Friday, February 1, 2019

Dancing with the Stars

This photo was taken the other night by a local photographer.  Many captured similar results of the sunset all around the Puget Sound area.  
It fits nicely the rubaiyat form of poetry we were prompted to write today at

Dancing with the Stars

You came to me in a dream orange and indigo,
a timeless honor, an invite from eons ago.
I was wearing a violet primrose evening gown,
you, your tomato, magenta and sapphire trousseau.

Through furrowed rows of aquamarine and red bordeaux,
we waltzed to the outermost archipelago,
skipping the teal streets of bordellos and tinseltown
swaying to stereo reggae and the calypso.

We royally stole front row seats to the starlight's show,
painted the skies as if we were  Michelangelo.
We boogied beyond the early black tide at sundown,
when we slowdanced in the melting cobalt afterglow.

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

Harbingers of Spring

Harbingers of Spring

Emerging harbingers of spring
have begun - 
returning birdsong,
the stretching of days,
slow smile of the sun.

Racing thoughts scatter
to the scent of a China moon.
Rain abides for fools...
the glance of
a dream lover -

Narcissus croon.

Born of the side of a stem,
buds of silky fur pussy willow,
the bleating of 
prancing new lambs
in green pillowed meadows,
and me -
stepping lightly.

Saturday, January 26, 2019

Au Revoir

This month at dversepoets Bjorn has offered us a Sonnet challenge. Many poets struggle with writing Sonnet form, myself included.  Part of the difficulty comes in working with the meter and rhyme scheme.  I chose the Petrarchan Sonnet form...abab abab cde cde..with a pretext statement or problem and the resulting change or solution.

Au Revoir

Hopeful hearts rise and fall, undulate, sway,
revolving doors of full blown joy and pain.
Tangled in life's elegant human chain,
bloodied, tested by snags along the way.

Harder lessons living with shame and blame,
heady dreams impossible to sustain.
On bitter wings we lift to fly away,
need for healing by soft, delicate rain.

Lost in the amethyst eye of the storm,
archangels wrap their wings around our fears,
we follow our one reappearing star.

Finding repose amidst our Milky Way home,
the love inside through billions of light years,
we take with us in sweetest au revoir.

Tuesday, January 8, 2019

Art on My Wall

What is on your wall?

Wall Hanging

This basket creation recalls a primitive time,
embedded in my heart of hearts,
It signifies a previous era,
and even though I was not there,
only a twinkle in my parents' eyes,
it yet imparts
exist in a future sense.

Another tense,
a timelessness.

Why does it impress me so,
when in time, I too,
will be long gone?
Perhaps, to know that I am,
is all, and there is evidence
from whence I came
which is strong,
I am immortalized.

A Patch of Blue

It is Haibun Monday and "January" is the prompt.

A Patch of Blue

Gulls still nest in the thicket on the lane by the old beach house, the walls wherein I spent my childhood days. The cherry orchard muffles the sound of waves.  Each year I return to the small beach town and revisit the past and restore my soul. On this particular day, morning fog parts to a patch of blue. I am exhilarated as I walk the four blocks to buy coffee.

It rarely snows at the ocean, but in January the ubiquitous wetness and cold combine with gale winds to create a blistering sleet.  Most days are marked by dark clouds meeting the horizon, the sea and sky and pavement, all darker shades of cheerless grey. Of all the hours in a day, only a few are actual daylight, so it might as well be night.

Sitting by a fire ablaze, open book on my lap, I see the hallway where we used to slide across the floor in stocking feet, the bench seat in which we used to hide. I see loved ones rapping on the door, arriving to welcoming arms. My senses are  aroused by familiar, easy surroundings,  the fresh smell of  linens on the beds, the reckless feel of gritty sand on the floor, and the sound of hungry birds calling  overhead. Over time, one becomes set in his ways. January is full of the past, much in the present, and offers hints of the future.

All I've ever been,
The sea's where I want to be.
All I am is here

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Unshiver This Night

Unshiver This Night

Long winter shadows dream together

in slow dancing candlelight.
Reverie is much sweeter 
when whispered assurances unshiver the night
“it will be alright”.

Fire kindled by innocent timber

a hundred years ago,
guarded and honed within heart’s chamber,
nurtured to grow,
lingers still in its glowing embers.

Love, worn and tested over the years,

becomes its own reward.
From nothing’s morn 
to this Christmas Day, fears, 
like icicles melt, all things achievable are born.

