Adieu, Chere Amie–Poetic Bloomings, Day 6

Photo: David Slotto

Photo: David Slotto

Adieu, Ma Chère Amie
A Triolet for Viv

Summer is like a fragile bird—
her beauty fills our world with bliss,
her song surpasses spoken word.

Summer is like a fragile bird—
too soon she falls, no longer heard.
Her soul takes flight from this abyss.

Summer is like a fragile bird.
A poet falls, her presence missed.

I struggled with this poem that I’m linking to Poetic Bloomings Day 6. Both the form and the topic stretched me. We were asked to do a summer simile using the Triolet form. Yesterday morning, I learned of the loss of Viv Blake, a poet well-known to many of us, and well-loved by myself…both of us in our senior years and she lived in Normandy, whereas, years ago, I, in Brittany–next door neighbors, so to speak. The irony in this poem is that, if I remember correctly, Viv tossed out Triolets with ease. I never found that form or the Villanelle easy to write. Give me a Sestina any day!

God speed, lovely lady, and thank you for blessing my life.

Photo: Viv Blake, Blog Gravatar

Photo: Viv Blake, Blog Gravatar

On a whim, I’m adding Mr. Linky, in case anyone would like to add their tribute to Viv…poetry or prose.

Making Scents of Memories

Today for dVerse Poetics, Grace invites us to “drizzle your poems with fragrances.” I find this my most favorite sense to slip into both prose and poetry because it so easily accesses memories. I took you back to my childhood in the late 40’s and 50’s and just a few sensory related memories. I grew up in my earliest years in the foothills of L.A, in the home of my grandparents until my widowed mother remarried when I was seven. That is the setting for this poem.



Making Scents of Memories
Mama melts blue cubes
in cold, then boiling water.
Clean, fresh smells erupt,
linger on my Sunday dress,
on starched crinoline petticoats.

I hide in branches of my pepper tree,
crinkle its leaves,
breathe in its pungent aroma,
taste secrets.

Mama smells like roses—
Grandma’s funeral,
like gardenia and cigarettes.

Incense—inhale the Sacred.
Clouds billow,
wisps snake around blessed candles
in dark, consecrated vaults.

Fear—our hills are aflame–
acrid smoke from eucalyptus torches
and burning brush.
Grandpa carries me off the mountain
to Aunt Mary’s.

When my widowed Mama remarries,
I weep goodbyes.
Lilies of the valley wave
fragrant farewells.

Please join us and invite your poet friends.

Yokoburi–dVerse Haibun Monday

Photo: David Slotto

Photo: David Slotto

Yokoburi–Driving Rain

Drizzle could not deter us, remember? We headed out, the second day of golf at Pinehurst, a privilege you had won by completing a survey, something we could never have hoped for on our own. Dew sparkled on the grass and gray squirrels scampered across the fairway. Already exhausted from playing the U.S. Open course the day before, we forged ahead, not worrying too much about our game, rather soaking in the beauty of the September day. Little-by-little, the rain increased in intensity. By hole #11 the skies open in earnest and you pulled the cart over, beneath the trees, waiting for a break in the driving rain that never came. Your last drive had landed in the fairway—a cannon ball. Finally, accepting the whims of weather, I retrieved your ball and, skirting puddles, we splashed our way back to the clubhouse.

beneath tree branches
strong scent of pine refreshes
bathed in loveliness

Kanzen Sakura, Toni, offers us an exquisite prompt for Haibun Monday–sharing the 50 Japanese words for rain. Please visit us at dVerse, learn more about the prompt, and enjoy reading and writing about rain.

Enclosure–dVerse Poetics


a Sonnet for Linda

I stand in darkness looking out the door.
Dim lights reflect in puddles on the street.
The night is young, but fear comes to the fore-
front of my soul as I admit defeat.

Imprisoned in my heart, I flee what waits
beyond the boundaries of this world I know—
imagining those things my mind creates—
(the pain) rejected oft’ so long ago.

To taste despair, so hopeless to move on,
I turn away, drink silently of fate
and pray for morn to bring a gentle dawn—
my garden, flowers, trees inside my gate.

Perhaps someone will come when I am dead,
scatter my ashes in that world I fled.

With Lillian as hostess for dVerse Poetics, we are writing about doors. I searched my photo archives and this photo of our front door made me think of someone I loved much who suffered from agoraphobia for years. When she died, the family released white doves. I trust she is free at last.

The doors to the pub open at 3:00 PM EST. I hope this prompt will open those creative doors for you.

It Is No Small Thing to Sparkle

Photo: sea_foam_at_ocean_beach___san_francisco_by_babybluejeff

Photo: sea_foam_at_ocean_beach___san_francisco_by_babybluejeff

It Is No Small Thing to Sparkle
(Mary Oliver)
a quadrille

This title begs to be a poem,
and today, perhaps,
it will write itself—

blue-green oceans
receding relentlessly.

foam left behind
upon the sandy shore.

the shimmery bubble
that holds inside

a universe
full of the life
and brilliant colors
of creation.

Linked to dVerse’s Monday Prompt to write a Quadrille, a poem of 44 words, no more, no less, using this week’s prompt using the word, BUBBLE. Take a chance and have a lot of fun.

