Interplay...

Miltonian  sonnett :

                                                                                                              http://dversepoets.com/





Set in a dream within another dream,                                                                    

weaving together each our narratives,
the wizard creates with imperative
minded by a specific color scheme.  
The veil of time intertwines with a theme    
 - not visible as the main causative
Forming a coverlet affinitive,                                        
an inter-playing of underside seams
Unaware we, the ins, outs of our days 

awaking from dreams with common corners,  
thus reassuring all things made thereof -
the original dream dreamed never fades 
by turning the moon around one quarter
All that sorely counts is how much we love

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Of old LP's...

It's Open Link Night at   dversepoets.com ...

A familiar spotlight
beams down on me
passing ancient stars still aglow
Gravity tugs between the colossal hunter
stepping across the night sky
and my heart
If I sing from a mountain plateau,
build stairs for me to climb
I'll bring you armfuls of wildflowers
...play for you a honeyed cello
where safely therein his belt, you swing
on a middle star..

 ...and tell you revelations
of a changed world and time

Intercepted streams
of consciousness meet...bent vinyl time
softens, memories boomerang
from a favorite LP
Ah, your savior-faire,  my naivete..
a favorite red gown,
 spumy champagne
Still, you are the high road
I drive by the sea...
you're there beside me at the symphony,
and when I dine you are the
soupe du jour,
So once again won't you lead me
waltzing blissfully,
this time across the dance floor
of the stratosphere...

Dining with Kate...

The long private driveway to the gate
met a green sign that read  "Welcome to Fenwick"
Me, myself... I... had been invited to dine with Kate
Opening the door with a deep bow,                                                    
she greeted me with "Hello, welcome to
Old Saybrook", directing me to a seat.
"Here, my dear, you have a lovely view of the water."
I was in awe of her presence
and wondered who else I might meet
of the famous and elite
My knees felt weak..

Cocktails and hors'd ourves,
open spaces
filling now with conversation,
playful banter among guests
even harmless practical jokes..
She loved puzzles
and games and a good book
Spencer stood smiling near the piano..
Soul mates...but she never married him..
..chances he would divorce his
catholic wife, slim
Lauren Bacall and Peter O'Toole
conferred while her brother
 mingled with minor leading ladies..
I spotted Paul and Joanne

"Little Women" ushered her to fame
 George Cukor's protoge'..
he discovered she was compelling
in strong women's roles
able to portray
them as romantic, athletic
vulnerable, or austere
She won four Academy Awards
in her long career
Her head shook and hands trembled..
the onset of Parkinson's occurred
while filming with
a young Sidney Poitier..

We spoke of her childhood memories..
her doctor father and mother,
leader of women's rights
I told her my favorite movies...
Philadelphia Story
with Cary Grant
and Jimmy Stewart
and Woman of the Year..
of course there was the comedy
with the leopard named Baby
I asked what were her best and
worst moments..
She said she loved acting with Bogey..
but she was allergic
to the African cedar tree!

She made me feel at ease that night...
and said we could later all go for a swim
After a good night's sleep in the
cozy guest room,
the housekeeper served us
tea with toast and jam                                                                                                            Fenwick
where we chatted in the library
She wore her signature turtleneck
slacks and long sleeved jacket shirt
her hair in a bun, sensible,
independent, could stand her ground
in a fight

Then she grabbed my shoulders
with both hands....giving them a shake...
"Do come again, dear"..
kissing me on the cheek...waving her arm high.
and said "Goodbye"..



                                                                                           

At dversepoets.com       today Claudia asks us to write a poem about a hypothetical  conversation or meeting with a well known or historical person; all are extremely interesting if you want to take  look.                                                                                                                                                                    

My original poem disappeared so this is a second write, without a lot of the rhyme I had in the other one, trying to remember what I wrote, but it's the wee hours,  so it's more sloppy than the first one ...;;)

Margaret's room...

Overflowing pots of pansy faces sunned outside the
French doors to the garden.  Family portraits share my walls with
an oval wicker mirror, a small framed Renoir print faces the hospital bed.
I'm glad when he comes with your dinner tray.... stays to rub your back..
.the bed tray holds the remote, pen and steno pad, books... inhaler....
....a bell to ring..
From the upper corner of the ceiling, forming a triangle,
he nailed strings that cross to my other side, rigging it to a pulley..
..so with the tug of your finger, a wooden man glides back
and forth...making you smile...

