Moonstruck

At dversepoets.com today we are writing about the super moon.

Clouds covered the super moon last night where I live. Disappointed I was not in a place where I could see the moonrise, I imagined it emerging from the east, filling half the sky - when the curve of the earth is such that it appears to be much closer than it actually is. As in the movie "Moonstruck", with 'Amore' as the theme, the moon took center stage as it appeared from outside a bedroom window, while others sat down for a meal, and while the old man was walking the dogs at night. My, how they howled at its sight.

With scenes filmed in an old New York, it could have been set at the time of the last super moon in 1948 , a period story of Italian families caught up in the many sided emotional angles of love. Producers can be creative with cameras, and to me, it was the ideal big yellow moon for lovers, one I hope to see someday with someone special.

A settling down time
the full harvest moon honors
our plenty, our love

                                                                                  

Skylarks after the storm..

  At dversepoets.com today we are writing an Alouette.....two or more stanzas of 6 lines each, with the following set rules:    Meter: 5, 5, 7, 5, 5, 7    Rhyme Scheme: a, a, b, c, c, b             

Skylarks After the Storm

Morningsong delight

for Isle of the Right;

trumpets' troubled notes of rain

led by a drumline

marching out of time,

flying above the terrain

Lightning edges flash

blink of an eyelash

Waterfalls beckon the flock

to bathe in the sun

The war must be won

before one man stops the clock

Miniature kites

tumble from the sky,
larks pirouette 'round corners

spreading their goodwill

throughout vale and hill,

messaging beyond borders

Harbingers of peace

warn wars meant to cease

The world has been mismanaged

Fire spits from within

to mend what's fallen,

gold leaf to fill cracks damaged

Resolve unsurpassed,

each man and each lass -

heed the call to assemble

Gentler leadership

greater fellowhip,

gleaned when earth Tuesay trembled

Bridges lead the way..

First frost on the covered bridge keeps us from traveling far - our trousers stiff already, noses reddened by sharp cold air. A blanket of snow on its roof waits for warmer temperatures to melt it and long icicles hanging from eaves.  I snap a photo as I cross, for what could be a long time, making a pretty postcard scene to paint and send. Decorated with sleigh bells and lights for the holidays, I reset my memories.  Not a bridge to nowhere, but to the unknown, to a future life, travels beyond adolescence.

I recall the river rising, flowers blooming, and being with friends all day at the bridge. I imagine horse-driven wagons, cattle, people parading across the bridge since before the turn of the century. Hazy summers we floated down the river, gliding under it, emerging from its shadowy earthen underside to a sunnier other side.  When fifty mph winds blew through the tunneled building, it was hard to stand up straight inside, especially  when  young lovers would meet there in the middle of the day, sneak a kiss or leave initials carved on a board.

The young do not see the passage of time in the bridge's fading beauty, only decay. Anytime a welcome sight, the old covered bridge yawns as we go along the road on our way.

Life never will be
the same; many dreams born there -
fish jumping all day


dversepoets.com



We are writing about bridges today in the haibun form, a short tale ending with a haiku.

Turning the page..

Welcome bygone souls
to a jubilant graveyard party
October wanes this night
as we feast,
become something else for a night
Glittered masks, corn mazes,
confetti
After harvest is a settling down,
inhabiting another moment in time
in honor of plenty
Awakened familiar ghosts
engage in shenanigans,
trade stories at the midnight hour
Feet kick up burnt umber leaves,
fireworks scatter and pop
La Ledrona's cries enter our chests
like carving knives
Excruciating pain replaced with joy,
returns to sorrow
Cat screeches under moonlight
skeletons hung over fences
moan and groan
Clowns scare themselves
Crow feathers drift in smoke
and ash trails
Down feathers our nests
against morning dew
Clouds break for rainbows
and November's hues

Little Big Horn, Revisited..

dversepoets.com

The challenge today is to write using futurism and onomatopoeia in expressing our anger about what we want changed in the world. The main idea is to use tyopography and expletives for interest and emphasis...a bit difficult for me.

                                                                                                         

                                                                                                             painting by Charles M. Russell

At dawn, a warble

or cock-a-doodle-doo

The screech of a night owl,

a whoo-whooo...

