Strawberry stains speak specifically of decades;
when traffic converts into arteries of light around the heart
of the metropolis,
equal parts exhaustion and hope—
of times when we would lounge in front of the television set for hours
on end, bread sticks and cheese
in the corner cupboard, which one of us
get up to get; where, oh where have those days gone?
Of first kisses, awkward and rushed,
I can still recall the fragrance on my cardigan when we’d held hands
and dropped chutney accidentally in the process—
I guess that’s what you get
doing your laundry on time; but knowing me, I’d do it all over again.
How else do you walk such glorious distances together?
Photo credits: Pinterest
De hosts at dVerse and invites us to write laundry poems.
Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: “Put your words on Spin Cycle,” @ dVerse Poets Pub
I have swallowed a terrific mouthful of want;
as prussian this night stretches on for miles
and beech tree’s
branches cross darkly beneath the streetlights—
my foibles, is it possible that the wind is conscious?
The yearning never stops;
sleepless, I amble through the many avenues of thought,
who are we?
Why do we continue to exist despite the conclusion of it all?
Come seize me by the shoulders;
and sift through the pieces,
some whole, some broken and some attempting to form together
to create deeper understanding—
I’d like to think
that perhaps you, sitting across in a completely different setting
are identical to me.
And though pickles are magnets for my tastebuds,
I’d rather savor the taste of what the earth’s rain has bestowed,
It’s got me speaking languages
I never knew existed before: droplets that ignite, that compel
perhaps it’s because our bodies are part water,
we can never be sure,
and so I am left alone to ponder, to envision, to believe there’s more—
I am torn between the softness of buds,
the violence of thorns
and no longer force spring, it will arrive when it arrives
but I can allow myself,
to smell its fragrance, erupting ever so slowly into the wild;
I don’t wish to be rid of this phenomenon.
For now let us linger barefoot,
naked soles on white sand as prussian this night stretches on for miles;
I have swallowed a terrific mouthful of want.
Photo credits: “Star Twins,” by Miss Pink Coconut, Digital Illustrator
Poem inspired by poetic masterpiece “Hellish Night” by Arthur Rimbaud.
Peter hosts at dVerse and invites us to write circular poems where the first and last line repeat (or are close at least) 💝
Posted for MTB: “Coming Full Circle,” @ dVerse Poets Pub
A painter without a brush is a memory of the body still hidden
its scent caught in the many folds of bedspread,
toss him a canvass perfectly white
and watch as sand rushes to meet with the shades of his palette:
leaning toward carob, orange, pink, gold and black,
all of which make haste
to glide through defenses and meld with tempestuous waves—
it’s the shortest love poem ever written.
To match his mood is silence,
whispered words that wield sin and salvation, every time
he looks at the sky;
lips are lullaby as night moves distinctly and with purpose,
the moon has a face that haunts from the past, to the present
and into the future forever—
observe how one dares to describe denuded of instrument.
I am dreams scaffolded,
the satin lining of my heart consists of texture of the hills long
after the snow has melted;
come lose yourself in subtleties—when the air is filled with birdsong;
a painter without a brush is a memory of the body still hidden in darkness.
Photo credits: Henrik. Aa. Uldalen “Work in Progress,” Pinterest
Laura hosts at dVerse tonight and invites us to join in with
a plethora of wonderful choices. I chose to write to the title
“A Painter without a Brush,” by Gerhard Richter. 💝
Posted for Poetics: The Poet as Painter @ dVerse Poets Pub
This being human is equivalent to dusk;
mad orange dancing on burnished metal heights of cityscape
that refuse to fade.
A meeting of light and dark as dandelions fold in on themselves,
a pathway where possibility of pain is always open.
To be completely inside the quiet corners
is confirmation not, the dense whelming of what’s to come
makes certain of it— let something happen,
while the air is filled with cricket noise;
say who you are,
it’s a melancholy hour, a song of praise for all the souls
who end alone and scattered.
What do you think of before you sleep?
Who is the first person you call when you wake?
Upon its eve, there is still the strength of day yet the softness
coming to terms with the fact that shit happens; it’s life.
At times visceral, in the hush of hooded blue,
it’s the most beautiful love story never told,
a dream cast upon the wind in search of the other.
In graphite lullaby of city, it’s both sugar and salt; the kind of place
where you could read Bukowski—
a thousand lovers but I am drunk from drinking his perfume;
it’s proof that no matter how swiftly things go downhill,
cloudiness exists only to shape our hue—
Prey to the tedium, to the dreariness of time,
thulian merging to pearl as the sky is spangled with stars;
this being human is equivalent to dusk.
Photo credits: “Just Because,” by Loui Jover, Pinterest
Kim hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a metaphor poem that begins with, ‘This being human,’ from The Guest House by Rumi. Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: The Art of Being Human @ dVerse Poets Pub
It’s nerve-racking. This constant push and pull where we desperately want things to fall in place while the universe expects us to stay calm and chill. I get it. Imagine the beginning of winter; even though the landscape doesn’t offer predictability, it comes with heaven-blended browns and sweet umber caramels, a limitless array of hues to warm any skeptical heart.
I prefer listening to the other person instead of dumping my own woes, deliciously sweet strawberry custard pie to lavish fudge cakes—not because I claim to be invincible, to be objective, but because I choose to. I have this belief that the more attention we pay to the world, the more we learn about bettering ourselves.
So what if what we planned hasn’t come to fruition? Yet. I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.
Merril hosts at dVerse and asks us to write inspired by a line from “Possibilities,” by Wislawa Szymborska. Come join us! 💝
Posted for Prosery Monday: Possibilities @ dVerse Poets Pub
Like one drawn to cigarettes;
sauntering down lane,
am I to kiss, deepening
eyes -so full– of rain.
This winter of mud,
who knows what the hours will bring?
I’ve slept amongst buds.
Lilacs false know not hue, love
I will say it loud;
sideways in pall of black smoke
in this lonely crowd.
Of all the seasons,
Spring pushes forth at first chance;
look for life’s meaning.
Photo credits: “Priceless,” limited edition artwork by Richard Blunt, Pinterest.
Grace hosts at dVerse and invites us to try a new poetic form
known as “Seguidilla.” Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetry Form, “Seguidilla” @ dVerse Poets Pub