Tag Archives: Poetics

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

Bring Her Home

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The multiple hues a cacophony of color
Cascading twixt tired fingers
She sighs knowing,
She should go do something
She should go do anything,
Anything but the nothing she’s doing now
Still her fingers swirl as she lingers

Her thoughts as deeply jumbled
as the colors before her
While she ponders the fate
Of the little girl who owns them
They will be hers again she thinks resolutely
Because she cannot think of her daughter in past tense
No, she cannot think that it is already too late

This room that hurts the most to dwell
Yet her heart carries it along anyway
When to other rooms she roams
She lifts her head to sky her heart sees
Beyond the walls of the room she stands
Praying her prayers are heard,
Praying her prayers are answered

** “Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there
She is young
She’s afraid
Let her rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring her home
Bring her home
Bring her home”

#BringOurGirlsHome
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** Gender switching the heatbreakingly beautiful “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables.

Today at dVerse we’re challenged to write a poem about NEWS of any type. From personal to local, national, international, past, or present news. And this just happened to be sitting around…

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics – Good News, Bad News, Your News!

The Angels

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The angels up in heaven guide every thing we do
They watch us and support us and gently help us through
All that life has for us, the unexpected and the planned
From the moment that we’re born, until next to God we stand

Some stand watch above us as when we just can’t sleep
Others give us comfort for the times we weep
Some angels gather up the dreams that come during the night
So when our eyes are open their sisters get the details right

There are angels whose voices whisper in our ear
at just the right moment to conquer all our fear
They are sisters of the voices that guide you when you stray
From the His path, they help set you back on the right way

There are unique angels who help keep friendships whole
should we hurt the ones we love when we lose control
There are angels for our hearts and we give them plenty to do
As we go through all the wrong ones, for our soul mates true

Season Angels guide not our earthly clime,
but rather our earthly time
From the Spring angels trumpeting our birth,
until the Winter angels’ last bells chime

Granted some Angels paths are shorter,
while other have a longer phase
But each in turn guide through
the Summer and the Autumn of our days

From the moment that we’re born, until next to God we stand
All that life has for us, the unexpected and the planned
They watch us and support us and gently help us through
The angels up in heaven guide every thing we do

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dVerse ~Poets Pub | The Mind of a Child–dVerse Poetics

Poor Man

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Poor is an image I find difficult to afford
Man as the tool to my gain is in constant accord

I can only imagine it – and it’s mine ’till he sighs
Have not met a sugar who didn’t want these thighs
To decorate his hungry lap with something fresh
Tell him I’m a mistake? – I did, I really tried but
You can’t reseal the lid on a busted nut

He took a gamble on the liquid swing of my hips
Never fearful of the snug feel of my lips
Knew he could last longer than always
What has he known? On that subject I’ve got it sewn!
Hit it like an olden broken record pumped straight through
Him everywhere – yeah – my ample tool struck true

But my mantle? Starting anew after I take and take
I am not good at what I do – I’m better
Did I not try to tell him I was a mistake?

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A little Word Acrostic tempted me…

dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics : It’s Tempting!

Grandma

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My grandma wore a blue apron with white snowflakes in winter
Stopping all hands of time with the power of one word

“DINNER!”

The scent of herbs and spices and meats
The aroma of cherries in pies and peaches in cobblers
Have sent many a tummy rumbling
The food-laden table is renaissance worthy artistry
I and the rest of us really young ones jump up and down
Trying to get one small view of it all
Before it, like the holidays, was all-too-soon a thing of the past

The pre-teen me whines at my pitiful carving efforts
“Don’t worry; it will all turn out alright.”
Her soft cooing voice promises
Delft-blue veined hands
Which smelled either of Palmolive or Jergen’s
Deftly handle the paring knife with precision
Turning fruits and vegetables into edible blossoms
That will decorate the meals
Precision were her fingers
She wipes on her yellow-blossomed apron for spring
And I recalled the crucial fact
That she once studied to be a doctor

“This was not at all
What I planned for my life
Not the life I dreamt to live, but
The hugs from my grandchildren and
The love they bring
There’s nothing as delightful, dear”
She rocks in her chair under the huge oak
Children wandering all about
Chasing fireflies in the back yard
The air  fragrant with the herbal of  fresh-cut lawn
She smiles benignly looking on
At the latest family additions
And I know there was not a thing
That she regretted or would change
Folding the blueberry print summer apron in her lap
An unconscious signal she’s done for the evening

As time goes by
I’d listen with a most attentive ear
Because no one is interested in such mundane things
As sitting by a tree– but sit I would
First on her lap, then at her knee,
Then by her side, all the while thinking
A moment so still, will just mess up my mind

“Hush now sleep for twilight falls”
Is sung soft, soft as the arms that now rock my young
The same soft arms that once rocked me
Having no way of knowing my baby
Would be the last one held
Within the April Downy fresh scented ruffles
That trimmed her favorite red and gold autumn apron

And I’m forced into the reality
That despite her heavenly ways
She’s naught, but real flesh and blood and bone and feeling
And I am alone with my cravings
For the youthful girl with Swan’s Down cake flour on her nose
And a dab of grandma’s Chantilly behind the ear
Standing at her grandma’s elbow
Listening most attentively

You have been so gentle, so kind,
You gave me memories to last ever after
I can tell you, I feel a smile form on my face
As  I am thankful for the time
I get to spend with family and friends
These precious moments though brief they may be
They are near and dear
And as the sands of life shall run
I am now much older and wiser
With my own grand ones standing at my elbow
Watching Brown Betty -well- brown,  in the oven
The smell of apples and butter and cinnamon and brown sugar
Watering their young mouths
As I tie on my white winter apron with blue and silver snowflakes

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Abhra has given us Food for Thought as the prompt at dVerse.  Normally I would create something new, and I may yet do so if time prevails, but I was immediately put to mind of this old write laden with food and heart and I had to post it.

dVerse ~Poets Pub | Poetics : Food For Thought

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