Nightly thumpety-thumps

of coyote or deer stealing nearby,

splish-splashes of men fishing,

soft whispers between women working

For hundreds of years the indigenous 

knew nature's sounds

Smoke signals reigned as mass media  

Life was hard but peaceful -

before the bitter, bloody battles 

when the white man came to town,

before the murder of Sitting Bull,

before progress and

the Dakota Access Pipeline

Escalating winds

 carried echoes of angry men 

 Standing Rock Sioux filed law suits

"Freedom means safe water,

keeping our sacred land!" 

"Halt this building of the pipeline!!

..they proclaimed,

Promises broken, 

sacred land desecrated, 

not to mention more land and gold 

taken from "them thar Black Hills!!"

and building a daunting dam where 

once were only sharp chicken scratches 

and ancient petriglifs

"This stinks!!" locals yelled

Everyday life now,

interrupted by out-of-towners -

the clip-clop of horse's hooves,

the crunching of boots in dirt and rocks

silenced by traffic tie-ups, "HONK, HONK!!"

Police came from out of state;

helicopters whirred in

"They keep upping the ante!"

exclaim the supporting tribes

Tensions mount on both sides

It's not just the fish sizzling in the pan!

Fake photos and lies posted on social media;

"It's a dog and pony show!!"

Phffffst - pepper spray and ZING -

painful tazers 

"There's going to be a battle!!"

Jesse says:  

"It's environmental racism

 at it's worst!"

"Little time to react if there is a leak,"

say the Sioux

Preserving their history 

has been scissored and ground between 

millstones of greed and corruption,

The Sioux are not on the warpath 

(stereotypical bullshit)  yet, 

but it could come to that - 

only by standing up for their right 

to clean, safe water

Lunch with Metallica..not what you think...



Lunch with Metallica ..not what you think..

Midmorning sun slants

through the dusty window pane

onto a red tableclothed table

I'm drawn to sit there 

for the garden view outside

Water served in a corked bottle,

white napkin, "Let it Be" on the CD

Scents of freshly baked 

savory pies hang under my nose, 

drift into autumn air

I squint out at Giant sunflower heads
set against outstretched blue sky;

newly mowed fields lead my eye
to the mirrored duck pond

A cup of green tea 

served steaming in front of me,

a slice of  warm loganberry pie,

two dollops of vanilla ice cream
sandwiched between buttery crusts
Against the barn wall,
dusty pink roses still blooming

Outside, two dragonflies
dance up to the glass,
agile movers between sun and leafy
shadows, jewels blinding me

Teal sequined bodies shimmer, 
Darting back and forth, 

Anisoptera wings maneuver into
a holding pattern

Finding me,
emerald eyes seem intent on
studying me,lingering curiously, hovering,
Mermaid-like, their iridescence dazzles me

Earthmates, we commune for an instant

Then, they dash away across
the mirrored pond

dversepoets.com

It is Open Link Night and I am posting what was supposed to be for another prompt. See what others are writing about by visiting dverse.com

How is your life aligned?

At dversepoets.com today we are writing in response to photographer  Emily Blincoe's project,  "Arrangements"  Please check out the rest of her art on her website.

Interpretation of art
is very personal
I love how similar objects
beg to be arranged.
Each photo is its own
signature






Images invoke certain feelings,
memories, touch a nerve,
categorized by themes
For instance,                                                                 
Picasso had his blue period,
Warhol his extremes




Musicians may express
themselves in theory only,
mathematically
Graphic artists in basic
symmetry
Impressionist are more
focused aesthetically





An artist's eye for color and hue,
juxtaposition and shape
appealing is the affinity with order;
beauty is in the positioning






Balance is crucial,
colors in rainbows aligned
Like next to like,
a story is told
yet differences abide

I, myself, fall into
a more abstract category,
or random gatherings
No, not chaos, nor rigid form;
more, in a clump,
a state of upheaval,
naturally found, in its own way,
sublimely divine





]

Collaborative Haiku 

With bright red-cropped hat  

through green leaves staring at me

Pecker find old tree

Three Clerihews

At dversepoets.com today we are asked to write as a challenge, a Clerihew, a poetic form invented by Edmund Clerihew Bentley (187 5 - 1956)  It is a short and fun biographical verse with two rhyming couplets.



