dVerse OLN–a Whale of a Time

Image: BBC

Today, I’m linking a previously posted poem, one that I wrote using homonyms in the Sestina prompt, for dVerse OLN. It was the last, end-hour poem to go up. I am giving it a quick facelift. Coincidently, it is about whales. Thank you, Lillian, for sharing Provincetown with us–reminding me of my favorite, now-deceased poet, Mary Oliver.

A Mother Mourns
A Sestina

I saw her in the early hours’ mist,
just before sun broke through, heralding morn.
I heard a sound—perhaps a cry, a wail—
featuring pain that could not be missed.
An empty call of someone who must mourn,
a loss as deep as human, a grieving whale.

Who would expect such distress from a whale,
echoing slowly as though held back by the mist?
She shared her sorrow with me and I, too, began to mourn
the babe she held aloft in this quiet morn.
I thought of death—the one I loved and missed.
In silence I stood and listened to her wail.

Once again, I heard her, another wail—
the splendor of this creature, of this whale—
a mother’s angst that could not be missed,
so haunting in this atmospheric mist.
I’d awaited this day, a glorious morn,
but even breaking waves sprayed tears, as if to mourn.

She writhed in billowing whitecaps, her body seemed to mourn.
Above, a seagull cawed, squawked its own wail,
its flight toward the sun, toward dawning morn.
Below, a stillness shrouded mother whale,
in blue green seas, in dispersing mist.
Again a deep cry that I could not have missed.

I, too, have lost a child whose love I’ve missed.
Oh how I keen, and still I mourn
as I watch myself disappear into the mist
leaving behind my memories in an agonizing wail.
I think we are one—my spirit and the whale
as we both weep tears in this early morn.

As day moves on and leaves behind the morn,
we can’t stay fixed on what we have missed.
I bid goodbye to my mother whale
to face the present, so as not to mourn.
Then in a distance, I hear her–another wail
I carry it with me beyond the mist.

I’ll not forget mother whale who I met this morn.
Another day, in morning mist, I’ll think of all we both missed,
and learn how to mourn in a soundless wail.

 

 

 

Enduring Love–a Sestina

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Enduring Love
a Sestina

You sit beside the hearth and dream
of years long past, of youth,
those days so filled with dance, with life
that you do not forget.
You walked in worlds of swirling greens,
gave birth beneath the sky.

You revel ‘neath cerulean skies
and catch a glimpse of dreams.
And thus the burgeoning of green
as you reclaim your youth.
Those signs of spring you won’t forget,
for you still pulse with life.

In aging, still you sing of life,
your eyes reflect the sky.
You smile at love you can’t forget—
those memories of dreams
fulfilled when you were full of youth,
midst flowers, in fields green.

You stood by him in days of green.
He held you throughout life.
You gave each other joys of youth,
‘neath bound’ry of the sky.
He was the answer to your dreams;
you never will forget.

A love that’s easy to forget
basks in flowers, and green
of grass and sun, the blissful dream.
Will these endure through life,
when clouds obscure the blue, blue sky
and aging foils youth?

How easy to enjoy one’s youth
and facile to forget
the promise made ‘neath azure skies,
delight-filled days of green.
Yet to endure the stuff of life,
we need more than to dream.

Beyond your youth, those days of green,
(lest you forget) the greatest life
soars to the skies, surpasses dreams.

Another Sestina submitted today to dVerse OLN.

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.

the fresh breath of winter–dVerse OLN

the fresh breath of winter

shimmering snowfall
still water, frozen beauty
warming arid hearts

gazing on and on
reverent winter wonder
bare trees bow toward earth

nature’s white embrace
crystals sparkle silvery
beneath winter’s sun

Written and posted for dVerse Open Link Night–Join us at the poetry pub!

Photo: David Slotto
Mt. Whitney, California

Useless, Broken Things–dVerse OLN

Useless, Broken Things

In a forgotten cupboard,
behind an empty box,
I find stories, covered in dust

A child’s teddy bear,
ragged, torn,
forgotten years ago.

A toddler’s shoe,
wrinkled, scuffed.
Worn for her first steps?

Inside her lonely room,
an old lady turns frayed pages
of her memory.

She kisses photos’ tattered edges,
and wishes, once again,
to hear the sounds of laughter.

In a forgotten cupboard,
behind an empty box,
I find toys, cover them with tears.

Posted for dVerse OLN, hosted by Grace. Please join us.

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Depouillement–dVerse

Depouillement*
A Haibun

Do falling leaves ache with the pain of letting go? Or do they revel in the freedom of floating and of the taste of earth? Did they boast of glorious colors that they wore in days before releasing their hold on life?

And the trees—do they grasp obsessively to their robes of glory, regret the day that finds them stripped, exposed and naked—vulnerable to cold and rain.

I am October now, buffeted by aging. I hurl my somethingness into the great unknown, one gift at a time. I face the imminence of winter, move beyond the sting of loss into the joy of unknown expectations. I am old but full of hope, in the springtime of new life. Beneath the soil life pulses.