Monday, December 3, 2018

November Moon

November Moon

I watch the ins and outs of sandy bays
and rock coves, 
wade the shallow water of the Salish Sea.
luminated by November moon.
With every breath I take,
prepare for life without sun and water
untiI finally, I can let it be.

You, Earth, are the apple of my eye,
who deserves so much more than we
seem able to give.
My pet flavors, colors, 
favorites of everything
will to survive, to live.
This isn’t how it was meant to be,
the pulsing globe is a dying being.

In the garden of my all days, 

bees never sting,
as I reread letters he wrote from the war.
The sound of surf, the eagle’s wings
on changing driftwood winds
take the pain from my swollen heart,
tend to the swelling
in my feet.

I’d like to be a doctor of pure magic,
ride Pegasus on Intergalactic winds,
string a necklace of sweet words
scented with Plumeria and seashells,
to hang around his neck
as a blessing for
for all I learned from him.

Thursday, October 18, 2018

Not an Ugly Face

Open Link Night at the poets' bar @ dversepoets

Not an Ugly Face

She welcomes the shadowing rain,
a wide brimmed hat, no less
the sun on her face to remain.
Since birth it's been her bane,
causing undue duress.

Though harmless and causing no pain,

it laughs unhappiness.
For his facial port wine stain,
Gorbachev drew no disdain,
nor lack of confidence.

Were it a beauty mark of fame,

or the color of cafe au lait,
she would not be so plainly vain,
uncomfortably undressed.
inclined to hide her face.

Saturday, October 13, 2018

Sonnet for Midterm Elections

dversepoets  Iambic Pentameter

 Sonnet for Midterm Elections

How I would like to see a normal face

instead of this political Frankenstein.

A false patriot disseminating hate,

he's loyal to only himself, his goldmine.

His conduct not based on love of country,

he mocks allies, castigates dissidents,

disturbs the peace unnecessarily.

Patriotism is oft misunderstood,

exploited to suspend people's happiness.

His charges of fake news beg for real truth.

So while he is basking in his power,

we are waiting for his ship to come in.

We will rescue ourselves come November,

and he'll slip into darkness in the end.

Thursday, October 11, 2018

What's in a name?

The Poetics prompt at dversepoets this week is to write about our name.  From the Greek "Aikaterinë", to the French "Catherine", to the Gaelic "Caitlin", one can see how it was Anglicized again to Kathleen by the IrishEngish.  Yeats penned a legend - a young Countess Cathleen offered her soul during a famine, in exchange for food for the starving, proving her courage.


Borne of the Middle Ages -

Kathleen is an Irish lass,
idealistic, intuitive,
and a bit feisty,
stubborn, alas,
Melancholy brown hair 
bears tints of auburn
in the sun..
...common freckles sprout
within fair rosey cheeks
where tears frequently run.
Sometimes clairvoyant,
she converses with 
Her name translates to
unsullied purity and 
innocence...and yet, 
she can be pushed only so far.

She walks stone paths -

across green hills and valleys
by day...
through soft rainbows and
disappearing pots of gold 
She waits for arms to hold her
by the fire at night.
Her world is an Irish stew -
she can be happy...
and sad at the same time...if
only she could recognize
... either she is successful
or, quite miserable.

A pioneer of sorts, 
learned early a smooth sea 
never makes a skillful sailer...
Her heart is as slippery
as a bar of soap, 
her armour made of
sacrificial linen and lace.
With an inner desire to inspire
others in a higher cause, 
she likes to share views on 
spiritual matters.
Opera music 
is carried out her frosted,
snowflaked window...and 
from her garden magic light 
from daffodils shines 
back onto her welcoming 
hearth...where she dreams of 
white cliffs and castles 
by the sea.

Friday, September 21, 2018

Fellini parade..

For Open Link Night, my response is to Tuesday's circus prompt. Instantly I thought of Fellini's movie, La Strada, with Anthony Quinn and Fellini's wife.  I wanted to express how fond I am of his work with a poem, not just a synopsis.   dversepoets

Fellini parade

Townspeople gather
to watch the strongman in chains,
and his waif partner,
perform under soft pink skies.
Traveling circus of two,
clown noses, drum beats,
she sounds the rousing
language of a trumpet, plays
meek foil to his brutish strength,
intuitively -
her purpose as wife.

Yet she he taunts and teases,
abandons at night.
Unknown to his foolish heart,
she's admired by another
walking a high wire.
He does not recognize
his desire till she is gone.
Dreams sustained by a face round
fade, the spirit gone
from her rag tag eyes.