       Amal married George Clooney
       He certainly is no gooney
       She wears tailored two piece suits
       Her persona was enough to seduce

                ~~~~~~~~~~~~

       Most traveled was Marco Polo
       He sailed and explored the world solo
       From his escapades inspiration was drawn
       What women did he discover in the land of Khan?


               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     
        Oh, how I loved Santa Claus,
        his rosy cheeks and schnozz
        Always jolly, in his red suit ate popcorn
        His whiskers like a snowstorm
     

     
   

     

     

The Woman in the Moon..

The Woman in the Moon...

I am slightly out of the circle,

yet hold two poles together

I always take a neutral stance

I've searched the world for meaning

and rode on a bicycle in

the Tour De France

On pure, clear nights, I watch
true love bloom at water's edge
as men stoop to one knee

I fill souls with romance

I am the woman in the moon

watching my own shadow dance

Making my rounds, I pull tides 

and pour moonlight on the sea

I show off my radiance

I am mainly in a state of flux
Concerned about my privacy,
I take breaks to reflect

I observe crucial world events

Buttermilk tears in vanilla eyes
I see such suffering and pain

I hope for peace, but in vain

Tides and calendars I chronicle,

my moods are illogical

Follow me as I wax and wane

I steal across curves of the earth

My role and face change frequently 

I am a prop for owls and bats,

you see,
and frequent listener to lullabies

Find me in Tarot Cards and art
I love pussycats and sunrise

I scowl at storms who keep me

from sending inspiring quotes

to Yeats, Gibran, and Anin

I breathe Lennon songs across 

a celestial terrain,
encourage spirits pioneering



I cast moonbeams in subtle ways,

I blend with any crowd

Of dreams I am a weaver,

sailors sing Amore' out loud
I invite believers
I grab stars and rearrange them,

 put them back again

People in Miami boast of my eggs

I eat grapes, rye bread and cheese

Wine causes me to blush

the shade of an orange martini

Cows jump over me

I've seen the birth of a hermit thrush

Before I slip beyond the horizon

or disappear in wisps of blackberry smoke,

I kiss all the children goodnight

Proud of the guidance I provide,
I am the woman in the moon,

Lucky lady, shining bright



Today we are writing about the moon over at dversepoets.com 
Take a peak and read other poets' posts

Torremolinos

dversepoets.com

...where we write today about sounds of love...

TORREMOLINOS...

In Malaga, 

lips quietly sipped wine

Strings, piano, 

and bandoneon unearthed inside her 

new thunder, penetrated tender 

chambers of her heart 

Bodies, boots and heels 

tangoed an angry, yet innocent 

poetic cadence, 

resonating across shiny tile floors

Rustic arias 

floated in the night,

descending on the terrace 

of Torremolinos, 

where they stayed

Noise of clanging swords embattled 

in Quixotic dreams of chivalry 

echoed in her delicate ears,

her senses overcome with images 

of giant windmills

She was not deaf to 

the sonic whispers of dolphins,

or the sighs of distinguished red roses when rising to screams of intense pleasure cascading over 

the garden gate.

From a church above, 

morning bells tolled, 

lingering still the hummings of sweet release when she awoke in the arms of her lover in Torremolinos...overlooking the blue green Mediterranean Sea  and Costa del Sol.

Fear of not finding the truth...

Today we are writing about fear, in any way shape or form....
dversepoets.com








Fear of not finding answers ~


I wish to be unfettered by the news 
of plague amid all manner of rumblings 
of the earth
From my helpless, hopeless feelings toward 
an angry society,
I turn only to what I know to be true, 
my experience and what is at hand

I place my pen down on the blank page of 
my notebook, where I sit on a twisted 
driftwood log, 
unable to write my life as a book, 
or any book, with beginnings, a mid-life, 
and a smashing ending.

I pluck yellow flowers, mini-spindled sunbursts, 
notwithstanding their deep running roots, 
growing from under 
the sand at my feet, between wood and smooth rocks 
close to the waves

I place the stems on the same page beside 
the pen in the book
as the flowers already begin to wilt
Flowers pressed temporarily inside a book, 
await rediscovery 
as I check my mind again for unfound words

How will I know how it all unfolds 
after I am gone?
Faint gull calls, a distand train whistle
ride a brisk winds to my ears
Perhaps traveling longer the path I am on
will provide answers, an easing of  my fears

I take detours through what is left of the 
forest of elegant ideas and 
unfulfilled dreams
I fear not knowing everything, the sum 
of the equation, the punch line of the joke
Is there more? Why or why not nothing else?

