Category Archives: Poetics

Deglutition

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Before her a split path is laid
A deep decision to be made
One road only affects her now
The other risks her days and how
Naked she rises and finds voice
Arms open he awaits her choice
Motherhood? Won’t chance that call
Instead down to her knees she falls

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Today at dVerse ~Poets Pub, we’re asked to write about roads, and further challenged to do so “anywhere your eight lined muse leads you”.  For some reason Robert Frost popped into my head regarding choosing paths. And while hardly the path less taken my muse, in customary ornery fashion, goes off the beaten one to choose the emotional road instead of a physical one with a take on the modern joke regarding a female’s choices in the moment. And just in case it still eludes some, the title of the poem is the medical term for swallowing.

Yeah, I know, I wonder about my muse sometimes as well…

National Poetry Month – Day 21

Play Me One More Song

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Brother, come and play me one more song
For my load is heavy, my sight bleary
My days are now few where once they thronged
And my thoughts they grow ever more weary

We knew someday this day would come
Brother, come and play me one more song
The path we traveled together at last is done
For we have traveled this road so very long

You have known me all my days
From boy to man in all my ways

Give me one more memory before long
For there’s little chance I’ll make another
Brother, come and play me one more song
It would warm this heart of mine like no other

For my time is done this much is true
And when I’m gone I’ll heed you to be strong,
But ‘till we meet again I ask this last thing of you
Brother, come and play me one more song

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At dVerse Jennifer Wagner asks us to write about brothers “from any angle”. Using what I’ll call a disrupted Quartern, my muse chose the final angle.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics : Oh Brother!

National Poetry Month – Day 14

I Want To

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See it

    A moth drawn equally to the darkness
    at one end of the equation as well as
    the bright flames at the other end, 
    beckoning in its steady sway to unknown music
    I want to...
Hear it
    The kinetic current that sometimes happens
    when I run my hand over its surface
    I want to...
Smell it

    The light fruity notes
    with hints of something deeper, earthy
    I want to...
Taste it
    In that odd way we say something tastes like crap
    without ever actually ingesting such
    I just know how good it would taste
    but for right now, I can't resist
    I want to...
Feel it
    the thick dark curling softness at its base 
    as I slide my fingers in his manbun releasing
    his locs a heavy yet soft suede as it falls
    free along my fingers, a signal that let's him know, yeah
    I want to...
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Today at dVerse Mary asks us to write so that we see it, feel it, taste it, hear it, experience it as you do…..in all its beauty.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub |Poetics – Savor the Beauty and Share It!

Winded

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I ponder the landscape before me
The heat blistering
Vapors rising from its midst
Near blurring my view
Like steaming asphalt
On a summer day

Then winds caress its surface
A summer zephyr
Hot in its own space
Yet cooling
Compared to the craggy topography

In the near distance
I can see the drafts
Bending the haze to its will
Its passage a forgone conclusion

Or so I thought
As one harsh gust
Changes the very terrain
Blasting away all in its path

Looking from the empty fork
To the mound freshly fallen
Upon the floor
It’s just as well I think
Damn food was too hot anyway

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Happy St. Paddy’s Day!!

Today at dVerse, guest pubtender Kathleen Everett has prompted us to write a poem about the wind. I suspect a very hot serving of pilaf and a very hungry tummy that lead to some impatient huffing and puffing on my part, with unfortunate results, is not exactly what was meant, but hey – it works right? Right.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Winds of March

Let’s see how others are blowing their way through this 17th  day of the challenge:

8th-annualc2a0slice-of-life-story-challenge-invite

This Morning I Woke Up

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This morning, I woke up…
To invisible hands
Covering my ears, eyes, mouth
At news of conflicts,
Sights of damage,
Speaking of war
My mother trying to protect
What’s left of the innocence within me
From the evil around me
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To grit in my clothes
That no amount of shaking out
Can ever seem to set free
The fine silt of cracked walls
That permeate  the very air itself
It becomes a part of the ink
That is my bloodstream
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To shattered windows,
The latest of blasts bursting the last of panes
In the former still of the night
Too much to bother cleaning then
Now a glaring hazard in the early light of dawn
Still it’s almost a relief,
No longer having to worry
About breaking what’s already gone
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To wishing those invisible hands
Were still there to provide the bliss
Of the ignorance of youth
For now they know I know
And there is no going back
To the unseen, unheard, unspoken
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To one hand holding a pen
The other a rifle
Pondering
Which holds more power
The one for fighting what’s without
The other to keep it from becoming
What’s within
…and picked up my pen.

This morning, I woke up…
To remember my only choice
…and picked up my pen.

This morning I woke up…
…and picked up my pen.

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At dVerse  we’re invited to write poetry against the world today when the outspoken are being killed. It has been a subject at the back of my mind for a while now, brought a little closer since the death of Charlie Hebdo, but with the recent deaths of Avijit Roy and Boris Nemtsov it’s moved to the front.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: Make our voices heard

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Also, see how others are slicing it up this month:

8th-annualc2a0slice-of-life-story-challenge-invite

Unspoken

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Hello darkness, my old friend
In twisted linen wound
My sweated girth

I’ve come to talk with you again,
In screams and wails without sound
Gossamer baggage weighting me to the earth

Because a vision softly creeping,
While the sun was upward bound
Turning this soul to flameless hearth

Left its seeds while I was sleeping
Taking from my flesh its pound
For all it’s worth

And the vision that was planted in my brain
The tick- tock of my own ‘gator run aground
Mocking me in a Cheshire mirth

Still remains
In the ever-growing mound
Of compassion’s dearth

Within the sound of silence
To seethe and confound
The truth never given birth
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Abhra is hosting at the Poetics bar here at dVerse Poets Pub today, challenging us to talk about secrets without actually revealing any.