Her childish loyalty is
no more,
the fantasy and magic,
Ultimately - he
crawls in agony
on the empty windswept beach.
Snow falls quietly
on the ocean where
there are no answers,
he weeps
and dies in the sand

Thursday, September 6, 2018

A Gift That Keeps Giving


My house sat empty the 
day of the sale,
except for the baby grand.
She stood alone
 in the dining room,
   holding countenance.
I lowered the price again,
   but to no avail.
Unable to move it to the new place,
a desperate post to Craig’s List,
“You pay to take piano away,
    give good home."
Later that day, the door bell,
a handsome young man did say,
   “May I play.”

He laid his hands on the keys,
and they became part of
his anatomy, 
fingertips penetrating 
my soul.
Surrounded by soft, rich tones, 
acoustics I did not know 
existed in the room.
warmth came over me,
I admired his expertise and style,
he smiled, swaying side to side.
From the time he sat down,
the piano, clearly, 
was his own.

I  played Christmas carols,
 Kumbaya...I paused  and  thought.
I could take lessons again,
    take a few bows...
reap  praises for 
my brilliant talent and poise. 

But a deal was to be made.
He embraced me briefly.
 I watched the truck 
pull the piano away 
as he smiled and waved goodbye.
It was my pleasure
to hear him play,
 more than enough for him to pay.
Water filled my eyes,
tears of gratefulness,
 after all.

It's Open Link night at dversepoets, any subject or theme. 

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Crickets’ Song

After a long break, I am moved to write in response to Frank's prompt today of writing about disappointment, heartache, and frustration.

                     Crickets’ Song

Laundry hangs drowsily from the line.
Sun sneaks through summer skies' smoky haze.
In an awkward snare of time,
an unexpected lesson.
There's agony I had not foreseen
in loneliness of aging.
In deers' dark eyes, I see my tears;
crickets try, but cannot drown out my
No longer being needed feels strange and wrong
No one waits here for me,
nowhere do I seem to belong.
Feeling set apart, taken for granted,
is a deeply unsettling, drinking song.

Cut flowers from the garden drink
their last drops of water.
I taste the last of the strawberry lemonade.
From the first nostalgic pitch of baseball season
to whiffs of autum's vinegar air,
suddenly, unimagined events torment my mind.
I've been a part of life's big picture unfolding,
shared narratives begun from birth.
My squeaky feelers search in vain for
familiar patterns of living.
The wind that has sustained me
and shook my soul with meaning
blows in another direction.
I find I'm not built to be broken yet  again,
too much is expected at this late date.
I've started over again and again.

The remaining chapters of my life's book,
before me, pages of unfinished stories,
blank canvases devoid of my joy,
unwritten poems for lack of a muse.
Alas, no one wants to hear it.
For releasing pent up and unresolved pain,
there is no coronation
at the end of the parade.

Friday, July 20, 2018

Every Day

We are writing septets today at dversepoets 

Every Day

Bouncing bird notes of Robin's song

wipe sleep from sunflower eyes.

Awakening yarrow and cabbage rows yawn.

Sand through the hourglass pours our hellos and goodbyes.

Sun's fingertips read the Braille of the valley of sighs,

and trace the outline of clouds in rose gold.

In my arms, for better or worse, your image I hold.

Monday, July 16, 2018

Quadrille #60 Summer's Prize

Summer's Prize

Ewes laze in shadows 
of elms.
July's butterflies 
ride a sweet lavender wind.
Satchel totes bread, cheese,  
and wine,
paper and pen.
I lust for berries from the vine,

By the lake I find my niche, 
sit on a blanket,
absorb the view, and write 
to satisfy the creative itch.

dversepoets  Using the word 'itch'..

Monday, June 25, 2018

Our Season of Discontent

Our Season of Discontent 

Do you, like me, feel their pain, empathize with the anguish felt by families fleeing tyranny, seeking  better futures, whose lives have been suddenly altered, upended, their destinies violently and undeservedly rearranged?
An intolerant administration willfully ignores traditional rules of law, robbing souls of their  hopes for fulfillment, interrupting their children's universe, toying with their innocent, already precarious lives. Our democracy has flailed over and over again, perhaps reached a peak in a growth spurt with the election of a black man as president in 2008. Now, it appears all gained is spiraling down the drain. Surely, when so many suffer, tis the season of our deepest discontent.

Last remnants of hate
Bleed from our democracy
Redemption awaits.