Sunrise, Sunset–dVerse Poetics

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Sunrise, Sunset

We stand on our deck, face north,
watch Sun rise in the east,
casting shadows on the west
flank of our garden.

This early we don’t need shade,
but shadows from our trees,
ash, maple and cherry,
practice for evening hours

when we shall yearn for shelter.
Before he sets, Sun flings
his fiery rays toward us.
Tomatoes bask in warmth,

begin to form fruit around
their fragile yellow blossoms.
Magenta lobes of the eggplant
dangle like pendulous breasts.

For our part, we unwind. Sun,
breaks through leafy branches,
casts rays through sweating glasses
of tawny chardonnay or ruddy merlot.

In the embracing shade of her boughs
I turn toward you. We watch as
Sun sighs, pulls a blanket of clouds
around his shoulders and hurls
himself over the horizon.

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Please join us at dVerse Poetics, where Lillian has us considering SHADE. And don’t forget the Haibun prompt, WABI-SABI, is open all week.

Outside Looking In–dVerse Poetics

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Outside-Looking-In

Was it like this my entire life
or only since the years stole
in and swept away beauty and desire?

I stand here, watching shadows
of youthful joy and folly,
longing for a simple touch

or even the smile of a stranger
passing by me in Wal-Mart
as I walk slowly, using my cart as a cane.

They are so busy with their lives.
They have things to do and families
to raise and who love them. You are gone

now, leaving me to this darkness,
Gazing at life unfurling before me.
Sitting on my porch, watching

through the another’s window,
nursing memories and fears.
Waiting for death.

For Poetics at dVerse, Lillian would have us look outside or inside a window. The poem I’ve written isn’t about me, but it is something I have encountered so very often working as a nurse with, for the most part, elderly patients. Though I don’t feel old, I know age is sneaking up on me, so I begin to look at things more often from the perspective of the elderly. Please, don’t forget them!

Bless You, Little Things

 

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Bless You, Little Things

I bless you, all you little things—
you gifts, ignored by humankind.

You, honey bees and tiny blooms,
Eight-legged spider in my room,

your lacy web and stealthy style,
you may stay here just a while.

I bless you, bird’s nest in our tree,
just cached beneath a bunch of leaves,

and wee blue eggs that nestle there,
concealed from Jays, yes, take care.

I bless the sun’s first ray of light
and slivered silver moon at night.

You, chipmunk, scurry ‘cross the grass
and disappear. You are so fast.

And bless the seed beneath the soil,
nature’s largesse to bring us joy.

I praise the Maker of all things.
May we find you in all life brings.

(Even earwhigs?)

Today’s prompt at dVerse Poetics, offered by Paul Scribbles, is to write a blessing, something our poor world needs now and always. Please consider writing one and linking it to our poetry community. A little something positive goes a long way.

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.