We laugh together watching Johnny Carson...I sing along with you,
Pavarotti and Verdi...I'm used to the the low hum of the oxygen machine...
 24 hour a day...due to COPD...I love it when your daughters arrive
 to keep you company...
....giving him a break..a privilege for me to hear those most intimate conversations,
I observe your teary days and nights....listen to your sleep talk dreams..
The top drawer of your dresser, locked with a large skeleton key..
..treasures inside. ..you like to take out and hold...heirloom hankies, cameos,
silver salt spoons...vintage gloves, opera glasses..a miniature ivory telescope with
 the The Lord's Prayer inside..amber beads...photos dear..a lucky beetle..
A porcelain doll named Patsy sits close by, given to you as a ninth
birthday gift in 1933..it's ears and toes crusted over time
Antiques your hobby, bridge your game, an avid reader...I never knew such
 a mind traveler...you used to love to entertain,  you made an exquisite
Queen Charlotte Pudding...
a Girl Scout all your life.. you never hurt a flea..

One time I saw you  fall trying to move to the portable toilet.
..I could not help you...I wanted to scream...I saw you grieve for
yourself..and family..you feared you would suffocate..I don't think anyone
knew better than I how lonely you really were at times.  I longed to hold you closer.
..to be able to say 'it will be o.k'...after all, I've known you 20 years.
Your still pretty legs hung out from freshly washed sheets
..you always thanked the girls for coming..helping you bathe ..
giving you insulin...and you always apologized....
...but it was their turn they said..
I remember the day you stopped eating..the osteoporosis became
unbearable..harder to breathe...he replaced your favorite Tropicana
wilted roses in the vase...kissed you and wished you  'Happy 50th Anniversary'..
...cried uncontrollably.  Your daughter came that day...you grinned...
and you squeezed her hands......the morphine now easing your pain..
.I barely understood your voice so faint....you said you liked the
summer hat she were wearing....smiled lovingly...
.quietly I saw you drift into sleep...
.the day you decided.. to say goodbye..I still feel you here inside of me.
always in my heart.

For   dversepoets.com...an exercise in speaking as another object or place..I decided on my mother's room.

Self portrait...Photo digital art..

For Photo Art Friday pixeldustphotoart.com Bonnie asked us to create an artful self portrait using any texture or treatment we want that references us or indicates who we are. I don't have many recent good photos of myself to work with so made a small collage.

Lower right photo was taken when I was 3 1/2 years old..and that's me in the center - age 63, two years ago  What happened to all the years in between?  I try to avoid the camera.  The clock alludes to my feeling that time is so relative it's possible to travel through it spiritually; and one of my favorite old-fashioned flowers, the hollyhock.  The hair is grey.


Then I tried the daisy texture...I think it's the better of the two.








Last week she had asked for us make a digital art portrait ( of someone else).  Missing the deadline on that, I am taking this time to post the one I did awhile ago of my Great grandmother, Alice; it was simple and easy to do.  

RLS....an experience...

Today is Saturday
the cat is gray....
the rain won't go away,
I can't sit still, my legs are on a mission
my neck finds no comfortable position
Scratching my calf..my legs stiffen
..TAKE A PILL
before it's too late....
the misery of faraway reaching 
..that still
does not scratch that delicious spot..
won't abate
Restless, sleepless
it helps to sway
they say it's a nerve condition
cannot exercise it away
invisible..treated with skepticism

People mock sardonically
 I toss and turn all night...  
...kicking involuntarily
having to move, I rub my knees

...such a strange malady!                                                                              

Steady worsening means                                                                               my relaxed legs 
pacing  constantly
..kind of burn or ache... 
heightened sensitivity
..hard to describe..
possibly like being on speed
Heavy eyelids make it impossible
to watch TV 
Not obsessive compulsive disorder,
hypochondria or ADHD 
not psychosomatic or 
my imagination
Drives me crazy!

Ask those with a similar plight
finding a way to live with degrees
of chronic pains, no end in sight
Amazingly, an antidote 
now exists to relieve 
symptoms, 
to be taken at onset 
..before it attacks
more dopamine                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     ......otherwise it has to run it's course....and yes,
IT IS REAL...and it's got a hold on me..
                              ,,,,,, it's not make believe

 It's Open Link Night at  dversepoets.com :

 I wrote this in the middle of a Restless Leg Syndrome episode..I understand if you should  laugh, but it is a real condition I've had for several years now.  Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome were once thought to be fabrications or misdiagnoses, even hallucinatory.. and so it is with RLS.  Since the G Nome has been isolated, more diseases as well are being understood.  We now know this is can be treated with a derivative of a drug used to treat Parkinson's Disease, and I don't know what I would do without it as it allows me to sleep.  The same is true for varied uses of anti-convulsive medicines..they have a variety of helpful uses.. other than the obvious.  Education is always helpful.  There are much worse things, but this can interfere, although distraction from pain can help.  The controversy lies in the source of the syndrome.  Thanks in advance for reading;)

Green + Brown = Hazel Irish Eyes

Posted for  dversepoets.com  'green' is the theme today..such a broad area to choose from.  I believe there is one extra syllable in this somewhere but I hesitated to take one out in it's place..ah well..

