Winter-Spring Walk–dVerse OLN

Image by Lariko
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Scotch Broom Shrub

Winter-Spring Walk
a Dizain

In spring, scotch broom yields mille fois yellow blooms.
Breezes caress our trees, leaves swirl and dip.
A heady scent fills the air, sweet perfumes
tempt, beguile, offer memories: your lips
on mine. But you speak only of friendship.

The winds pick up. You shield your face from mine,
hold fast your hat and turn away—a sign
that love is fragile? Hawk flies in place, flails
against late winter storms. Clouds block sunshine.
(I long to yield my being to the gale.)

I was unable to participate in the earlier form challenges at dVerse, so tonight, for Open Link Night, I am attempting a Dizain…not an especially easy form. This is a first draft.

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Cee’s Black and White Photo Challenge–Something Made of Wood

Joining in Cee’s Prompt to post a black and white photo of something made of wood. Living as I do in Northern Nevada, our neighborhood is the home of a number of western-themed artifacts. This buggy is what welcomes us home. (The horses are grazing across the street.)

Photo: Victoria Slotto

 

 

Abundant Love–dVerse Prosery #3

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Abundant Love

A ray of light broke through the blinds in the motel room, awakening Jasmine, who found herself alone with the scent of cheap alcohol and smoke. Twenty-five ones were piled on the nightstand beside her. A note, written on a napkin, said, simply: “Thanks. It was okay.”

Jasmine dressed and fled into the early morning light. Shades of pink awakened the horizon. Down the street the bells of her childhood parish sounded 6:00AM Mass. Tears streaked her face as she snuck into the back pew, hating herself for who she had become in order to raise her baby.

Father Patrick, the old priest who had baptized her, came and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Surprising herself, she poured out her pain, telling herself, “You will love again the stranger who was your self.” Once again, God’s love held her so very close.

Linked to dVerse Prosery #3–a Flash Fiction of exactly 144 word. The prompt, however, requires not more than 144 words.

Rembrandt: The Prodigal Son. Public Domain.

Blue Skies Tinged with Gray

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Lake Tahoe

Blue Skies Tinged with Gray
a Sestina
Iambic Tetrameter
Revised 8/19

This morning I painted my world in blue,
new days in a dream beneath clear azure skies.
I floated in mem’ries of life borne on waves—
the summer we spent making love by the lake,
when our love sang so sweetly of hours in the sun
and clear water soothed pain that I saw in your eyes.

More often was hope gleaming in those deep eyes,
clear mirrors of mys’try—not silver, not blue,
reflecting the brilliance of summer’s lush sun
this faith that I found in those cloudless, pure skies.
We washed away fear in our bay at the lake,
floating hand within hand on her cool, gentle waves.

Sometimes we are crushed by the force of life’s waves
and excitement can wane, dull the spark in your eyes.
Then return to those days of our love by the lake
to renew what we knew when we dreamt dreams of blue,
streaked with hues of Payne’s Gray as we looked to the skies,
adding depth to those moments of light in the sun.

Summer’s end soon drew near and our time in the sun
gave way to the wind, to the chill in the waves.
Autumn clouds came too soon, hiding blue of the skies,
cast long shadows on joy, dimmed the glow in your eyes.
Succumbing to dark, nature cast off her blue.
Thus we tasted the close of our days at the lake.

Arid sands took you far from our love by the lake.
In Iraq you would know desert dry, scorching sun.
Did that world of brown erase recall of blue?
Did you dream of the days we had shared in the waves?
Or did you forget, horror blinding your eyes
to all of the plans that we held ‘neath blue skies?

For my part, I still hope for the day when the skies
shall return you to me, to our love by the lake.
When you rush to my arms will the tears in your eyes
still be there as they were on that day in the sun
when you told me they called to you over the waves
and you walked from my life for the red, white and blue?

I still look to the skies, shield my eyes from the sun,
wait for days at the lake, for the calming of waves,
lose myself in your eyes, wrapped in dreams painted blue.

For dVerse Poetry Form Challenge–this month the form is the SESTINA. This is my second entry for which I did some revisions on a poem I had written a while back when De Jackson gave us a “blue” prompt. The sestina is a complex form but give it a whirl and link to dVerse where this will be open for one month.

 

In Her Library, the Day Before She Dies–dVerse Poetry Forms, Sestina

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In Her Library the Day Before She Dies
a Sestina

i.
I enter, hear the ticking of a clock.
The room is dim; drawn shades withhold the light.
Tick, tock, tick, tock—the thunderous passing time,
a slant of sun showcases motes of dust.
How many months since she has entered here?
Crushing mementos of the years long past.

ii.
Each shelf embraces mem’ries of her past.
Too many are the num’rous raucous clocks.
That one says twelve, but two o’eight this here,
and one that’s stopped is shrouded from the light
(so like her mind, unused beneath the dust
of years now gone, of unrelenting time.)

iii.
Photos of kin that mark an older time,
when she had naught with which to mark her past.
Piles of books, themselves becoming dust:
a lusty novel cached behind a clock,
and one, more recent, titled “See the Light,”
inviting her to grasp each moment here.

iv.
A cordless phone, askew, I find right here.
The musty air, oppressive, scents of time
elapsed. Let’s open windows, let in light,
diffuse the moldy taste of all that’s past,
quiet the ceaseless marking of the clock,
breathe deeply air that’s fresh and free of dust.

v.
I cannot shake that cringy feel of dust,
the peering stares of generations here,
the constant toll of years, the ticking clock,
reminding me of my own fleeting time,
that days creep onward, leave behind the past.
I cannot silence dread of dimming light.

vi.
I search within to find the source of light,
to free my spirit of malignant dust,
discover there abundant joy. The past
is gone and beauty dwells right here.
How gifted I have been through boundless time,
not measured by the menace of a clock.

Envoi
I view the past through eyes of sacred light,
eschew the nagging clock, the grimy dust.
Embrace grace here and in this hallowed time.

The poetry form challenge at dVerse today is the challenging SESTINA and I am pleased to be hosting it. I have attempted to write this in iambic pentameter. I’d be grateful for any critique you have to offer.

Please don’t be afraid to give it a whirl. It’s quite fun.

Earth Sighs–dVerse Open Link Night

 

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Earth Sighs
A Quadrille

In the gentle whisper of a breeze
I heard, “Be-
wilder.”

My loamy breast broke forth
in bloom,
cacophonies of colors rose,
swayed in birdsong.

Open-mouthed blue-
bells brushed silent blushing
roses. (Shush.)

Weeds abound, dance joyfully
abandoning white fluffy seeds
to the wind.

A poet-friend and I meet monthly to share forms and poetry. I introduced her to the Quadrille and she chose the word “Bewilder.” This is my effort, inspired by my garden that was largely neglected due to my wrist injuries and thrived without me. Linked to dVerse Open Link Night.

Revenge–dVerse Quadrille #84

Image: Wikipedia commons

Revenge
A Modified Limerick

There once was a kid who was heckled.
The cause? His fair skin was so freckled.
But the kid was a champ,
From an overhead ramp,
He made sure that those brats, too, were speckled.

(The paint gun, you see,
Took them out, all three.)

Today, at dVerse Quadrille, Mish offers us the word FRECKLES, which made me think of a boy in Grammar School who was, not a bully, really, but a bit of an imp. Here’s to you Michael, wherever you are. Join in with a poem of exactly 44 words, using the word FRECKLED.