Anger–dVerse MTB

Art: Clyfford Still, on Pinterest

Art: Clyfford Still, on Pinterest

Depression is Anger Turned Inside-Out
A Narrative Poem

She hadn’t touched her paints for a while. In the other room an unfinished canvas lay propped on an easel. Orange and cerulean blue paint danced in cacophonous colors and screamed at her in taunting ecstasy. One evening she’d smeared a palette knife of black paint in a thick wavy line down the middle of the canvas—the result only heightened the drama. She abandoned her work for now—she couldn’t paint and wouldn’t write—not since he told her he wouldn’t see her anymore.

Today, dVerse Poets, hosted by Frank Hubney, invites us to submit a narrative poem–as I see it, a bit of prose that is written poetically. That implies incorporating poetic elements such as metaphor and sensory details, active verbs etc. This is a tiny piece that I adapted from my novel “The Sin of His Father.”

canticle of waning light

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Photo: Victoria Slotto

canticle of waning light
a quadrille

whisper me now a lullaby
and hold me close in mystic
arms of memory

whisper me songs
of yesterday
when dreams throbbed
promises, danced
with love beneath the stars

whisper me peace
‘neath setting sun
and grace shall linger
in the gloom
of night.

Please join us at dVerse Poets’ Pub where we are enjoying Quadrille’s–poetry of exactly 44 words. This week’s word that must be included in the poem is WHISPER. The pub doors open Monday at 3:00 PM EST. De Jackson is our hostess and she pours a mean poem.

Summer Fading, 1948

 

 

 

Summer Fading, 1948

Photo: Randy Robertson Labeled for non-commercial reuse

Photo: Randy Robertson
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

The leaves of my pepper tree tickle me as the gnarly bark scrapes the back of my legs. I take a leave and crush it, inhaling the pungent fragrance evokes a sense comfort in me. Red berries, peppercorns, hang in clusters. What better place for a 5 year old to consider all those important things that occupy her life.

Moments later, Mama beckons to me from the back door. I scurry down the tree with conflicting feelings of regret and anticipation and slam the screen door behind me. “Take your sweater, Vicki, it will be cool when you come home.” I grab it off the dining room chair and sprint down the hill, across the dirt road to Stewie’s house where, on his 12” black and white TV, Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent has just joined his buddies.

setting summer sun
slips gently behind our hill
peace-filled memory

Happy to have Lady Nyo hosting this week for dVerse Haibun. Please join us. 

And to All a Blessed Night

Photo: Wikipedia Labeled for non-commercial reuse

Photo: Wikipedia
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

And to All a Blessed Night

“You’re not going to sleep in her room, are you?” Already my nieces had questioned my plan to spend the night alone in Mom’s house, just hours after her death. “Of course; why not?”

Night three, around four AM, a bright light awakens me from a sound sleep. I drag myself out of bed and creep to the doorway, peer to the right and left. The only lights were those I’d left on to give the impression that caregivers were still here, as they had been for several years.

I shrug, return to bed. An emergency radio/flashlight, previously unnoticed on the armoir, greets me with its intense rays, emanating a sense of peaceful energy and perhaps a bit of Mom’s most predictable sense of humor.

winter stars winking
illumine the new moon sky
most loving presence

Today at dVerse, Toni invites us to share a non-fiction account, in Haibun form, of a remembered good night, keeping in mind that phrase from Moore’s fun Christmas poem–and to all, a good night! True story, this.

 

life–dVerse Haibun Monday

Cedar Wax Wings--Source Unknown

life

around me
(though chill seeps in)
life flourishes

winter birds
cull berries from leafless trees
drink from rainwater puddles

a lone purple flower
flaunts beauty at
my garden gate

three weeks ago today
i was there to receive
her last breath

eternal life flourishes

On October 30th, I arrived in Huntington Beach, California, to celebrate my almost-96 year old mother’s birthday on November 5th. I spoke to her the day before I left and she was happy I was coming, telling me, as she did quite often, “Don’t forget you are my little girl!”

When I arrived, I found that she was non-responsive. The night before she had told her caregiver that she was tired and was ready to die. The following day, she did just that–peacefully and with loved ones at her side.

I returned home yesterday, after three weeks sans Internet, tending to what I term “the business of dying.” That explains my absence. I have a lot of catching up to do here at home, so I may not be real present this week either, but wanted to take advantage of today’s wonderful Quadrille prompt at dVerse that asks us to use the word “breath” in any of its forms in a poem of exactly 44 words. Please join us. Little by little, I will get around to reading yours.

 

the color of longing–dVerse quadrille

Photo: V. Slotto

Photo: V. Slotto

the color of longing
a quadrille

early winter doldrums
sky heavy with payne’s gray clouds
birds silent, gone

flowers sag
leaves weep while chill
seeps into old bones

but then a vibrant flash
an incongruous spark-
ing of a flame

shedding warmth
on this cold scene
(so like your touch)

Today, for our wonderful quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets, we are invited to submit a poem of exactly 44 words, no more, no less, that uses the work SPARK in any of its forms. Please join us for this prompt. The link is open all week.

This rose opened this last week, smack dab in the middle of our flower garden, defying the withering of everything else. I’ve cut back all the other rose bushes so this is truly “the last rose of summer.”

I will also add this to Cee’s Daily Flower (photography) prompt.

Driving Toward Town at 7:30 AM on Sunday Morning–dVerse Haibun Monday

Driving Toward Town at 7:30 AM on Sunday Morning
a Haibun

I ease through my neighborhood—streets soaked after a night of rain, awash in a blur of watercolor pastels. Turning east onto a main thoroughfare, the streets are deserted and sunshine backlights black clouds with bursts of silver. Trees bow beneath the weight of rains but shed tears, not the glory of their autumn wardrobe.

Further on, I turn onto West Fourth Street where trailers, weekly motels and liter replace beauty. The photographer has switched from color to a monochromatic vista of black, white and varying shades of gray. Here on the outskirts of Reno, images of drugs deals and prostitution are easy to imagine. I see a black jacket, soaked with rain, hanging over the guard rail that protects me from the gully and train tracks below. I consider pulling over, half-expecting to see its owner splayed in the ravine below. Fear restrains me.

autumn rains can’t cleanse
remnants of despair, poverty
song birds disappear
where trees can no longer thrive
where hope is bathed in darkness

This is a true story that happened yesterday morning. Bjorn invites us to write a contemporary haibun, focused on a cityscape, for dVerse Haibun Monday. Today we are given the option of tweaking the haiku portion of the poem. The pub opens soon, at 3:00 PM EDT. I hope you will join us.

This old photo is the actual portion of West Fourth Street I was driving. It used to be the main thoroughfare between Sacramento and Reno, through the Sierra Nevada, over Donner Pass. I was driving the opposite direction of the car in the photo, toward the city. You can see the ravine, the train tracks. On the opposite side of the street, it is as described in the haibun.

4th