 Between green and brown on the color wheel,

the shade of my eyes with a touch of blue

 Spritely yellow banded beams help conceal
melancholy tendencies sneaking through

Spartan portals of sparrows' harmless hues

Irish eyes that dream of a verdant Isle 

 where ancestors aimed with an arrow true

 forged rich character with a wink and smile

Not hunter, pine, gun metal, crocodile 

 Nor  greens harlequin, Russian, or phthalo 

but spheres of fractal art meant to beguile

Eyes fairy dusted with illusive gold 

Therein shines fighting muster Leprechaun green  

ye'll find the master's file at rainbow's fin

  

Random cinquains...

  I      Chess                                                                                      III    Snow

         Bishops                                                                                           I kick                                  
         and knights protect                                                                           snow high because
         the King's crown from capture                                                         I am mad at the world
         sacrifice many noblemen                                                                   better ease my anger thusly 
         Check mate                                                                                      Rage gone                         
                                                                                             

         

  II    Caravan                                                                                       IV    Bees
         
         Gypsies                                                                                            Purple
         dance in firelight                                                                                honey made by
         bandannas wave the air                                                                       bees that suck blackberries
         circling feet stomp to sweet music                                                       for us to find in honeycomb
         Tango                                                                                               Humming

V   Justice

Fairness

truth and honor

                                                                     integrity not lost                                                                   

unless one can afford O. J.'s 

lawyer

Today we are being asked by Tony at            dversepoets.com    to write cinquains, the form of five lines of words with syllable counts of  2, 4,  6. 8. and 2...always fun to do..and for me, much easier than limericks as I am  unfortunately not clever enough for them..;)

Rhyme for the foot...

For dversepoets.com

In the movie "Out of Africa", a script which I have for all practical purposes, memorized, there is a scene when Denys Finch Hatten (Robert Redford) mentions to Karin Blixon (Meryl Streep)  that there are poems written for almost every body part, but not, to his knowledge, one for the foot.  The following is how is goes:

RR:  There's lips, eyes, hands, face...

 hair, breasts...

legs, arms, even the knees.

But not one verse for the poor foot.

Why do you think that is?

MS:  Priorities, I suppose.

Did you think you would make one?

RR:  Problem is there's nothing to rhyme it with.

MS:  Put.

RR:  It's not a noun.
 MS:  Doesn't matter. Along he came and he did put

                                         upon my farm his clumsy foot.

Well, I have written one using part of her line and what else I venture to say may have been added to the  poem; author Isak Denison wrote beautifully of Africa;  this is an exercise in imagination and my version in the form of an exphrastic poem referencing her work...

He trekked 
and hunted the desert

led bartering for tribal independence
for Kenyan territory 

  He walks the red dirt path to her front door

led by scents of jasmine, coffee 
beans, the sound 
of Mozart, 

  An after safari post of sweet repose
where good food, wine, 
a steam bath can be found 

He longs to hear her enchanting stories
 her mind an almanac and he 
with a fine cigar

He views 
the porch where they 
once napped and drank tea with lemon,
 dusts his hat on his khaki right knee  

The farm not hers 
except to cultivate,

the Kikuyu and Masai belonged there

She had worked the fields
 started a school under the blue gum trees
on the vast plains under hot 
African sun

 humanity's cradle where wild 
beasts still run
in the purple haze

He winces, then 
with one last broad step he does put
upon her farm squarely there 
his left foot

 Days became years 
 soul mates in their world of nature, 
yet he eluded planting roots 
 Now overlooking the antelope grazing 

he lies buried there
The lite foot lad and rose lipped maiden 
would.like that o'er the farm 
now reign blazing sunsets, copper, 
oranges and soot 

 created from stories shared there
where once they stood

Blooming shrub.. Tuesday Muse

For Nancy Claeys' at aruraljournal.com  Tuesday Muse meme prompt....sweet smelling Pieris Japonica shrub ..first a little old world texture and then a bouquet that has been posturized..  Several birds awakened me Sunday morning and I found this in bloom.

Diamante...raining Lego..

 dversepoets.com
If it's not too presumptuous of me, ( I hope it's O.K.?) I'd like to share what my 

10 year old grandson, Burke, came up with last night while overnight here...after I used some 

of his words for the poetics prompt he told me he had studied haiku and diamante last week at school
and I had read Aprille's poems which are diamantes also, so I told him he could 

choose all the words and we would write it and I would post it...so from 

his mouth to your eyes, ears :  

Bear

awesome cool

riding  running  racing  

 scooter  road  Lego  storm

hit    jumped   dive
blue  sparkling 

                                                    waterfall                                      by Burke B.

