Untitled Octain–One Shot Wednesday

Jean Jacques Henner, Solitude

Image via Wikipedia

Here’s another attempt at an Octain, a poetic form created by Luke Prater and linked to One Shot Wednesday: http://onestoppoetry.com/

Untitled Octain

How many lives are spent in vain,
too conscious of the voice of fear,
thoughts muddled so that sight’s unclear.

They creep through days avoiding pain
or, warped by hate, they learn too late
to trust that love should ever deign

to visit them and draw them near.
Too many lives are spent in vain.

The Call of Spring–An Octain

Photo: David Slotto April 2011

This poem is in response to One Stop Poetry’s invitation to write an Octain, a poetic form developed by fellow poet/blogger Luke Prater. Visit their site to learn about Octains, read other emerging and seasoned poets and, perhaps, write one of your own. http://onestoppoetry.com/

As I was pondering a subject for mine I glanced out the window of my treehouse/office and a hummingbird was hovering–I guess to thank me for putting out the feeder. He’s still here! I couldn’t resist using this photo of the Leucistic Hummingbird that frequented our feeder while we were in Palm Desert over the winter.

The Call of Spring
An Octain

Outside my window, should I look,
a hummingbird has taken wing
while nightingale begins to sing.

A quail emerges from her nook
for her dirt bath beside the path
that moseys down along the brook.

Attending to the call of spring
to go outside, I close my book.

Old Love

Linked to One Shoot Poetry http://onestoppoetry.com/ in response to the photo-prompt. Photography by Fee Easton.

Old Love

The Love that’s tinged
by Eros
is easier to write,
to live and
to imagine:
the silken touch
of water—
cool caresses in a Lake—
a kiss that tastes
of wine
and sweat.
Subtle sounds of
breath, and
pounding pulses
and images that linger
in the darkness of
a new-moon night.

But as the days grow old
and we, along with them,
winter shadows
cannot overwhelm
enduring Love.
You probe the
memory of
a day gone by
and stroke
a shriveled hand.
Then Spring breaks through
in songs of mockingbirds.

Poem-One Stop Poetry: Mortality

This is my first visit to “One Stop Poetry” and I thank moondustwriter for intoducing me to it. I’d like to post a poem published a few years ago in a small literary magazine:


A dead quail lay on the path,
legs extended
grasping the last touch of life,
eyelids sealing off earth’s beauty forever.

Layers of gold feathers
zigzagged its empty breast.
Clods of earth soiled
the handiwork of some obscure Artisan.

I knelt to honor
nature’s defiled chalice,
scooped the chilled stiff form into a plastic bag.

It landed with a thud in the empty garbage can.