Depouillement–dVerse

Depouillement*
A Haibun

Do falling leaves ache with the pain of letting go? Or do they revel in the freedom of floating and of the taste of earth? Did they boast of glorious colors that they wore in days before releasing their hold on life?

And the trees—do they grasp obsessively to their robes of glory, regret the day that finds them stripped, exposed and naked—vulnerable to cold and rain.

I am October now, buffeted by aging. I hurl my somethingness into the great unknown, one gift at a time. I face the imminence of winter, move beyond the sting of loss into the joy of unknown expectations. I am old but full of hope, in the springtime of new life. Beneath the soil life pulses.

Je suis depouilée
stripped bare like October trees
richness lies hidden

 

Photo: Victoria Slotto

*The French word depouillement means stripping. The verb depouiller is to strip. The first line of the haiku translates : I am stripped.

Happy to be able to jump in for OLN this week. I have tried to consider some of the wonderful prompts I have missed related to personal events–this one, especially, relates back to Kim’s prompt for Tuesday’s Poetics.

October–dVerse OLN

Photo: jcookfisher via Flickr
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

October
Haibun

Recently, a red tail hawk sat on our fence, watching an assortment of jays, robins, quail and doves fattening themselves on the seeds in our garden. Spent cosmos and coreopsis shrugged, let nature have her way.

Hawk, the Messenger,
seeks tomorrow’s sustenance,
dove feasts, unaware.

All the work of putting the garden to bed for the winter has claimed our attention, turning it from creative pursuits. The tasks of autumn bring to mind those chores that face us later in life—clearing away the debris of spent dreams, wasted efforts—preparing the soil for what is yet to come.

Autumn smells pungent—
leaves moldering in crannies,
poems forgotten.

A few brilliant roses still persist in their efforts to boast their beauty, proving that nature is not as fussy as we are when it comes to choosing the colors she will wear, or what’s deemed appropriate as defined by the expectations of others. Bright pink and orange: how freeing!

Late blooming roses
struggle in October frost,
clash with changing leaves.

The Truckee river, a block from our home, is feeling the effect of this summer’s lack of rain. It is fed by beautiful Lake Tahoe, flows east through Reno and ends up in Pyramid Lake, home of the Paiute Indians. Snow fell this week, just above our elevation, in the Sierra Nevada and we will see more soon, hopefully. Reno is high desert, receiving only 7” of rain annually. We depend on the snowfall in the mountains and at the Lake.

Truckee, languid now,
flows gently through our city,
hopes for winter snow.

Linking to dVerse OLN where you can post any one poem, any topic, any form. Please join us.

of a pristine october morn

Photo: Victoria Slotto

of a pristine october morn

blue glass sky, cloud-
less, diamond dew-studs,
shimmering hoar frost

leaves blush at branches bare
bold crickets cry frantically
singing last-chance choruses

a flagging rose scatters petals
before winter’s advent
and i watch life slip
from between my fingers

Written for Kim’s Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets’ Pub–asking for a poem of exactly 44 words, using the word cloud.

October Haibun

Hawk, the Messenger,
seeks tomorrow’s sustenance,
dove feasts, unaware.

Photo Credit: Wikipedia Commons

Recently, a red tail hawk sat on our fence, watching an assortment of jays, robins, quail and doves fattening themselves on the seeds in our garden. Spent cosmos and coreopsis shrugged, let nature have her way.

Autumn smells pungent—
leaves moldering in crannies,
poems forgotten.

Photo Credit: Mayang.com

All the work of putting the garden to bed for the winter has claimed our attention, turning it from creative pursuits. The tasks of autumn bring to mind those chores that face us later in life—clearing away the debris of spent dreams, wasted efforts—preparing the soil for what is yet to come.

Late blooming roses
struggle in October frost,
clash with changing leaves.

Photo Credit: D. Slotto

A few brilliant roses still persist in their efforts to boast their beauty, proving that nature is not as fussy as we are when it comes to choosing the colors she will wear, or what’s deemed appropriate as defined by the expectations of others. Bright pink and orange: how freeing!

Truckee, languid now,
flows gently through our city,
hopes for winter snow.

Photo Credit: Mike Devon

The Truckee river, a block from our home, is feeling the effect of last winter’s drought. It is fed by beautiful Lake Tahoe, flows east through Reno and ends up in Pyramid Lake, home of the Paiute Indians. Snow fell today, just above our elevation, in the Sierra Nevada and it’s possible we may see some tomorrow. Reno is high desert, receiving only 7” of rain annually. We depend on the snowfall in the mountains and at the Lake.

Written for and linked to dVerse Poets’ Open Link Night, hosted by Claudia Schonfeld who I will have the joy of meeting soon! Her California trip coincides with my visit down South for my mother’s 92nd birthday.

I may be late in visiting. Tomorrow I have a minor procedure for which they’ll send me to la-la land. Doubt I’ll be rational enough to give you any valuable comments!

October Waning

Photo Credit: designwithspine.com via Google Images.

Early morning sun kisses the foothills
with hues of bronze and purple.
You descend the staircase.
I wait for your touch to heal my wounds.

As always, you gloss over my sadness,
take me in your arms as though I were a doll
abandoned by a child in a corner of the room.
Your love restores my hope for the moment.

At noon we wander in a field of pumpkin gourds.
Among a bed of drooping roses one stands tall.
You slice its stem with your pocket knife,
inhale its fragrance then hand it to me.

When evening comes we sit together on the porch,
extract the last ray of light from day’s end.
You hook your arm in mine
and lead me gently back into the night.

Over at dVerse Poets’ Pub it’s Open Link Night where Joy Ann Jones, known as hedgewitch here in the world of poetry, reflects on the mystery of October and thus inspired me to go back into the archives to find and repost this poem. For OLN, you’re invited to post any of your poems…it’s not theme-based.

October Waning

October Waning

Early morning sun kisses the foothills
with hues of bronze and purple.
You descend the staircase.
I wait for your touch to heal my wounds.

As always, you gloss over my sadness,
take me in your arms as though I were a doll
abandoned by a child in a corner of the room.
Your love restores my hope for the moment.

At noon we wander in a field of pumpkin gourds.
Among a bed of drooping roses one stands tall.
You slice its stem with your pocket knife,
inhale its fragrance then hand it to me.

When evening comes we sit together on the porch,
extract the last ray of light from day’s end.
You hook your arm in mine
and lead me gently back into the night.

I am posting this in response to yesterday’s Monday Morning Writing Prompt (on this blog) and also linking it to dVerse Open Link Night at http://dversepoets.com  If you haven’t stopped by this wonderful poetry community to imbibe of great poetry and good friendship, I suggest you hustle on over and serve up something of your own. OLN opens for your enjoyment Tuesday 3 PM EDT.

Lady Nimue’s Months-of-the-Year Challenge: Late October

Image via Wikipedia

Submitted to Lady Nimue’s Months of the Year Challenge: http://ladynimue.wordpress.com/2010/12/01/challenge1-months-of-the-year-challenge/

 

Late October

Cricket songs slow down.
Scarlet leaves dance along the Truckee.
Empty spaces wait like barren wombs,
embrace mounds of snow.