Photo: Victoria Slotto
Be still and know that I am God. Psalm 46, 10
All is still this morn—
the pond outside my window
mirrors palm trees and mountains
sends ripples through this quiet time,
butterfly slashes blue sky
with gold flight,
two small wrens
attack a crow.
all is calm this gentle morn
This week’s Quadrille at dVerse, hosted by Grace, asks us to write a poem of exactly 44 words, exclusive of the title, using the word STILL.
I am afraid to grieve—afraid that if I open that door a crack those other monsters hidden in the shadows will creep in and invade my peace. Is it because that loss began so long ago, when the brilliance of her mind began to dim, when judgment fled and anger peeked between the clouds? Or has the “business” of dying obscured the underlying pain? And when that’s done (if ever) what awaits? I dread am afraid of grief.
ducklings romp outside
april joy plays in sunshine
hawk swoops in, devours
Kanzen Sakura asks for Haibuns written on the subject of our most honest fears. Visit dVerse Haibun Monday to share.
Labeled for non-commercial reuse
Labeled for non-commercial reuse.
Last night I dreamt of
feathers and shape-shifting.
Today a wren perches on a naked branch
outside my window.
the tree is in full bloom.
I miss you.
De Jackson is asking for Postcard Poems, that is, poems of 12 lines or less, at dVerse Poetics. Please join us.
Photo: Wikipedia Commons–Labeled for Non-Commercial reuse.
the death of innocence
she would fly away
fly far away into the blue
blue sky to flee
such a child
abused by trusted hands
has disappeared beyond
within the sheltering basket
of a red and gold balloon
a child no more
De offers the word BALLOON for today’s Quadrille at dVerse—a poem of exactly 44 words. The word connotes joy, childhood, adventure in my mind but after reading an investigative report about an appalling cover-up by a local school district, I couldn’t go there.
The district ignored 34 years of student complaints about a teacher who was systematically sexually abusing them by issuing written warnings and transferring him from school to school. What were they thinking?
Photo and Pie by Chef David Slotto–Thanksgiving
Have you ever wondered if the one you love, loves you in return? With the same intensity? With the same care?
I watch him stir, measure, taste, chop, add, stir again. I watch him labor over a pot of lactose-free milk slowly simmering, evaporating so that I can enjoy the same Thanksgiving pumpkin pie as everyone else in spite of my finicky digestive system. I watch him unload groceries carefully chosen after meticulous examination of labels to rule out dairy. Do you know how many cheeses are made of the easier-to-digest goats’ milk?
It’s that measure of attention, that extra spice that flavors every meal he prepares with that delicious spice of love.
on a green hillside
ewes drop spring lambs one-by-one
cheese in the offing
Note: Once when making a silent retreat in Pennsylvania in April, I stood and witnessed the birth of a couple of dozen lambs, all within a few hours of each other. Truly amazing.
Today for Haibun Monday, Kanzen Sakura asks us to remember one of our favorite meals–a hard task for me since I have enjoyed so many thanks to my husband who does all the cooking. I chose Thanksgiving.
Photo: David Slotto–herbs from the chef’s garden
Photo: David Sl
She’d lost the spring in her step,
But the twinkle in her eye,
kept her young—
an icon of joy.
“It’s love,” she told me,
that makes me who
who I am.
No winter in this heart
Photo: David Slotto
My mother at age 90-something.
Kim is hosting dVerse Quadrille today asking for a poem of exactly 44 words, excluding the title, using the word SPRING in any of its forms. I was a bit surprised where this one took me. We would love to see you join us for the prompt that is available to you all week.
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.”