Summer of Love–dVerse Poetics

 

Photo: Flickr
Labeled for Non-Commercial Reuse

Summer of Love
Signs of the Times

I could have been there, but wasn’t,
though this California earthquake
hit me harder than Loma Prieta
(and I was there, in the city, for that one.)

I’ve walked the hate Haight,
tossed flowers onto a pond,
inhaled once and choked,
joined a minority in my own
weird way, loved freely
in my own sure way.

But, I embrace our vets,
as well, while rueing war,
love my country, question
politics, splurge on gratitude.

The signs abounded; buttons led the way.

Is what we have now
really what we want?

When I opened the paper this morning (to barely scan the headlines and read the comics) I found an article on the 50th Anniversary of the Summer of Love (1967) that showed a photo of buttons with the many slogans that emerged.

Today, Mish invites us to muse on the many signs that surround us and I suppose these little buttons, which certainly set our culture in a new direction, may be acceptable for the prompt. Please join us with a SIGN that hits you at dVersePoets.

 

Mud Pies–dVerse Poetics

Image: Pinterest

Mud Pies

When we were young, two little ones at play,
our families thought that we belonged together,
so sweet, like milk and honey.

Sticks were our bows and arrows, then
Look closely. See that scar you gave me,
reminders of a rough-house game of kick-the-can.

When we played house (you acquiesced),
“That’s not a game for boys,” you said,
so I said nothing when you fed mud pies .
to my beloved, fair-haired doll.

Now, in my garden, thoughts of you swirl in the loam
—the scents of clay, the grainy texture of dank earth.
No longer play, but poignant memories tinged
with just a hint of sadness, just a hint of wondering

what might have been, had you not died so young?

I’m tripping back sixty-some years to a time when, living in a rural area, my only neighbor was a boy, a year or two my senior. We played together in the wild outdoors. He made a tomboy of me and I tried to domesticate him. I would be writing an epic poem if I tried to recount all our exploits.

I recall so well, after we had moved away, one evening during dinner (we were eating chop suey) the phone rang and I learned that my dear playmate, at the time only about 13 years old, had been crushed to death when he and a buddy had climbed a fence and tried to ride an oil well.

Please join us at dVerse Poetics where Bjorn invites us to play with words and dirt.

Dream

Photo: Wikipedia
Labeled for non-commercial reuse.

Dream

Last night I dreamt of
feathers and shape-shifting.
Today a wren perches on a naked branch
outside my window.
By afternoon
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.

The First Time–dVerse Poetic

 

The First Time

Photo: Wikipedia Labeled for Non-Commercial Reuse

Photo: Wikipedia
Labeled for Non-Commercial Reuse

The first time that I witnessed birth,
saw the crowning of the head,
that shock of thick black hair,
heard the melded cries of mother
and her son, the pain and ecstasy
in resounding dissonance,
the joy and fear and victory
of shattered boundaries—
that first time I beheld the
mystery of newborn life
I shuddered in the face of Awe.

The first time that I prayed in silence
without words or thoughts and stood
like Moses by the burning bush
that would not be destroyed and
offered (to the One who is and was
and will be) all that I have been and
am and shall become without limit
that first time I embraced
the mystery of the divine
I shuddered in the face of God.

The first time that I tasted love,
sought urgently to touch and hold,
looked into eyes that knew
my secret sacred spaces,
longed to please before receiving
pleasure, lost track of time, luxuriated
in the scent of passion,
that first time I received the mystery
of you, of all we could become,
I shuddered in the face of Bliss.

The first time I attended death
and held an old man’s icy hand and
looked into his eyes that saw beyond
me, wiped a brow expressing
nuances of sorrow and of joy,
the scope of everything we can imagine,
that first time I received a dying breath
and closed those eyes
I shuddered in the face of the Unknown.

I apologize for re-posting a poem that has been around before, written originally in 2010, but it fits Kelly’s prompt for dVerse Poetics, right down to the title, and I confess it is one of my favorites, because of its significance in my own life. Those of you who’ve been around, please don’t feel compelled to comment–but there are so many newbies at dVerse, I wanted to offer it again.

Of the Onset of Cold Weather–dVerse Poetics: Homophones

Credit: ProWritingAid.com

Credit: ProWritingAid.com

Of the Onset of Cold Weather
A Snowbird’s Lament in Homophones

If I’m allowed, I’ll rant aloud
of autumn’s need to dye, to die
or so it seems, to knit
the season’s seams together
through leaves it threw to ground.

The endless summer’s sear
has left the land so sere.
The trees, in springtime fair
did not, this year, fare well,
the ash has not survived.

As winter’s morn draws near
I’ll mourn the loss of warmth.
We’ll travel south to find
the sun and pause to play
some golf and walk the dogs
where paws don’t freeze.

And, as for golf, I drive my
ball, yell “fore” and hope that
(unlike last year’s very first drive)
I will not break a window.
(Said story’s sad, but true.)

For dVerse Poetics, Lillian invites us to write some poetry using homophones, that is, words that sound alike. There are tons of them, just Google “homophone lists” and have fun with them.

If it’s Haibun Monday you want, that poem is here.

In Praise of Early Dawn–dVerse Poetics

Photo: Phil Mosby

Photo: Phil Mosby

In Praise of Early Dawn
a Haibun

Five-thirty AM. Most of Reno still asleep, I join only a few cars traveling South on West McCarran Boulevard, elevated above the city. In darkness, stark cardboard-cutouts of the mountains to the East hug the basin of crystal lights. Earth holds her breath, waiting for the new day to unfold.

Within the hour, I’m driving back up the hill. Behind me, the sun peeps over the horizon, cracks open the cloud cover and spews blood-red streaks across the sky. I celebrate a new beginning.

early autumn morn
sun breaks through mysteries
pray always, he says

Written for Walt’s prompt at dVerse Poetics where we are celebrating.

Art is Messy–dVerse Poetics

Chester Arnold in his Studio

Artist, Chester Arnold, in his Studio

This poem is about a problem–my problem. My office, writing space, is also my would-be art studio. And here’s the problem. I’m a perfectionist (borderline OCD?) and can’t write in a chaotic environment. I long to paint, but can’t endure the mess.

Today for dVerse Poetics, Grace prompts us to write to the amazing photographic display/art of Emily Blincoe. Her arrangements appeal to me for their organization, color, implied texture and pattern. In response, I share with you my (not-too-poetic) dilemma.

Art is Messy

I uncap each tube,
inhale deeply, feeling creativity
seep into my body
through the sense of smell.

Lay them out, then,
one-by-one,
color wheel-like:
red-orange-yellow
green-blue-purple
and all the shades
in-between.

S-t-r-e-t-c-h
that canvas
tight, tight-tighter yet.
Sort brushes
by number.
Drop cloth, easel,
light source.

Perfect.

Uncap tube.
Inhale emptiness.

Thank you, Emily, for sharing your beautiful work.

emily

Photo: Emily Blincoe