Yesterday on Quadrille Monday, De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo, got a little punch drunk at the bar and invited us to punch out quadrille. Yesterday was my birthday. My bestfiend, not a misspell – who had the good sense to be born exactly a year later, and I were joking about the childhood silliness of delivering birthday wishes via punches on the arm. One punch-wish for each year, sometimes the token punches are delivered gently, sometimes not. Because I am blessed to age like fine wine, I do not look my years. Unless a boxer, I imagine most would begin to tire before reaching my current vintage and thus today’s silly quadrille.
Fall comes fast and furious in ochre and goldenrod jewels that seeming shoved aside the abundant verdant hues of summer. For all its warm beauty I am cognizant of the oncoming days when grayed twisted bodies, shrouded in mounds of white fluff, exchange its colorful jewels for icy diamonds that drip from limbs that will scratch at the too cold skies of winter.
As I kneel in one of the garden beds, the loss of warmth and color sadden me. It’s peaty scent, petrichor after the last thunderstorm momentarily bely the seasons in my mind. I am reminded after winter comes spring and the better days that then follow. Pruning, turning over earth in preparation I remind myself I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace. Thus I bury my autumn doldrums in thoughts of spring for now.
The fresh scent of lawn anywhere Can sometimes take me there Magnolia wafting on morningbreeze Even if I cannot see the trees Yes, sometimes a hint of sweat Remembrances of you beget The mourning in memory spurred When into earth you were interred
Merril hosts at dVerse and wants us to “celebrate” in a quadrille.
Some couples do celebrate their divorce amicably.
A Quadrille is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “celebrate”, or some form of the word, in your poem.
Laura Bloomsbury tends the bar and invites us to write a “deathbed,” poem with the inclusion of a quote from a selection provided. Typical of Muse – using just “a” quote wasn’t an option.
The following are in my take on the prompt where Fate/Moira may control my body but my voice will live on.
“All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain” -Roy Batty, Blade Runner “A certain butterfly is already on the wing.” -Vladimir Nabokov “I must go in for the fog is rising” -Emily Dickinson “Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough.” -Karl Marx
Though it’s not technically summer (yet), here in the northern hemisphere, we’ve already had a few scorching days. Merrill who is tending the pub tonight, entices us to pick from a selection of paintings evoking a variety styles and summer themes to write a summer ekphrastic poem inspired by what you see or feel.
I chose: “Tar Beach 2” Quilt 1990 by Faith Ringgold, American, born 1930. Produced at The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia, founded 1977 Philadelphia Museum of Art. I can’t upload it, but you can see it here.
Before I even clicked on the link to view it, the title alone took me back to the days of rooftop barbeques, nighttime parties and things that happened in the late-late-late nights that only the moon sees.
First Sarah (sarahsouthwest) invited us to write a sleepy little quadrille. A quadrille, is simply a poem of 44 words, excluding the title. It can be in any form, rhymed or unrhymed, metered, or unmetered. You MUST use the word “sleep” or some form of the word in your poem.
They sounded kind and full of loves In the pleasant weather Goblin Market – Christina Rosetti
Why swaddled in the rolling fog his ragged chemise color of bog The goblin worm had filled me with fright Dare I show upon first light, Somehow, I knew it wasn’t right So ear against the wall I shove To hear the trumpet of new voices In offer of different choices Not the nightmares feared of They sounded kind and full of loves
Thus, I the ignored the fiend’s masquerade Not a moment more to be waylaid I am a monarch, I was ready And chrysalis pieces flow and eddy On the breeze like confetti Among the violet hued heather As I emerge from my hidey-hole In ochre gown mirrored in trim of coal With only the sky as tether In the pleasant weather
Tonight at the pub, Sarah tends bar for this session of Poetics.
Inspired by the intriguing names of paint samples, we are prompted to choose one of the below paint names and use it as the inspiration for a poem:
Trumpet, Tea with Florence, Chemise, Confetti, Goblin, Mirror, Rolling fog, First light, Hidey hole, Masquerade
We are further challenged to incorporate as many of the words as we can and to have fun.
Oh, that was said to the wrong person. It is my natural wont when see a list of options with a prompt to select one to try to use them all. And because I am that gal, I do so in one of my favorite poetry forms, a glosa. Using two lines of Goblin Market by Christina Rosetti to tell this 1st person tale of a butterfly’s beginnings.