist shone
red, as rising sun pierced a waiting world.

my mind flies west
where ocean tides stalk
the shore, tugging gently
at desire, fingering consciousness.

i toss aside tomorrow’s dreams
and worries, teeter on the edge
of an abyss of my own making—
soar on high, pass mountain ranges,
tame raging winds
to settle gently on the plains
of today and seek to clarify
the meaning of my living,
then start a load of laundry.

I wrote this poem in response to Brenda’s Wordle at the Sunday Whirl, using words from the last two weeks’ prompts…Thanksgiving kept me busy; I loved the words, so I combined them. I will also link them to dVerse Poetics on Tuesday…details to come. I would love to see you visit and contribute to both prompts.

The Blissful Side of Gray

Here’s a second take on the Florette Form that Gayle has shared with us at dVerse…a bit lighter than my previous post. Please join us.

The Blissful Side of Gray

Where flowers bloomed just yesterday,
now barren branches barely sway
and leaves lie glumly in the snow—
winter’s begun, the light is low. I long for sun.

The sky—unending swaths of gray—
can bring oppression to my day.
But when the clouds give way to light
the mood dissolves, denies my right to mope and laze.

So now I have to mop the floors
open the windows, work outdoors.
It’s not that bad when days are drear,
it’s an excuse. My book is near. But here’s the sun.

Artist: John Lavery Wikipedia Labeled for Non-commercial use.

Artist: John Lavery
Labeled for Non-commercial use.


Ice Will/Can’t Suffice


wiki paris

Wikipedia–Labled for Non-Commercial Use

Ice Will/Can’t Suffice

Our fireplace offers us its warmth,
but chill descends on all who mourn
the loss of innocence, of life.
We struggle to respond to strife, to heal, to love.

Oh, Paris, blood spilt in your streets
in several spots where friends may meet
to share the ending of the day–
there hope has died where bodies lay, at hatred’s feet.

Stark cold, such evil steals our dreams.
Faith falters at the sound of screams.
Our hearth is cool, now drowned by tears.
Can good prevail when ruled by fear? How to forgive?

Yet, deep within our souls we know—
in sorrow, seeds of grace may grow.
Such wickedness must not succeed.
Rekindle fire our world does plead—the fire of love.

Written for Gayle’s prompt at dVerse Poets’ Meeting the Bar, where we are to write a poem using the Florette. Rhyme: AABA, Syllable Count, 8, 8, 8, 12. In line 4 syllable 8 rhymes with the ending syllable of the 3rd line. Try it–it’s fun.

I suspect I am not alone in needing somehow to write of the horrible events of last week.

The title of the poem comes from Robert Frost’s Poem “Fire and Ice.”

Never Forget You are My Little Girl–dVerse Poetics

My Mother: Family Archives Christmas 2014

My Mother: Family Archives
Christmas 2014

I Will Never Forget
A Modified Trimeric

The way the sunlight played across your face,
the words you always had to comfort me,
the silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
the smile, the gratitude and grace.

Those words you always had to comfort me,
when darkness threatened to seep in, destroy—
I think of these and find the courage to go on.

Your silent presence, strength—sometimes severe,
your touch, just so, to heal or to correct.
This quiet, heavy–touch, beyond my reach.

Your smile, your gratitude and grace—
Do these endure in shadows of your mind?
Although you’re here, you are no longer you.

Yet, sunlight plays forever on your face.
Each day you tell me never to forget
that I will always be your little girl.

Today for dVerse Poetics, we are asked to remember someone we have lost. This is addressed to my dear 95-year-old mother who suffers from ever-increasing dementia. She has always been my best friend. Even though we have spent most of our lives at a geographical disadvantage, she was there for me. I still call her, every day or two or three. The conversation is the same. If I try to tell her something off-script, she cannot follow it, But one thing she says to me each and every time is this: “Never forget you are my little girl.”

Those of you who have dealt with dementia, as I have my entire life as a nurse, understand the we lose our loved one an inch at a time. And yet, the wonder is this–somewhere inside is that person who always was, imprisoned, so to speak and totally living in the present moment. It is our job to provide them with one pleasant moment at a time.

Please join us today at dVerse.

When Winter Comes Early–dVerse OLN

Image: pixdaus.com

Image: pixdaus.com

when winter comes early
a trimeric

the day after the storm, white
paint splashes on mother earth,
leftover leaves, ankle-deep, clutter the yard.
i curl up beneath a downy quilt to read.

paint splashes on mother earth,
white and gold and orange, even green,
left over from the late autumn freeze.

leftover leaves, ankle-deep, clutter the yard,
soggy, no crunch beneath my footfall,
covering sagging shrubs and roses.

i curl up beneath a downy quilt to read,
to cull the warmth of words. ideas
swirl inside me, as another snowfall approaches.

Written and linked to dVerse Open Link Night where you are invited to share any sort of poem you like. I blended a few previous prompts: mine from Tuesday on weather, Mary’s on the trimeric form and  Bjorn’s on enjambment. Please stop by and enjoy the company and work of your fellow poets.

I-395 North to Reno

Photo: C. Campbell

Photo: C. Campbell

I-395 North to Reno
a Haibun

Plans cut short, I leave Southern California two days early, leave my mom to her dementia fog, to her perpetual present moment. I have no desire to drive half of my 500 mile drive in the midst of a promised snow storm heading in from the Northwest.

The drive is glorious—a cloudless cerulean blue skies flanked by snow-covered mountaintops to the East and West. Mono Lake and Topaz boast still turquoise waters at a low level because of the drought. Our thirsty earth throbs with hope for the forecast of an impending wet season. Walker River is but a trickle.

When I arrive home, I see a wall of darkness in the distance. Trees in an assortment of fall colors whisper in the wind, greet my descent into the Great Basin. I breathe a sigh of relief that I am safe and find my husband and dogs waiting for me. The chilling temperature does not impede the warmth of their welcome.

a heavy gray pall
creeps in like a stealthy cat
promising first snow

Today, for dVerse Poetics, I’m hosting a prompt, asking you for a current weather report from your corner of the world. This drive is, for me, so wonderful–leading along the Eastern Sierra, past Mt. Whitney, Mammoth, Mono Lake and Topaz Lake and so many glorious views. I feel so blessed to live where I do…for more info on this road trip check out this article in Via–a publication of AAA.

Now, how about joining us with your own weather report. The Pub opens at 3:00 PM Tuesday. I’ll be glad to mix you up a drink to fit your current weather-based needs.

As I write this, I see it is snowing outside (Monday 11/9/15 at 1600)! Large, fluffy flakes.

Dis-Moi, Vincent–dVerse Haibun Monday

Image: Wikipedia Commons

Image: Wikipedia Commons

It’s all about perspective, isn’t it, Vincent? You view that church from across a field of golden waves, as though in getting too close you may be hurt yet again. As though that icon of faith would bring to mind the abysmal (apparent) failure you experienced in your ministry to miners. Am I correct?

So many years have passed now, and from my perspective, oh-so-much is more transparent. For you, it seemed failure dogged you your entire life—failure in love, failure in your passion for painting, failure to be accepted—even by your family. I know better. You never did.

Do you seek balance?
Blue that speaks of such sadness,
but yellow for joy.

(dis-moi is French for tell me, using the familiar form of the verb dire.)

Linked for dVerse Haibun Monday hosted this week by Bjorn. We hope you will join us!