Photo: istock
Labeled for non-commercial reuse
A Visit
a Quadrille
I find him on the porch,
frame stooped, cobbled by years
of loss and melancholic memories.
Eyes dimmed, he turns within—
hears the music of birdsong,
inhales the scent of lavender,
tastes the sweetness of this moment
when friends stop by,
and hug him.
Linked to dVerse Quadrille Monday where De asks us for a poem of exactly 44 words, excluding title. The word of the week is COBBLE or any of its forms. Join us and have fun.
Photo: David Slotto
A few years ago we were so lucky to win a trip to golf Pinehurst #2. I drove the green on Hole 16 but missed my 4 foot birdie putt. :0(
Golf— the Sport of Fools
a Haibun
If you are serious about golf, I recommend that you stay away from any opportunity to join a foursome of which I am a part. It will take me about three strokes to catch up with your drive. I’m too old and too skinny to do otherwise. Frankly, I doubt if I have an athletic gene in my DNA. Ask any member of my 9-hole golf league. Or ask my long-suffering husband.
Why do I golf, you may ask. That’s a question I ask myself each morning I awaken and know that I have a scheduled tee time. But as soon as I walk approach the tee box on the first hole, look down the fairway at an expanse of green surrounded by trees, standing like a guard of honor to welcome me, as soon as I hear the songs of mockingbirds, wrens (and even those crows just waiting to really mock me), and as soon as the words of encouragement of friends raise my spirits or I hit that unexpected long fairway shot or make that troublesome putt, then I remember. Plus, I’ve golfed with 90-plus year-old’s. How better to keep our older bodies agile and alive. When I post my score at the end of the round, I only pray that no one waiting behind to do the same is peeking over my shoulder.
my drive soars skyward
boosted on by spring breezes
sun breaks through the clouds
This week’s Haibun challenge at dVerse Poets, hosted by Bjorn, is asking us to write of sports. Well, the Warriors beat out Cleveland last night for the NBA Championship, and that makes me happy (Sorry, Cleveland cousins and other fans) but, lets just say I never excelled in any sport other than swimming–that happens when you grow up in Southern California. But there is one sport that does keep me moving, other than dog-walking. And now you know.
Photo: V. Slotto
We peeked through the slant
of half-closed plantation shutters.
They wheeled her by,
the husk that used to house her spirit—
a whisper enclosed in white plastic.
They wheeled her past
a cacophony of colors—
purples, pinks and gold.
In our lime tree a song bird
sang Kaddish
as the sun hid behind a cloud
while I sang Te Deum.
Kaddish is the Jewish prayer for the dead. Te Deum is a Christian hymn of praise and gratitude. I rejoiced in a life well-lived
Rest Peacefully, Gerry. April 4, 2014
National Poetry Month–Day 6
Across the pathway,
beyond her garden, behind drawn blinds,
my neighbor, my friend, awaits rebirth.
The flowers she tended
weep dew.
Photo: David Slotto
I wrote this short poem for Day 3 of National Poetry Month. A dear friend is dying, after about ten years battling ovarian cancer. It’s hard to believe that she was my partner a week ago Tuesday in a little golf event for my league in which we invited the “Lady Putters” to play with us. We hit the ball to the green and the putter putted out. We were pathetic. Gerry was literally dying and I was really overwhelmed, but grateful to be with her. This photo is one taken about five years ago for the same event. She was in the middle of one of her six rounds of chemo. (I won’t post the one taken this year. It’s not how I want to remember her). This lady has taught me so much about courage and a positive attitude. She never complained–just kept on living. I’m linking another poem I wrote earlier in the the about her HERE.
Godspeed dear friend.
Also linking to dVerse Meeting the Bar where Claudia asks us to express emotion without saying what it is. I will be late in responding since my little girl dog has to have surgery today on her spine. She has terrible pain that medications don’t touch. Please keep her in your thoughts/prayers. Thank you.
Image kindness of artist
Sunita Khedekar. Used with permission.
transparency
i.
from the tops of roofs
birds chortle their delight,
weave mournful melodies
for all to hear,
while behind facades of homes
clothed in riotous colors
dark secrets may linger.
ii.
close as we may be—
neighbor-to-neighbor,
spouse-to-spouse,
does anyone really know us?
do we even know ourselves?
iii.
we are so different from one another—
colors, shapes, where we live.
yet our lives slip by,
(perhaps unnoticed,)
beneath the same sky,
warmed by the same sun,
nourished by the same earth.
let us open our arms
like the branches of a tree.
let us open our hearts
like waters of a cool stream
to welcome,
to accept,
to refresh.
iv.
when we listen deeply
we taste our alikeness.
our paths may differ
but if we look inside the core,
like the center of each flower,
(pink or orange or gold)
we are the same.
v.
small windows
limit our view of the world.
let us knock down walls
to what is beyond our limited perspective
to embrace the beauty
that surrounds us.
vi.
if we allow another
to join us in our little dinghy
both of us can take up the oars.
we will glide with greater ease,
arrive more quickly,
and still have time
to enjoy the view.
I’m so grateful to Grace for introducing us to the talented artist Sunita Khedekar who graciously opens up her art portfolio to us as an inspiration for this week’s Poetic’s prompt. Thank you for sharing your gifts with us, Sunita. Give yourself the treat of stopping by her Blog to enjoy her work, then come on by dVerse to see how other have responded in poetry.
The doors open Tuesday at 3:00 PM EDT.
Submitted to Leonnyes Z to A Challenge: http://leonnyes.wordpress.com/
Perhaps If
I’d noticed
how she
pushed that piece of Kung
Pao Shrimp around
the plate and left it
balancing
precariously
on the edge.
If I’d taken time
to hear to the words,
she didn’t speak.
Or if I’d
caught the way her
eyes avoided mine,
staring at some
distant intersection
on the horizon
of her world.
If I’d paid attention
to the curtains
drawn tight against
intrusion
or if I’d wondered why
she never called
me back.
Perhaps then she
would not have chosen
to die so soon.
Victoria C. Slotto, Author 