Enter Death–dVerse Open Link Night


Image by finofilka via Flickr

autumn window

Enter Death

Death, you’re not supposed to
come today.
Not on a day when Nature
slabs of alabaster
into a cobalt sky.
When blood-red branches
stretch out arms
to embrace the heavens in

I cradle his body—
silken feathers dipped
in gold—
perfect symmetry.
His head plume,
like a tear drop,
falls to the side
as life escapes
the fragile form.

You overstepped
your boundaries.
This quail didn’t know you,
lurking in that window,
waiting with empty

Please join us at dVerse Poets’ Pub for Open Link Night. Share good poetry, friendship and a glass of winter ale. The party begins at 3PM EST.

Bipolar–dVerse Poetics


While this story is fictional, I have worked with patients and friends who have bipolar disorder. The prompt that our gifted Claudia Schoenfeld offers today at dVerse Poetics, challenges us to engage in conversation. We’ve all experienced self-talk, I’m sure. You’re invited in to eavesdrop.


“Look outside,” I tell you.
But you ignore both me
and the hawk posed upon
our redwood fence,

striated tail in tones
of golden brown and black.
“Hurry,” I say, “You’ll miss him.”
Your shoulders slump,

unblinking eyes fix upon the screen,
follow the red jack you drag
over to the queen of spades.

Was it just last Wednesday?
You dragged me to the mall,
paid in credit for a Persian rug,
paid with money we don’t have.

Golden brown and black
and orange and red—the colors
that you coveted,
and here you are.

Your silence screams, echos
down the hall. Dissipates
into the shadows.

You coax the final king
and plop him on his queen.
The monitor explodes in
bursts of color.

Slamming the laptop shut,
I hurry to my room,
ignoring crimson leaves
and gold.

My medication sits,
untouched for days,
beside my bed.

Sidle up to the bar with us at dVerse Poetics and listen in to some more conversation. Bring a poem of your own…

Duality–An Etheree

Yin and yang stones
Image via Wikipedia

My post for dVerse Poetics (Saturday, 10/22)–a wonderful prompt offered by Mark Kerstetter is located here: https://liv2write2day.wordpress.com/2011/06/05/sweet-painted-lady-a-sonnet/



light and dark
merge into one,
brighten the forest,
eclipse the dawning morn.
Do you understand these words?
I am a woman; you’re a man.
I am a Christian; you don’t believe
in anything you cannot see or touch
or comprehend in terms of science.
Together we are Everyman
who seeks to taste the meaning
of a life unfolding
in obscurity.
Come with me, then.
taste beauty,

Thank you, Gay, at dVerse Poets’ Pub for prompting us to write an Etheree or other form poem. Check out some more at http://dversepoets.com/  

Golfing Pinehurst–a Collection of Haiku

Golfing Pinehurst
a Collection of Haiku

There is no rough on Pinehurst #2...only what they call "waste land." It behooves you to stay in the fairway. The bunkers were my downfall.

Pinehurst number two
home of the U.S Open ~
misty memories

This bronze statue commemorates Payne Stewart's U.S. Open win in 1999. He died soon after in a Plane Crash.

standing on the tee
lurking in giants’ footsteps
wasteland surrounds green

The "Wasteland"

I drove the green on this one then missed a 3' putt for my birdie. :0(

torrents of rain slice
sideways across the fairway
we golf anyway

There are a total of 8 courses at the Pinehurst Resort. On the 2nd day we played #8. It was wet at first but it just poured after the first 6 or 7 holes. We toughed it out for 11 but had to quit. We were soaked through and walking down the fairway you needed boots. This photo was taken before the rain set in.

During my blogging break, my husband and I spent two days golfing at one of the U.S. Open courses–Pinehurst, North Carolina. When my husband won this trip last year, I finally got serious about my game. Even now, I’m a high handicapper…as high as they will give you…but I’m amazed to find enjoyment on the course, most likely because golf submerges you in the beauty of nature.

Thank you to Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse Poets Pub who gave us a comprehensive review of the art of classic Japanese Poetry, including haiku. I’ve been having trouble awakening my muse since returning home, and this is the first poem I’ve written in a while. I wanted to reflect a bit upon this experience.

Photo: David Slotto 9-22-11

All photos: David Slotto

Poetic Plagiarism–dVerse Poets Pub

Pablo Picasso, Le guitariste, 1910, oil on can...

Image via Wikipedia

Poetic Plagiarism

Verbal cubism:
Deconstructing reality,
Finding Picasso.

This is in response to a prompt from emmett wheatfield for dVerse Poets Pub in which he asks us to write a poem about poetry. Cubism in visual art is about deconstruction of objects into their basic shapes. As I see it, poets deconstruct the obvious, but instead of paints or collage, we use words.