I build a small fire with wood shavings and
tinder gathered from the forest's dry floor 
I blow on it, hastening the warmth for cold hands
I feel a oneness come over me as 
the essence of pine penetrates my soul.

July's Dance

Robert Hagan 1947 - Australian Impressionist painter -


Driving the convertible 
with the top down
along the coastal highway,
mirages shimmer while hinged 
to hot asphalt before me
familiar aromas of the seaside
and on the radio -
 a blitz of summer hits 

White sand on my nose and

between toes, cures woes 
lingering near me.

Andalusian colors and 
ambrosial scents of rose hedges 

meet billowy clouds 
at my favorite beach and 
sail into my heart 

overflowing

Caressing my ankles, 
sparkling sea gems circle 
in water;

  ringlets of cares 
subside in sea foam

With sounds of gulls and waves

my sadness leaves me.

At night, a tiger sky 
descends around me

Ancient whisperings

lead me to dance in firelight

I sleep in tall grass 
bathed in moon light,
awake to a new dawn

These things complete me 

and restore my soul

How stars are born..

Posting today over at imaginerytoads website where you will find more poetry with ditties and other images of frogs and stories..

Within the sanctuary of the soul
abides a spark,the innermost ache of
love -
infinite stories of all the ages,

joys, tribulation, sculpted images
of shed tears 
And when one feels forsaken, and does not
fathom the reasoning why, miracles
occur

Acceptance transforms us, in contrast, to
a state of sheer delight in living through
grace -
light from trillions of stars touches us, spills
into our divine space, and splashes our
essence
into tapestries of art all around,
surrendering to the echoing songs
of eternity

Summertime

To the tune of the song Summertime in Porgy and Bess, I've written another version of how it might read; I doubt there is nothing quite like the original, however....such images it evokes!


Summertime, and the cool lake beckons me
Days are lazy, and fireflies are nigh
A pole to push 'n' pull the raft round the bend
Feel the breeze blowing,
hear the magpies cry

Summertime, and the earth hums tenderly
barefeet and rain, and smell the crayfish fry
Bait on a hook, as you lean against a tree
bees making honey,
kisses your nose, a butterfly




dversepoets.com 

End of the Affair...

I could not say goodbye
to my lover
"Hasta la vista baby" was my mantra
Ties broken, desire receded
into the bleakest bleak oblivion

No longer arrive sweet spicy letters;
there is no 'keeping in touch',
yet lingers the smell of
heady cigar smoke
Out flame! Out spark!
Forget the number I wrote
on the menu 
in a French restaurant

My heart sprang free today
I'm dancing across the moon now 
with a mad Sicilian
Forgive my callousness,
my dear....but oh, 
by the way, 
how is Vivienne?

Southern Comfort...

At dversepoets.com We are writing about statues, breathing life into one of our choosing

At midnight, soft moonlight

accents her halo

where in the garden she stands

balancing, with each arm,

two bowls, 

offering water

and seeds to the birds

Long ago, she was named Wendy,

by people who commissioned the work

of this lovely maiden

in her stone skirt...

could she have known Captain Hook
and Peter Pan?

The hauntingly young girl 

had ironically 

just begun to live

when 'Old Black Magic' cast a spell 

her way

Locals subjected her 

to embellished stories 

of forbidden fruit and gossip

In awe, they imagined

who she was

Why did she die so young?

Was she a victim of 

a bizarre or elaborate plot?

She attracts photographers
and dreamers alike
Like the scale of justice and Libra

Her tilted head pose 

and winsome gaze

could mean a choice was made 

between "Good' and Evil"?
Her posture could symbolize

a fork in the road, 

or a road not taken?

Arms bent at the elbow, 

in a park in the deep south,

mystery lies in folds of her attire,

 untold secrets covered

with new green moss

On one hand, 

it could imply unrequited love; 

on the other hand,

suggest she met a nefarious fate

In Savannah live characters

 of all kinds 

where Voodoo has a way 

of influencing things

In the inscription

carved in the footstone,

 it reads not of  suspense or murder
or illness, 

but states her ordinary yet artful

tapioca resolve

o

We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the lord.
Corinthians II

Can you hear (see) me now?