Je suis depouilée
stripped bare like October trees
richness lies hidden

 

Photo: Victoria Slotto

*The French word depouillement means stripping. The verb depouiller is to strip. The first line of the haiku translates : I am stripped.

Happy to be able to jump in for OLN this week. I have tried to consider some of the wonderful prompts I have missed related to personal events–this one, especially, relates back to Kim’s prompt for Tuesday’s Poetics.

Violation–dVerse Open Link Night

Violation

When words force entry,
molest my every conscious thought—then,
surrender, I must, or endure unrelenting torture.

(Fire rages, outrages across our valley,
scorches acres upon acres of pine and cheat grass,
assaults, blasts, torments verdant mountain ranges.)

Words hound me without ceasing,
shove me from bed at 3 AM,
hammer, barrage, rape

(Deer, squirrels, bluebirds, bears flee
for safety, though flames overtake them,
devastate their habitat.)

serenity, rip it from my soul,
until I respond, rearrange them
on pure white sheets

(Ashes plunge into pristine waters,
hurl charred fragments, suffocate,
pollute, wash sepia across blue skies.)

of blank paper in my notebook.
Slowly intensity subsides
and I taste fulfillment.

(Last night a gentle rain showered
the Great Basin, purged the air.
Smoke will return, but this morn, we garden.)

 

Tonight is the popular Open Link Night at dVerse where both topic and form are up to you. I was unable to participate in the wonderful prompt for Poetics this week on muscle verbs so I decided to expand it a bit combining a poem about poetry with a poem about landscape.

While both Northern Nevada and Northern California are both experiencing multiple wild fires, most of which are due to human carelessness, we are currently not in danger, but the smoke does pour into Reno off and on. The worst is from a fire at a distance of maybe 150-200 miles near Yosemite in central California. Please keep our first responders in your prayers. They are going from one fire to another with very little sleep. Ironically, we did have some rain last night which resulted in flash floods in a community north of us.

The doors to the pub will open Thursday at 3:00 PM EDT

Image: CalamityMeg via Flickr

Image: sierrasun.com

 

Ignored–dVerse Open Link Night

 

Ignored

“The drop is a small ocean.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

They walk by,
enveloped in concern,
oblivious to oceans of beauty
that surround them—

• undulating water in the stream caressing the rocky earth beneath
• a tiny leaf unfurling her greenness on a distant branch
• mockingbird chortling joy upon his treetop perch
• little mouse, concealed beneath hosta’s broad umbrella
• droplets of dew flashing seductive rainbows from every blade of grass
• and me.

I was the first to open,
now one among the many,
lost in a swath of golden beauty.
I offer my delight
only to go unseen.

I have been, for the most part, unable to be a part of dVerse for a while. Back toward the end of March, Mish invited us to write a poem from the point of view of nature. In a feeble effort to play catch up, this is mine, posted for OLN.

World Bank Photo Collection–labeled for non-commercial reuse.

adult coloring is all the rage

adult coloring is all the rage

Image: sketchport.com
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

when you rainbow me
red me, read me

when you paint me
green me, grow me

when you ade me
yellow me, drink me

when you hurt me
blue me, cry me

then i dream you
find you, taste you
rainbow you too.

For dVerse Open Link Night, with a nod to Lillian’s prompt for Poetics–verbification.

October–dVerse OLN

Photo: jcookfisher via Flickr
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

October
Haibun

Recently, a red tail hawk sat on our fence, watching an assortment of jays, robins, quail and doves fattening themselves on the seeds in our garden. Spent cosmos and coreopsis shrugged, let nature have her way.

Hawk, the Messenger,
seeks tomorrow’s sustenance,
dove feasts, unaware.

All the work of putting the garden to bed for the winter has claimed our attention, turning it from creative pursuits. The tasks of autumn bring to mind those chores that face us later in life—clearing away the debris of spent dreams, wasted efforts—preparing the soil for what is yet to come.

Autumn smells pungent—
leaves moldering in crannies,
poems forgotten.

A few brilliant roses still persist in their efforts to boast their beauty, proving that nature is not as fussy as we are when it comes to choosing the colors she will wear, or what’s deemed appropriate as defined by the expectations of others. Bright pink and orange: how freeing!

Late blooming roses
struggle in October frost,
clash with changing leaves.

The Truckee river, a block from our home, is feeling the effect of this summer’s lack of rain. It is fed by beautiful Lake Tahoe, flows east through Reno and ends up in Pyramid Lake, home of the Paiute Indians. Snow fell this week, just above our elevation, in the Sierra Nevada and we will see more soon, hopefully. Reno is high desert, receiving only 7” of rain annually. We depend on the snowfall in the mountains and at the Lake.

Truckee, languid now,
flows gently through our city,
hopes for winter snow.

Linking to dVerse OLN where you can post any one poem, any topic, any form. Please join us.