Using the ever familiar lyrics of Simon & Garfunkle’s “Sound of Silence”  in a modified combination of Glosa and Trireme Sonnet forms.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics : What is your secret

The Canvas Laughs

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the canvas laughs at me knowing

I hold the image of you,
sipping water from the fountain, in my head,
ready to transfer it from my memory to my canvas.
the cobalt and pthalo greens along with the terre verte
of the background foliage
the mixing of warm and cool grays for the fountain
were all easy choices
but now I’m down to you.

the canvas laughs at me knowing

ivory black, burnt umber and raw sienna?
for glossy dark locks of your hair,
the sweep of your brow, the curve of your lashes – yes.
oh, but where do I begin
for the deep rich tones that comprise all of your complexion?
burnt sienna might imbue the shadow in the curve of your dimples
maybe some yellow ochre deep to highlight your cheeks, hmm

the canvas laughs at me knowing

some titanium white to capture the hint of teeth showing as you smiled
won’t capture its mischievous gleam
but a touch of naples yellow light is perfect
in that the arc of the water drop reflecting sunlight
against the alizarin crimson
that is but one scant shade of the lushness of your lips
lips still wet from the water drank
not even seconds ago
an errant liquid drop is about to fall.

and the still unadorned canvas laughs at me knowing

there will never be a man-made hue,
that can rightly capture
the soul of you

I pick up my pallet anyway

what makes a person - Photo by Andrew Wilmot

What Makes A Person
Photo by Andrew Wilmot

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At dVerse Victoria challenges us Word Artists to Grab a Brush and Write! something related to art technique. The attached photo is from Andrew Wilmot a painter, award winning screen-writer, author and above all a person I am honored to consider a friend, is the inspiration for my write.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Word Artists, Grab a Brush and Write!–dVerse Meeting the Bar

Back There Again

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Chateau de Nice by Claudia Schoenfeld

Chateau Nice by Claudia Schoenfeld

Another dollar, another score
As the sun sets on another City day
It was all that I once wanted but not more
No my heart is now many miles away

And though you smile like it’s all right
I can see it in your eyes
You may be looking at the skyscrapers
But your heart is searching for open skies

Remembering late summer evenings, when the day’s work is done
Our feet up on the porch rail, a cold one in one hand,
With your hand with the other, those were times like no other
When it was all so simple, and yet so grand
Do you remember? And can we get back there again?

I remember my auntie yelling for getting the floors gritty
Man, that red clay is tougher than this city’s hustle and flow
Yeah, the skyscrapers at night look so pretty
But when’s the last time I saw fireflies glow?

I miss how the riverbank sparkles on a bright sunny day
The sound of crickets in the midnight air
How the smell of dinner wafts every which way
And how there always  seemed to be haystack straw in our hair

Oh we spent so many years wishing to get away
Now we’re wishing for anything just to get back

Remembering late summer evenings, after all the work is done
Our feet up on the porch rail, cold ones in our hand
How we drop everything when we heard that dinner bell ring
It was all so simple and yet so grand
Do you remember? Let’s get back there again.

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Today Mary challenges us to “Sketch it Out” in words with the lovely artwork of our own Claudia Schoenfeld as inspiration.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics – Sketch it Out

Memory of Heaven

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I am minded of candles, of then
of love, simple, sound
of love deep beneath stars
Your fiery temple beside mine

The strength of Luna’s pull
Our chief alibi for the seed’s planting
A new growth begun in a crevice
We watch bloom into full flora

Peace falls upon us
Waking in dawn’s gilded light
Trades in golden finish
A nimbus, it falls around me and you

Speech fails and I fall hard
And yours fail as souls combine
You do not fear, prepared for the roar
My heart, once pieces, now whole

I am minded of candles, of then
of love, simple, sound
of love deep beneath stars
Your fiery temple beside mine

Seeing between light, dark
Afterglow in silver, gold
Cosmos mine timed in forever
Your heavens have no end

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Today at dVerse, Marina Sofia challenges us to try a homophonic translation of a Romanian poem by Lucian Blaga and see what we come up with.

Having no idea what the original poem translates to, my interpretation is a combination of phonetics and (VERY) loose translations of Latin/Romance language based words I gleaned.  It’s a little disjointed, as some things really do get lost in translation. I hope you still find it readable.

dVerse Poets Pub | Poetics: Homophonic Translations

Upon the Seas

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"Searching for Adventure" ~ Joel Robinson Photography

“Searching for Adventure”
Joel Robinson Photography
http://joelrobison.com/index.php/

Upon the sea I want to be
Through oceans mild or gales hearty
Wave upon wave beckons to me
Aye, I want to be, upon the sea

But you’re a lass I’m sure they’ll cry
Who gives a damn! be my reply

Within my sight, new ports of call
The variety keeps me in thrall
I’d no stay more than a fortnight
New ports of call, within my sight

My Da knows that its pull is strong
I’d drown on earth without whale song

When back on land I’ll be churlish
I’ll do what I must, then off with a flourish
It’s more than my patience can stand
I’ll be churlish, when back on land

And oh the salty words that I’ll hurl
Should they dare treat me like some girl!

They call my soul, the emerald seas
My heart eases in the breeze
Ship in full kilter, at the control
The emerald seas, they call my soul

The lace and parasol life is not me
A seafarer true that’s what I will be

Oh you nae believe? Just watch the sea

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dVerse invites us to engage in a poetic flight of fancy via the whimsical and imaginative photography of Joel Robinson.

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: Joel Robinson Photography