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

 

 

Listening Woman–dVerse Poetics

Listening Woman

Image: Wikipedia Labeled for non-commercial reuse.

Image: Wikipedia
Labeled for non-commercial reuse.

Thirteen of us sit in a circle around Darleen, our friend of Native American descent, our friend who shared a deep spiritual journey with us that was different from what we knew. Over the months she shared the beauty of the American Indian traditions—beauty that enriched our own understanding of the Great Spirit without taking anything from our own beliefs. Beauty that helped us to behold the wonders of creation with fresh insight.

Today, she introduces us to the talking stick. A large hawk feather wrapped around a stick with leather and beads. It is used in tribal councils, and for our purpose in group discussion. The stick is passed around the circle to the person who wants to share her views. Only the person holding the stick is allowed to speak. Everyone else listens.

eagle feather soar
words born of thoughtful silence
spirit wisdom speaks

Posting a 2nd poem, a haibun,  for my feather prompt at dVerse Poetics.

feather art–dVerse Poetics

I’m hosting for Tuesday’s dVerse Poetics and am looking for poetry about feathers. Please join us with a poem of your own.

Photo: V. Ceretto

Photo: V. Ceretto

 

feather art

she would paint feathers, she told me,
would spend her days waiting
for feathers fluttering to earth
borne on gentle zephyrs
feathers fallen to the ground
those scattered by a bird of prey
the bodies of a sparrow or a wren

she chooses brushes carefully
(the finest sables) or a nib
she’d load with color or with ink
to focus on delicate detail
outlining veins and every plume
the clash of color line and shape

for feathers are what makes a bird a bird,
she says, and wonders why the jays glow blue
and orioles gold and how to capture iridescence
such glorious structures fractal-ly complex

her studio’s awash in brilliant quills
exotic colors luminous light
collected on the beach and desert floors
some in the mountain heights on trails
and in her garden bed beneath the trees

her work is like a prayer, she says,
a mystical mandala journey to within
she dips her pen into the very heart
of our creation’s source, and recreates
the energy that throbs beneath
the skin of every living being

Image: Public Domain

Image: Public Domain