What innovations lie ahead
as cell phone capabilities advance?
Our main connection
to our friends, they're handy
for news at a glance;
for emergencies,
aid is close at hand
Faster, pulses race!
What about a slower,
more personal pace?

What about a more intimate touch,
meaningfulness, for which we yearn;
deep conversations,
innovative ideas, great notions,
beauty to discern
Is it enough or too much -
to make life easier,
to now and then allow us to win a game
Siri of iphone fame understands
it just won't be the same

Now when a man asks Siri,
"May I see your breasts?"
she responds with...
"That question does not compute."
For expressions of love,
there is just no substitute
Imagine a future when she appears-

an apparition in front of you,
gives you a sexy glance
and a tender kiss
A chance at romance
But don't expect me to care;
unless, to make it fair,
there would also be an app
from a man called Lance,
who answers with a deep voice-
lets me touch his hardened abs
It would be, of course,
a socially redeeming
and enhanced app -
under the circumstance,

Coming undone...replenishing, or repairing frayed circuits..

Today is haibun Monday over at dversepoets.com. I have not posted in awhile but with a short break from busy recent weeks, I thought I'd give it a try. In prose or poetry form, it reads the same; I'm not sure which sounds better. We are writing about clearing the mind and relaxing.

Her climbing skills curtailed long ago, she travels still short distances. She dares not let up in her persistence,  pauses at a grassy knoll, hears the faint sound of what could be a piccolo. In her calves, clots in twisted veins remain, map of winding rugged roads meandering, the story of her life travels; miles beg to be unraveled, causing legs to bleed. 

She rests by a spring-fed mountain stream; sun-light sparkling from it sends gleams to her hair. She splashes her feet clean on smooth flat rocks, douses with wild roses her worried locks, inhaled scents of wet grass and white pear. Dashes of light meet furrowed brow, where unruly lines spread and  underscore life's quakes; crow's feet extend much deeper now.  

Memories, earliest to the present, careen; years of tears cried are unleashed, freed. The pain in her legs abates as crooked becimes straight. Upon an invisible keyboard scale, notes play in air a melody.  She swims in deep river veins, unafraid, no longer encumbered or cast about.  She turns her back, showingn+ hues of the rainbow; no more flounders a shiny silver trout.

Ablation of veins -

healing portal to the sea
of new clarity                                                              

No Regrets - Haibun Mon. # 10

dversepoets.com We are taking quotes about cherry blossoms by other authors and using them as a cue to our own Haibun today.

“When cherry blossoms
scatter –
no regrets”  Issa

Cherry blossoms remind me of spring days past, pleasant memories of good tidings and long ago Easters, blue skies, and families together. Standing out are the April showers with rainbows, May baskets, and walking through blossoming cherry orchards. The trek home after we got off the school bus was delayed because we loved playing in the neighbor's huge cherry orchard. The grass was green and tall with pink fallen snow all around. We took high steps through it, sat or lay down among them and day-dreamed, and plucked small twigs of pink and white to wear in our hair. Beyond, the mountains and rivers smiled as light breezes flowed through the gorge valley where we were raised as glass chimes could be heard from nearby porches.

As a burgeoning teen, it had such a positive feel. The future seemed endless, bright and full, as if nothing could ever stand in the way of happiness. I'm still unsure if "happiness" in itself is our goal to achieve in life. When other aspects of life seem to dominate, choke out the feelings of elation, rejuvenation and newness, it is a big challenge to maintain. Routine activities, work and study are necessary in our lives. Then crisis, ills and otherwise bad news follow us all the days of our lives. Anything is possible to happen at anytime 

Instead, we understand and accept that as we strive to experience happiness, it arrives in brief segments, opportune moments of sheer delight that come to us unexpectedly. We savor the small simple joys and make them last as long as possible. We try to view all events with courage, with wishful and hopeful thinking and therefore, positive outcomes. Cherry blossoms symbolize this eternal struggle to smile amidst the grief. 

When life is less bright,

cherry blossoms at your feet

uplift and comfort