Come on over to the Pub and read emmet’s article and some poems about poetry. http://dversepoets.com We’re serving up good stuff 24/7!


“The End”–for dVerse Poetics

What, me film noir?

The End

No words to speak—none needed now.
Your body emanates disdain,
brusque movements tell your love was feigned.

Outside our window, on a bough,
a blackbird caws, dark winter thaws,
as does the meaning of our vows.

Empty expressions, pulsing pain,
no words to say what’s needed now.

This week at dVerse Poetics, Sheila Moore http://shewriting.blogspot.com/ the opportunity to write about silent movies. I chose a drama that occurs, all too often, on and off the screen. The form is an Octain, developed by Luke Prater http://lukepraterswordsalad.com/.

Stop by the pub, go back in time, and enjoy some great poetry about those silent films: http://dversepoets.com

Thanks you Sheila…and Luke, for the form.

Film Noir–for dVerse Critique

Film Noir

Image by Grumbler %-| via Flickr

Film Noir

Radiance cuts through
a haze of smoke.
The room is full of bad guys.
Heads turn
when you walk in.
Evil disrobes
itself of ugliness—
evil masked
in moonlight.

We inhabit a world
cast in black and white.
of gray.
Life in shadowed frames
by the moon.

Femme fatale,
a leaf tossed about
in the wind,
I hand myself over to you
and wind up
in the gutter.

Convoluted roads
we follow.
Convoluted plots
shaded in deception.
left to die
next to a pile of garbage
in the corner
of a stinkin’ alley.

Because of you
I accept
my wasted life.

I penned this poem for a prompt that asked us to write about the moon. I liked the subject because those old black and white movies dealing with bad guys and gals always took advantage of the dark, backlit by the moon, to create a sense of eerieness and even evil. That being said, I didn’t quite feel like I pulled it off…it seems a bit forced. Rip it apart, if you will. I’d like to see it work.

Thank you, Luke, for hosting this week’s critique and for all you do for our development as poets.

Crynkovic Yugoslavian–Open Link Night at dVerse Poets’ Pub


Image by arbyreed via Flickr

Crynkovic Yugoslavian

Voluptuous Earth Goddess,
bearer of sacred promise,
fruitful Mother,
we savor your delight.

Misinformed misogynist,
the patriarchal Hesiod,
knew not the taste of pleasure
nor the scent of paradise.

Photo: V. Slotto

The Crynkovic Yugoslavian is a variety of heirloom tomatoes whose seed originated in (you guessed it) Yugoslavia. When my gardener-husband harvested this one last evening it brought to mind early goddess images, most often depicted as curvaceous figures without distinct features. If you’ve never enjoyed heirloom tomatoes, you’ve missed a truly divine experience.

Hesiod’s work on mythology downplays the role of feminine deities.

The Cloud of Unknowing–dVerse Poetics

tule fog

Image by emdot via Flickr

The Cloud of Unknowing

Who covered our valley with layers of gauzy fog?
Before me, another car edges forward.
I follow dim tail lights, hoping that somewhere ahead
another leads the tentative parade.

Last week, a mountain spanned the landscape
on the lower third of earth’s canvas.
A two-lane highway wove its way through
rabbit brush, tumble weeds tumbled. Snakes slithered.

Today I see only dim tail lights, hoping that
tomorrow I will come home.

The Cloud of Unknowing is a spiritual treatise by an anonymous medieval mystic. It advises the follower that God cannot be understood through knowledge, but rather through contemplation. Oftentimes those who live in faith have to endure prolonged periods of doubt. Having spent time in California’s Central Valley and on the coast, I always found Tule Fog and coastal fog to be an apt metaphor for life’s journey at times like this.

Today at dVerse Poet’s Pub, Brian Miller asks us to see that which cannot be seen except through the third eye. Check it out at http://dversepoets.com/

Neon Kisses–Open Link Night at dVerse Poets’ Pub

Neon Kisses

I didn’t notice the color of your jacket
or your eyes.
Battered by rain and wind
we walked side-by-side.
Neon lights reflected on wet asphalt
blinked their messages in blurred colors.

Nor did I notice where you took me
or that we had to wait for hours.
Your words hung, suspended in air
like notes of a symphonic chorus,
at times harmonic chords,
reverberated, crashing down around me.

I didn’t notice that the rain had stopped,
leaving in the air a fragrant breath
of moon-fresh night.
Nor did I grasp the fact that when you left
the cold closed in, enveloped me like a shroud.

The only thing I hold in memory:
kisses. The taste you left upon my lips,
your touch,
your smile.

Linked to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub where we share a drink or two, great poetry and friendship. Come on over! http://dversepoets.com