Summer of Love–dVerse Poetics

 

Photo: Flickr
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Summer of Love
Signs of the Times

I could have been there, but wasn’t,
though this California earthquake
hit me harder than Loma Prieta
(and I was there, in the city, for that one.)

I’ve walked the hate Haight,
tossed flowers onto a pond,
inhaled once and choked,
joined a minority in my own
weird way, loved freely
in my own sure way.

But, I embrace our vets,
as well, while rueing war,
love my country, question
politics, splurge on gratitude.

The signs abounded; buttons led the way.

Is what we have now
really what we want?

When I opened the paper this morning (to barely scan the headlines and read the comics) I found an article on the 50th Anniversary of the Summer of Love (1967) that showed a photo of buttons with the many slogans that emerged.

Today, Mish invites us to muse on the many signs that surround us and I suppose these little buttons, which certainly set our culture in a new direction, may be acceptable for the prompt. Please join us with a SIGN that hits you at dVersePoets.

 

The Spice of Life–dVerse Quadrille

The Spice of Life

Skin so smooth and firm
cool to touch, seductive.

Colorful, bright, diverse—
something to love in each of us.

Some, I know are hesitant,
afraid of what we’ll do to you.

Others enjoy us with abandon
savor our tempting aroma, our taste.

Zesty peppers.

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Oh joy! It’s time for dVerse Quadrille Monday. Today’s word to include in a poem of exactly 44 words, excluding title, is PEPPER! Please join us!

Blowin’ in the Wind–dVerse Meeting the Bar

Today, I’m hosting dVerse Meeting the Bar where I’m sharing a modern version of an old French form called the LAI (pronounced Lay). I would love to see you join in. The rhythm of the form begs me to be a bit whimsical although the original purpose was quite different. Lean more here.

Photo: Lansingwbu
Labeled for reuse.

Blowin’ in the Wind

So windy outside,
the birds seem to hide
in trees.

They just seem to glide
like kelp on the tide.
Strong breeze.

I will stay inside;
I think justified.
Oh, please?

The Poet Dies

This week, I have the pleasure of hosting the Quadrille at dVerse Poets. The form calls for a poem of exactly 44 words, excluding the title, and calls for the inclusion of a specific word. The word I chose for this week is SOUND.

Photo: Victoria Slotto

The Poet Dies

At dusk,
I watch the sun write poetry
(descending)
choose words with care:
birdsong,
flight
amber, gold
and majesty

at a distance
the sound of an approaching train
spills melancholy, loss,
toning the final stanza with pain
as he slips, wordlessly,
beyond the Sierra.

I hope you will be able to join in this week with a soundly written poem. The prompt is open all week! The pub opens at 1500 EDT on Monday.

I Must Poem–dVerse MTB

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I Must Poem

of color
how the blur of blue and mauve
the melt of orange and red and gold
fold gently into summer skies

of sunshine
the way sun slips above the eastern horizon
pulls himself up on a span of lenticular clouds
to wink-wake me through half drawn shutters

of movement
of spindly-legged spiders crawling ‘neath a rock
and birds in flight that soar up to the moon
or human dance that stretches my imagination

of water
its touch, so sensual, immersed in crystal lakes
the battering of rain upon the window pane
or cooling draft upon desert-dry tongue

of texture
the roughest touch of eucalyptus bark
or satin-smoothness of a marble slab
and wonder-wrinkle of my weathered life-worn face

of music
the bounding bass of basso-nova beat
or lilting flute that fills the air with joy
and steady cadence of a Requium

of silence.
of silence, I must poem.

Today I have the pleasure of returning, after a rather long hiatus, to offer a prompt for dVerse Meeting the Bar/Form for All. I’m going back to a form I first gave in 2013–List Poetry. I hope you will join in today with a list of your own.

Mud Pies–dVerse Poetics

Image: Pinterest

Mud Pies

When we were young, two little ones at play,
our families thought that we belonged together,
so sweet, like milk and honey.

Sticks were our bows and arrows, then
Look closely. See that scar you gave me,
reminders of a rough-house game of kick-the-can.

When we played house (you acquiesced),
“That’s not a game for boys,” you said,
so I said nothing when you fed mud pies .
to my beloved, fair-haired doll.

Now, in my garden, thoughts of you swirl in the loam
—the scents of clay, the grainy texture of dank earth.
No longer play, but poignant memories tinged
with just a hint of sadness, just a hint of wondering

what might have been, had you not died so young?

I’m tripping back sixty-some years to a time when, living in a rural area, my only neighbor was a boy, a year or two my senior. We played together in the wild outdoors. He made a tomboy of me and I tried to domesticate him. I would be writing an epic poem if I tried to recount all our exploits.

I recall so well, after we had moved away, one evening during dinner (we were eating chop suey) the phone rang and I learned that my dear playmate, at the time only about 13 years old, had been crushed to death when he and a buddy had climbed a fence and tried to ride an oil well.

Please join us at dVerse Poetics where Bjorn invites us to play with words and dirt.

simplicity–dVerse Haibun Monday

Photo: Max Pixel Labeled for Non-commercial reuse.

simplicity

the echo of your words
the haunting emptiness
of promises not meant
the lies that steeped in
darkest night ring loudly
clashing with the sweet-
ness of your voice, your
smile, your tender touch

i cleave to gentle, simple
things in these last years

Today De invites us to share a quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words excluding title, with the poetry community at dVerse. Please join us for this fun prompt here. The word to include this week is ECHO, in any form you can conjure up.