The title of this poem is from Mary Oliver’s poem, Four Sonnets, which I read this morning in her latest book of poetry, Felicity.

Chinese New Year

Chinese New Year

Brocaded Buddhas
catch a ride
on the hostess’ bodice.
You shave splinters from your chopsticks and
watch the waiter caress pancakes
with plum sauce.
Your fortune reads,
“Someone will make you happy tonight.”
I concur.

Image: Real Madrid Labeled for Noncommercial Reuse

Image: Real Madrid
Labeled for Non-commercial Reuse

Wishing you a Happy New Year of the Monkey

In honor of the Chinese New Year we are writing poetry to this theme…perhaps you will find inspiration in a fortune cookie.

Please join us at dVerse Poetics where Toni is our hostess. The poetry pub opens at 3 PM EST.

Dark Night–dVerse Quadrille

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Dark Night

Awake ,
I listen to the soughing
of breezes
in palms,
the hooting of
a distant owl.

Midnight blue seeps
into the room,
into the womb
of my loneliness.

I listen to silence,
to your absence,
into sleep
by the soughing
of wind.

You’re invited to join us at dVerse Poets where we are invited to write a quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, using the word “Lull.”

Lamentation–dVerse Haibun Monday

a Haibun

The pelting rain, a sort of purifying ritual, drenches me—mingles with my tears of regret. So easy to be unnoticed in this large crowd, waiting for a means of escape, a yellow hack driven by a stranger. Anonymity, a blessed escape from reality.

I clench my unopened umbrella at my side, welcome the cleansing downpour.

Questions pound me with every drop. Could I have been there if I’d tried? Said words of forgiveness, words he needed to hear? Offered him the solace of my absolution?

But anger has burned inside me for so many years. It is no longer separate from who I am. I no longer have anger, I am anger.

And so he died—unshriven, despairing. And I, I bear the burden.

rain drops drench my soul
waiting alone in this crowd
battered by regret

Photo: Mary Kling all rights reserved used with permission

Photo: Mary Kling
all rights reserved
used with permission

Hey, everyone…it’s Haibun Monday at dVerse! Today, Mary Kling offers 3 of her photos for your inspiration. Feel free to use them, but kindly give her the credit due. Please give your imagination free rein and join us. The doors open at 3 PM EST and remain open all week. 


I-395 North to Reno

Photo: C. Campbell

Photo: C. Campbell

I-395 North to Reno
a Haibun

Plans cut short, I leave Southern California two days early, leave my mom to her dementia fog, to her perpetual present moment. I have no desire to drive half of my 500 mile drive in the midst of a promised snow storm heading in from the Northwest.

The drive is glorious—a cloudless cerulean blue skies flanked by snow-covered mountaintops to the East and West. Mono Lake and Topaz boast still turquoise waters at a low level because of the drought. Our thirsty earth throbs with hope for the forecast of an impending wet season. Walker River is but a trickle.

When I arrive home, I see a wall of darkness in the distance. Trees in an assortment of fall colors whisper in the wind, greet my descent into the Great Basin. I breathe a sigh of relief that I am safe and find my husband and dogs waiting for me. The chilling temperature does not impede the warmth of their welcome.

a heavy gray pall
creeps in like a stealthy cat
promising first snow

Today, for dVerse Poetics, I’m hosting a prompt, asking you for a current weather report from your corner of the world. This drive is, for me, so wonderful–leading along the Eastern Sierra, past Mt. Whitney, Mammoth, Mono Lake and Topaz Lake and so many glorious views. I feel so blessed to live where I do…for more info on this road trip check out this article in Via–a publication of AAA.

Now, how about joining us with your own weather report. The Pub opens at 3:00 PM Tuesday. I’ll be glad to mix you up a drink to fit your current weather-based needs.

As I write this, I see it is snowing outside (Monday 11/9/15 at 1600)! Large, fluffy flakes.


Thou art the freshness of a new beginning,
the first breath of a flawless day.



This morning on the porch
I breath in clear, sub-zero air,
soak in the early sun reflecting bronze
upon mountain snow.

A sip of hot coffee reminds me
that warmth is possible.
Witnessing the birth of today,
replete with promise,

I sigh in wonder at the gifts of grace
that will unfold between the blanketing
of dawn and dusk. Will plans be shattered
only to birth new and better gifts,

moments of pain, of joy?
Will the world heave a sigh,
continue to destroy her beauty,
succumb to the allure of greed

and hatred? Or will, perhaps,
a child be born within us—
a child to touch and heal?
That power lies within.

Today, another day to breathe,
to re-create, and to await
the fullness of the Gift. I turn
and enter, once again, incarnate.

In Judaism, each letter of the Aleph Beit (Alphabet) holds the power to create. Aleph, the first letter, is not sounded. It is, rather, a sigh, the first breath uttered before a word.

aleph journal

The brief quote at the beginning of this poem is a mantra I use from time to time. I paraphrased it from reading I did about the Aleph.

I’m linking this to Gay’s prompt for dVerse Meeting the Bar, where the prompt is to write a Birthday Poem. Stop on over and enjoy more on the subject.