Noun
adjective adjective
verb verb verb
noun noun noun noun
verb verb verb
adjective adjective
noun

                                                                                                                          

Moon glow...

Brian Miller at  dversepoets.com asks us to write a poem around 10 words, preferably given to us 

by someone else. With help from my grandson  ( if all were up to him the words would have 

been awesome, cool, Lego and well, I think you know what I mean), we came up with the  2 nouns - flame,  dawn...3 adjectives - white, sleepless, broken...3.verbs - kissing, found, turn...

and any 2 other words - dragon, goodbye...

Moon glow   (Moondance)

Outlined sharply by blue-slate dawn sky
the castle ruins remain where I left them,
appearing like moon rocks fallen
from my body
I am the crescent moon falling
slowly in the east..
faint distant flutes
swoon an ancient melody
- for it was not meant to last,
the love between you and me..
sleepless days wandering, a truce..
a white flag hangs from a spear
planted in the garden.. scarecrow.. 
broken mirror prisms dash light 
diagonally across 
the courtyard.
Kissing you goodbye
meant I would not return
...but I did..and found
no frightening memory, rather markers 
of what still can be..
like a new baby dragon
being born out of it's shell in the wet
clammy sand;
and not blown out by
the winds of change, a flame...
that reveals possibilities ...
a different course of action 
from revolving, turning, 
a trajectory from which I can
slip into another order...
for my heart is in no race 
to another universe..
sure of itself... but
will never lose again..
take second place..I have
my dream ticket to paradise                                                                          

                                                                                                                         by klr

 As an after thought, and in response to Gretchen's music prompt, I would like to add that this Van   Morrison song pretty  much encapsulates the feeling I wanted to convey with the above poem. Only after   perusing all my favorite music did it dawn on me that there is a connection for me,  albeit subconscious ;)

Babbling mountain brook...

dversepoets.com  ...today we are writing about where we each live..



Hiking to a clear mountain stream
or lake..... nothing less than stellar 
views of curling ferns...downed logs
and moss sleeping among the forests beds..
trees that reach high and nudge snow sprinkled
mountain ridges...winding trails with stories to tell...


Deer cross in front of me, unafraid,  salmon spawn up river...goldfinches arrive early...as does my craving for strawberries out of season...
Marguerite daisies sprout
from rich soil...
full of nutrients of understanding, 
supple ground renewed with 
seeds of knowledge.. as I sit... 
on a large rock
after a long climb....
hours lost in the poetry of trees..
their soulfulness surrounds and carries me.. arms outstretched, they absorb all.they hear.  

They wear verbs for a coat.. preserving ancient tales..of love's haste and remorse, voices echoed down old paths....feelings lifted or dropped like pine needles by lovers, mountaineers, other passersby...their leaves and fallen twigs are nouns tossed in the air.....telling of decaying and growing....teaching patience and tolerance..forgiveness, chiding and redeeming...absolving...displaying nature's comings and goings.....
Here in this sanctuary, the forest begs to be read...the babbling icy brook longs to quench my thirst; 
my spirit is broadened by fresh scents of pine and cedar...
where sunlight comes and goes...
waiting for me to turn the pages of its soul, listening...

Sitting beside a woodland waterfall...on a rockery...nature speaking with me, 
an inspired listener...
a book is a tree..a tree is a book?  Is a cloud is a conversation?
No one knows where I am right now...
will the stones of the brook 
remember
how it was today?
As the ivy climbs and falls, what secrets will it tell?  
Are the rustles in the bushes a code?
...if a wild rose is compost...is compost a wild rose?
I want to know...
inhale...exhale.'''
.inhale...exhale..
...we all breathe freshly in unison


by klr

Ms. Christie..

by klr



Here to investigate a perfectly

carried out murder in the library

 the inspector and usual suspects

gathered to unravel the mystery

Varied characters pointing to others
alibis formed, proclaiming innocence
Twists and turns easy for most astute sleuths
poker faced..cards are played close to the chest

Detectives have their own style to cipher
the truth.. searching for hidden clues and those
that might be blatantly in one's plain sight
right under Dame Agatha Christie's nose

Short verse is the request today at dversepoets.com, and some are very short, an art in itself if you care to read more, please visit...

Photo Art Friday...Vintage..

It's been awhile since I participated in Bonnie's Photo Art Friday..  Here are 3 that I 

played with today, but this first shot of a photo of a vintage picture that had been blown up, framed, and hung on a bathroom wall at the place we stayed at the beach last Nov. is my favorite ....I just love it.  Still, though I notice a bit of the remainder of a reflection I didn't manage to hide.I hope to add it to my bathroom decor as well, only smaller...the colors are perfect.
.I only wish I knew who the ladies were...;)                                                     

Seaside Ore 1924

Pitcher with roses with french doors

                           Calling card paperweight (my great great grandmother's)...