Anger–dVerse MTB

Art: Clyfford Still, on Pinterest

Art: Clyfford Still, on Pinterest

Depression is Anger Turned Inside-Out
A Narrative Poem

She hadn’t touched her paints for a while. In the other room an unfinished canvas lay propped on an easel. Orange and cerulean blue paint danced in cacophonous colors and screamed at her in taunting ecstasy. One evening she’d smeared a palette knife of black paint in a thick wavy line down the middle of the canvas—the result only heightened the drama. She abandoned her work for now—she couldn’t paint and wouldn’t write—not since he told her he wouldn’t see her anymore.

Today, dVerse Poets, hosted by Frank Hubney, invites us to submit a narrative poem–as I see it, a bit of prose that is written poetically. That implies incorporating poetic elements such as metaphor and sensory details, active verbs etc. This is a tiny piece that I adapted from my novel “The Sin of His Father.”

Orange Shoes

Photo: Nazeera Meedin (Pinterest)

Photo: Nazeera Meedin (Pinterest)

Orange Shoes
a Haibun

“Oh, I’ve made my share of mistakes,” Emily said. “How boring life would be without them.”

Sunlight stripped across the crevices on her 89-year-old face, creating hills and valleys in much the same way as her life had. But in her deep blue eyes, I saw the shimmer of stars, the reflection of the moon on water.

She took a sip of tea while I tried hard not to worry about the next patient on my list of hospice visits. She needed to talk and I wanted to listen. To really listen. “Do you want to talk about them,” I asked, hoping I wasn’t being intrusive.

“Oh, there was the man I loved who turned out to be pure evil. Because of him, I left a toxic relationship, so it cost me a few bucks. He conned me and broke my heart in the process. Without that lesson, I would never have been able to move on. In his own way, he gave me the gift of courage. And then, the job I took for money—it was pure soul-death, not suited to me at all. But that’s where I met someone who saved my life. I could go on and on; there are tons of lesser things.” And she did while I listened and learned.

Gently, when exhaustion emerged in her expression, she dismissed me. “In the end, I believe, the greatest mistake is not to forgive others or, especially ourselves. And not to forget that we are forgiven by the One who made us. I wear orange shoes with my purple dress.”

blue jay sings off-key
petals fall from the roses
imperfect beauty

Linked to dVerse Poetics where our lovely guest hostess invites us to reflect on mistake we’ve made. I wrote this as a fictional account, but, who knows, there may be some truth within.

Waiting–dVerse Haibun Monday

Photo: David Slotto

Photo: David Slotto

Waiting
a Haibun

Anna waited. And waited. Her room, dark except for light seeping through half-drawn blinds, smelled musty, old. Dust motes danced where sun invaded. Aside from that, there was little activity. Even her old cat, Flossie, lay motionless on the rumpled covers of her bed.

They hadn’t called for at least two weeks. No one called or came to visit anymore. She wasn’t sure why she even had a landline, but she wasn’t about to try to figure out those smart gadgets that all the young folk held continuously in their hands, their eyes locked on the screen. No one had the time or patience to teach her all that fancy stuff.

Outside the window she heard birdsong. Even the birds had something to say to each other. Anna pulled herself slowly to her feet and went to fill their feeder. What else would fill the hours?

in spring, finches’ songs
fill the empty hours, the void
without them, nothing

Please join in for dVerse Haibun Monday where we are talking about communication! The link will be open all week! The doors open today at 3:00 PM EDT

Get Outta Town

Photo: Rod Ramsey Death Valley, CA Licensed for non-commercial reuse.

Photo: Rod Ramsey
Death Valley, CA
Licensed for non-commercial reuse.

Get Outta Town
a Haibun

Lola knew she had to get out, and get out fast. The plaintive sound of the train not that far from home (if she could call it that) flamed her sense of urgency. The women’s’ shelter north of town was not an option. They would find her there. It was an obvious place to hide.

Outside, cheat grass swayed in the desert’s evening wind, bending, like her, to the will of a force stronger than itself, a power unable to be controlled. Above, a hawk circled restlessly, looking for something smaller than itself to devour, to devour like the malignant evil that bedeviled her day and night.

She stuffed the money she’d been skimming from her tricks, piled her hair atop her head and covered it with a baseball cap. She’d make it just in time for the 8:05 to Elko where prostitution was legal. She’d just make it before he didn’t show up for his day job, before they would discover his body.

relentless wind blows
tumbleweeds scurry by the tracks
guilt scatters like sand

Join us today at dVerse Poetics where Bjorn invites us to hop aboard and write of trains. This is fictional.

Ma Barker’s Boy—the One You Never Heard Of dVerse MTB

Photo:cgarchitect.com

Photo:cgarchitect.com

Ma Barker’s Boy–the One You Never Heard Of
A Haibun

When I regained consciousness, the gravel pitted in my flesh stung as though I’d been dancing with a sea creature whose tentacles held me close, slowly releasing their poison.My recently vacant mind, now an amalgam of dark thoughts, muddled its way through a fog of nothingness. No one heard my anxious calls for help. No one cared.

I struggled to lift myself from the brick pathway, grabbing hold of a chain link fence nearby. A multitude of notices affixed to the metal announced concert venues, lost dogs and items for sale. Two signs warned me “No Trespassing” and “Post No Notice.” Nothing prohibited me from using it to stand, to keep me from losing my balance.

Once again, though I’d cheated death, I’d lost the war. Everything I’d planned for, had worked for, failed. I grabbed hold of a nearby trash can and puked. Disappointment, my constant companion, lingered like a bad taste in my mouth. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t tell Ma. I headed in the opposite direction and followed my own path to the future. In a nearby maple tree, birdsong erupted.

mockingbird chorus
celebrates hope, sings of joy
life begins anew

Linked to dVerse Meeting the Bar. I’m hosting today and asking for first person poetry, perhaps written from an alter-ego. I’m still playing with the mockingbird theme that Kelly asked for Tuesday, for poetics. 

I do hope you will join us at dVerse today. The pub opens at 3:00 PM EST.

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. 

Lamentation–dVerse Haibun Monday

Lamentation
a Haibun

The pelting rain, a sort of purifying ritual, drenches me—mingles with my tears of regret. So easy to be unnoticed in this large crowd, waiting for a means of escape, a yellow hack driven by a stranger. Anonymity, a blessed escape from reality.

I clench my unopened umbrella at my side, welcome the cleansing downpour.

Questions pound me with every drop. Could I have been there if I’d tried? Said words of forgiveness, words he needed to hear? Offered him the solace of my absolution?

But anger has burned inside me for so many years. It is no longer separate from who I am. I no longer have anger, I am anger.

And so he died—unshriven, despairing. And I, I bear the burden.

rain drops drench my soul
waiting alone in this crowd
battered by regret

Photo: Mary Kling all rights reserved used with permission

Photo: Mary Kling
all rights reserved
used with permission

Hey, everyone…it’s Haibun Monday at dVerse! Today, Mary Kling offers 3 of her photos for your inspiration. Feel free to use them, but kindly give her the credit due. Please give your imagination free rein and join us. The doors open at 3 PM EST and remain open all week.