Limericks–dVerse Meeting the Bar

Now for a bit of whimsy as Frank treats us to a limerick prompt at dVerse MTB. I could go on and on.

Limericks

There once was a dragon named Tony
he fell like a rock for a pony
she got such jolt
she took off like a bolt
now poor Tony thinks romance baloney.

There once was a guy who loved money
But could never impress his true honey
‘Cause he spent it on wine
and she saw not a dime
so she left him alone—what a dummy.

Here’s one I posted for one of Madeleine’s prompt:

A woman who always felt free
Burned her bra when she turned twenty-three
Now at age sixty-eight
She is rueing her fate
As her boobies keep knocking her knees.

Ignored–dVerse Open Link Night

 

Ignored

“The drop is a small ocean.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson

They walk by,
enveloped in concern,
oblivious to oceans of beauty
that surround them—

• undulating water in the stream caressing the rocky earth beneath
• a tiny leaf unfurling her greenness on a distant branch
• mockingbird chortling joy upon his treetop perch
• little mouse, concealed beneath hosta’s broad umbrella
• droplets of dew flashing seductive rainbows from every blade of grass
• and me.

I was the first to open,
now one among the many,
lost in a swath of golden beauty.
I offer my delight
only to go unseen.

I have been, for the most part, unable to be a part of dVerse for a while. Back toward the end of March, Mish invited us to write a poem from the point of view of nature. In a feeble effort to play catch up, this is mine, posted for OLN.

World Bank Photo Collection–labeled for non-commercial reuse.

Dream

Photo: Wikipedia
Labeled for non-commercial reuse.

Dream

Last night I dreamt of
feathers and shape-shifting.
Today a wren perches on a naked branch
outside my window.
By afternoon
the tree is in full bloom.

I miss you.

De Jackson is asking for Postcard Poems, that is, poems of 12 lines or less, at dVerse Poetics. Please join us.

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.