Raven’s cry is more or less likely to be believed;
until its cursive plumage is mere murmurs of rawness
against the cloudless sky—
a little to the left,
tell me, how many aspects of the game are you willing
to throw shade upon?
Like dark fury that seeks to cross paths with coyotes,
I stake claim at the center,
I love that eloquence is twirling on its heels at my side—
deny me safety, deny me dwelling,
it’s quite clear as to where we are headed;
a couple more moves,
shoulder to shoulder,
as onlookers watch and then egotism too was gone.
Process note: I was thrilled after watching the Queen’s Gambit
on Netflix a few days ago, so much so that I decided to portray a chess move called “The Sicilian Defense,” in a poem. It’s an excellent defensive opening by black in a game of chess. I chose to use a raven both as metaphor and representation.
Photo credits: Fabian Perez Painting, Pinterest
Skylover Wordlist: Dwelling, aspect, eyes, raven, denies, below, shade, less, eloquent, cloudless 💝
Ravens bring things to people. We’re like that. It’s our nature.
We don’t like it. — Peter S. Beagle, A Fine and Private Place
Peter hosts at dVerse and invites us to consider opening lines.
Come join us! 💝
Posted for MTB: Opening lines @ dVerse Poets Pub
Airless and unloved, in the dank basement of the mind is past
its slender hands stretching out like those of a clock,
is it such a sin to relive the minutes, the hours?
Ice melts to reveal what once had lain beneath;
acres of muddy fields,
their steady heartbeat awaiting first light, similar to when rosebud
into bloom inside— neither can we breathe nor can we hope to achieve
the past is a shadow that lingers,
that follows into days that reflect a future existence;
I throw a handful of untidy words into the open, taste coffee
in my mouth long after the day is over
as they land, eloquent, because of the seeds sown; the present is a harsh
but wonderful lesson.
There are things we can discover about ourselves if we step into the light,
it’s just a blockage of a kind; it’s just a blockage of a kind.
Photo credits: Winter Color #2 by Trisha Adams oil 11×14, Pinterest
Inspired by “Airless and unloved, in the dank basement of the mind.”
– L Igloria ~ A Reparation.
Laura hosts at dVerse and invites us to consider and write about
endings and offers some final lines. Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: Beginning at the End @ dVerse Poets Pub
Glossy on the snow-washed street,
the sky is of rolling clouds, a thousand shades that range
from abalone to stone
as beech trees cry their last tears in the half-morning light—
here hope is ash coloured
yet the darkling sits, unperturbed;
and I wonder, if the snow loves it dearly?
I don’t have the slightest inkling about what happened
to my heart,
how it healed,
four-chambered muscular organ that sings: cardinal red
and emotionally scarred.
Perhaps, it too is aware of mournful lyrics,
of how everything goes around,
of how it’s conducted.
I kissed the lips of the cold surrounding me,
If winter can be formidable then why can’t we?
Photo credits: Trisha Adams, Winter Color Series 12″x6″ oil, Pinterest
Merril hosts at dVerse and invites us to think, to reflect upon connections -in any sense. Come join us! 💝
Posted for Poetics: Connections @ dVerse Poets Pub
One cube of sugar and a mug full of likelihood as the sun upon
the horizon sets; why is it that we taste every detail of ongoing
life twice? Everything has meaning, even silence that glows in
the pupils of those who have understood; I am slightly hesitant
owing to the direction of the wind, its sting outweighs buoyancy
dark amber; rejection is all but unimaginable, we seldom think
Being humble is just that, being humble. It’s neither a weapon
nor a strategy nor a mask, only a virtue. I reminisce about the
days when I was younger and everything seemed hypnagogic,
rosy. Could it be that we never truly change but merely learn to
outmanoeuvre it all? The sparkle in my matured hazel flows in
And though, sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy;
I keep going.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Linda hosts at dVerse and asks to write inspired by a line from “Spring azures,” from the book ‘Wild Geese,’ by Mary Oliver. 💝
Posted for Prosery Monday: Bone Weary @ dVerse Poets Pub
The wind in its monochrome musings is no longer indifferent,
to the effect that cherry nearly neon pink
that appear in clusters are offered reinforcements
in exchange for answers—
exactly how does one grasp something as fleeting as whispers?
If I could hear the words that take form in the wild storm
of your being,
believe me I’d reciprocate by using red language;
vernacular, if I am to be direct—I place my faith entirely upon detail
as I choose to side with weighty rather than whim,
this vinaigrette dressing of desire would disband all doubt,
together with crumbled blue cheese,
chives, lettuce, spinach, halved strawberries
and candied pecans,
its subtlety alone would ignite emotion otherwise lost in translation,
consuming the heart, the mind, the body and soul
with forbidden knowledge—
I imagine a blush as perfect as early black kissing your skin.
The wind holding its breath is the sole witness,
in anticipation even though she knows it begins and ends
do we ever truly comprehend?
Photo credits: Pinterest
Grace hosts at dVerse and invites us to utilize personification,
imagery or both. Come join us! 💝
This poem is inspired by the title of Heid E. Erdrich’s poetic
masterpiece ‘Red Language.’
Posted for MTB: Personification and Imagery @ dVerse Poets Pub
A puff of powder, a dab of lipstick
of ozone-friendly aerosol to keep my hair subdued,
there is little that hasn’t been said
about what goes on
inside a Poet’s head; one suspects a double death,
even the sourwood blushes.
Photo credits: Loui Jover, “Cocktail Drawing,” Pinterest
De is our hostess today at dVerse and the word is “Dab.”
Come join us! 💝
Posted for Quadrille #119 @ dVerse Poets Pub