Dance Joy–OLN dVerse Poets

Dance Joy–a Quadrille

It’s winter now.
Butterflies are gone,
sunshine
streaks through gray.

You celebrate, dance joy.

A monochromatic palette
paints my world.
Leaves moulder
nourish damp soil,
prepare for new growth.

I dance
my own autumn
until the day
I, too, may encounter butterflies
in spring.

Image: torange labeled for non commercial use.

Image: torange
labeled for non commercial use.

I missed the recent prompt to write a quadrille–a poem of exactly 44 words, using the word dance with an object. So, I took an old poem I had saved in my “Edit or Trash” file and did a complete overhaul on it. I wrote this in about 2002 for a friend of mine who had died at a very young age, Karen Casey, age 55. Hope I make it in time!

The Whether Channel

Photo Credit: Gabriella All Rights Reserved Used with permission

Photo Credit: Gabriella
All Rights Reserved
Used with permission

 

 

The Whether Channel
a Fictional Haibun

I waited none too patiently, at the curb—unsure if she would show, as promised. The steady pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof of my old Ford and the click-click-clicking of the hazard lights matched the pace of my anxiety-driven pulse. Cars puddled by, splashing my windows in their wake. The scent of rain blended with dust on the drought-thirsty street.

She exited the office building, popped open the teal umbrella I’d given her last Christmas, and surveyed her surroundings. When she caught sight of me, she took off down the block in the opposite direction. I sighed and pulled away from the curb without trying to pursue her. Then I hit my husband’s speed dial. “Our daughter isn’t ready,” I told him. “Rehab won’t help until she wants it.”

weatherman forecasts
rain, tears of disappointment
beware of flooding

Written for and linked to Gabriella’s Monday Haibun prompt at dVerse Poets. We are grateful to her for the beautiful photography she shared for us today. The pub opens at 12:00 Noon EST on Monday. The link will be open throughout the week. Please join us. 

Emily’s Song

tea

Emily’s Song

a Haibun

It’s 2 AM and the sound of tea pouring into my ceramic mug hurls me back thirty-some years. The old lady stands on tiptoe, touches her weathered lips to my then-youthful cheek. I catch the scent of Yardley’s lavender and, in the background, a hint of cinnamon. As I enter her 1930’s home, the far wall of her living room catches my attention. Shelves, painted yellow, are lined with books and photos.

She goes to brew our pot of tea while I scan the titles and pictures. My eye catches sight of a young couple, standing arm-in-arm, circa the early 40’s. He’s wearing the uniform of an Army Air Corps pilot. In the background a child is tossing rice at them. A second photo shows them driving off in an old convertible bearing a “Just Married” sign on the trunk, and another, a very pregnant Emily holding a balsawood model of a WWII bomber.

“Those are my stories,” she says, entering the room. I won’t bore you with them. And she didn’t, as over the years we spend time sharing her life and a cup of tea—the stories of a World War II bride. And widow.

the room enfolds me
warmed by tea, infused with light
she shares her stories

Written and shared with Sanaa Rizvi and folks at Prompt Nights.

the shining

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Photo: Victoria Slotto

the shining

taut flesh
reflects light

peppers snuggle
(red to green
to yellow to orange
and purple)

in a cold bed
of stainless steel

next to dun-colored
potatoes

I couldn’t resist posting another Imagist poem for dVerse Meeting the Bar and I’m going to link this to WordPress Weekly Photo Challlenge on Vibrancy as well.

Seven AM–dVerse MTB, Imagism

Seven AM

winter sunshine
slips,
unimpeded,
through half-
opened shutters.

pools of light
pour,
splashing on the bed.

Eureka! The Internet decided it was okay for me to post–so must get this linked quickly to dVerse MTB where I’m hosting Meeting the Bar. I ask you for poetry along the lines of William Carlos Williams or Hilda Doolittle (H.D.). Have fun with this–please join in. I will try my best to respond timely if Time Warner will be so kind as to cooperate. Because of the nature of the prompt, I’m not going to post an image today…that’s what the words are supposed to do.

Listen to Your Mother–dVerse Poetics

Photo: Salton Sea Wikipedia Commons Labeled for non-commercial use.

Photo: Salton Sea
Wikipedia Commons
Labeled for non-commercial use.

Listen to Your Mother

I smell the stench before I reach the shore—the scent of loss, of greed. Death surrounds me, enfolds me in his unrelenting grip. It might be too late. Can we reverse what we have done?

Corpses of silver-bodied tilapia gleam deceptively on the shore. Decomposition ruthlessly consumes the beached and poisoned fish, while inclement weather erodes abandoned buildings. No tourist haven, here—rather a harbinger of destruction, consuming dreams.

light dances silver

still waters, beds of decay

memento mori

 

The Salton Sea, in the deep Southern California desert, occurs naturally when the waters of the Colorado River rise, periodically. Years ago, human intervention created a man-made lake for the purpose of building up agricultural production. In 1905, an investment group jumped aboard with the purpose of created a tourist attraction. Without going into detail, interfering the natural course of things, messing with Mother Nature, has proved to be a disaster to the ecology because of unstable water supplies and changing salinity. Many legislative proposals, it seems, are ever before the California Assembly in an attempt to save it. This is an example of what happens when we don’t listen to our Mother.

I’m linking this haibun to dVerse Poetics. The prompt asks us to write ecopoetry. The doors to the pub will open Tuesday, 12 Noon, EST. Please join us.

Photo: slworking2 Labeled for non-commercial reuse.

Photo: slworking2
Labeled for non-commercial reuse.

 

poverty

poverty

jeans, faded.
tattered knees.
a sweater, snagged,
unraveling.

a glob
of mustard
slowly slips
down.

lands on
the equator.

Linking to OLN…but responding to Mary Kling’s Poetics prompt where I turned attention to the imagist poetry of William Carlos Williams. I am having horrific Internet problems right now, but will try my best to visit as many of you as I can on Saturday. Thanks for understanding.