This is my confession it is my obsession I have a natural predilection to its addiction
Memories of my father and his ochre cup Attached to his side, breakfast, lunch and sup’
My oath to drink only one all my friends joke about I would offer my first-born rather than do without
An olden concoction for which we modernists still toil
To smell its aroma fills me with such frustration To see its liquid flow as I pour fills me with anticipation To taste its liquid heat is such a sensation To feel its burn down my throat fills me with elation To hear that last swallow fills me with such trepidation
For some it is more precious than diamonds, gold or oil
An obsession shared by many on this orb As sip after sip it is so greedily absorbed
I oscillate between the need the makes my heart burst And the joy of feeling the elixir oust my deep thirst
I’m like a kid with chewiest of toffee Nothing beats that first oomph of coffee
Today at dVerse Poetics our host and pub-tender paeansunplugged invites us to raise a glass and sip on some verbiage to that all quenches our thirsts. I chose the libation that gets many of us up, running and ready to face the world with less of a snarl in the mornings – well at least me.
Autumn leaves in warm earth tones vale upon the new mound of soil. The leaves appear demur on the soil adorned with fresh florals. She who has spent nearly three score with in life until a year ago, has now joined the he in afterlife. Most have begun to mill away, eager to start the slow shedding of bereavement that begins with the repast, but she lingers a spell.
I watch her eyes, both mournful and misty.
And I watch as she, a morbid Noah, mentally gathers the dates of the ancestral pairings interned. I know she sees in the family line none have gone more than two years without their hearts in life beside them. The dichotomy of such beauty in sadness. She fears it, yet, I see she embraces the seemingly inevitable as we finally leave.
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