Intaglio-2–dVerse Poetics




there are seasons—
times when pain is etched
upon our copper-souls
with a sharp stylus

moments when the heavy
shroud of sorrow
oppresses those we love

like those black clouds
rolling into our meadow

like the slow flow of the river
fighting winter chill

Please join us at dVerse Poetics where we are poem-ing about TIME. I’ve chosen to use the Quadrille form and included the word Time. The doors open at 3:00 PM EST.


regret. perhaps

Photo: Labeled for Non-commercial reuse Flickr

Photo: Labeled for Non-commercial reuse

regret, perhaps

there are wounds
in your old soul
deeper than word-scars
trolling your mind

words spoken
hidden or feigned
words soaked in-
to your fragile heart

those penned
or not. razor-sharp
tracks that left only shards
of who you once were

or could have become.

Written and linked to dVerse Quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words that include the word SCAR.


autumn tears

All the glory of fall—
cloudless blue skies to complement
the orange-red-yellow of the maple
that drops her leaves
on my shoulders and head as I

crouch in cool grass,
slowly stroke stain on thirsty
redwood. The color trickles in rivulets
till I sweep it with my brush.

Life is textured like this wood—
creviced, split, dry,
oh-so-dark in places.
I water it with pain(t).

Here, in my almost-backyard
(not Newton or Columbine or
Virginia Tech),
but here, a teacher and a boy
have fallen, like the leaves,
into a pool of crimson tears.

In memory of the 8th grade teacher, Mike Landsberry, who gave his life today protecting children at the Sparks Middle School shooting, and with thoughts for the young boy who felt so desperate. Prayers as well for the two wounded students and all those who were affected. Sparks is our neighboring community. There is much sadness here today. Linked to dVerse OLN.


Photo: David Slotto

Photo: David Slotto


The Scene
Wet grass beneath my body,
piles of leaves gathered nearby,
scents of mold and dried lavender,
apples hanging heavy the tree,
spirits peering through rusty leaves
divining secrets from my past
and present, cradled deep within.

The Character
My stories are mine—
clues hidden beneath the layers
of a serene façade,
exiled from those
who would know my truth.

The Plot
I claw at the bark of the ash tree,
pain racking my used-up body,
then swallow the last three pills.
No rash decision, this.

The End
I chose early autumn last November—
autumn as the season
of dying, of beauty, of letting go,
like seeds entombed in dank soil
waiting to be born again.

This is fictional. I personally do not believe in euthanasia, though I cannot judge other. One point I want to make is that hospice care, focused on symptom management, is an option for pain management. If anyone has questions about hospice, I will be happy to answer them if I can. Just leave them in comments or send me an e-mail.

I wrote this using the words offered by Brenda a The Sunday Whirl and am linking it to dVerse Open Link Night which opens Tuesday, 3:00 PM, EDT. Please join us at either or both of these poetry venues.

By the way, I accidentally posted my draft for this week’s Meeting the Bar. It will be re-posted on Thursday. Sorry about that, but if you received it in e-mail, consider it a heads-up.

Circle of Life

Photo Credit: Fine Art America

Photo Credit: Fine Art America

I clear out dead leaves—skeletal remains,
unearth a pattern, lace-knit life forms.

Alone in dank earth, (rank, pungent) a seedling
gestates, waits to manifest the beauty of bloom.

Gentle rays of sun awaken bird song, too early perhaps,
for the old man writhing in sweat-stained insomnia.

Across the way, on a rolling hillside, a pregnant ewe
bleats in pain, births dabs of white on green.

You open to the moment, offer your nectar,
then withdraw, leaving me alone in darkness.

Soon I shall return to the mouldering earth,
in an array of colors, flowers painting the world in joy.

Photo Credit: yaymicro

Photo Credit: yaymicro

Linked to dVerse Poetics where we’re asked to write beauty, perhaps with a contrast element of the apparently-not-so-beautiful. But would we have the one without the other? Hope you will join us at the Poets’ Pub.

I invite you to Link any Father’s Day Poem you have written here. The Link will be open until Monday 5:00 PM PDT.

Sunday 160–“Joy”

Photo: David Slotto

A hummingbird descends,
drinks honey.
Blankets of feathers
stagger across red
silken breast.
Ladles of nectar
slip down
his tawny throat,
sweeten the
pain of
Mother Earth.

Submitted to Monkey Man’s Sunday 160 in which you have 160 characters including spaces to write a poem or flash fiction. 

This is so out-of-season here (snow outside) but it doesn’t hurt to remember!