Unshiver This Night

Unshiver This Night

Long winter shadows 
slow dance in the candlelight.
Reverie is much sweeter 
when whispered assurances unshiver the night, 
“it will be alright”.

Fire kindled by innocent timber many  years ago,
honed within heart’s chamber,
nurtured to grow,
lingers still in its glowing embers.

Love, worn and tested over time,
becomes its own reward.
From nothing’s morn 
to this Christmas Day, 

fears, like icicles melt;

all possibilities and hope reborn.

November Moon

November Moon



I watch the ins and outs of sandy bays
and rock coves, 
wade the shallow water of the Salish Sea,

Illuminated by the November moon.
Every breath I take, step I take,
prepares me for life without sun and water
untiI finally, I can let it be.

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

In the garden of my all days, 
bees never sting,

The sound of surf, the eagle’s wings,

the changing driftwood winds,

the November moon, all

take the pain from my swollen heart,
tend to the swelling
in my feet.

As I re-read letters he wrote from the war

I wish I were a doctor of pure magic.

I'd string a necklace of sweet words

and tiny seashells,
scented with Plumeria.

to place around his neck,

as a blessing,

for all I learned from him.

We would ride Pegasus on

Intergalactic winds

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.

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.

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.

KATHLEEN


Borne of the Middle Ages -
Kathleen is an Irish lass,
idealistic, intuitive,
unpretentious,
and a bit feisty,
stubborn, alas,
quick-tempered...
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 
leprechauns.
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 -
complicated...for 
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, she 
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.

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,
gone.
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
alone...

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.

A 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.

Occasionally, 
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. 

Crickets’ Song

                     Crickets’ Song


Sun sneaks through the sky’s smoky haze.
Clothes hang drowsily from the line.
I’ve learned another lesson
in an awkward snare of time.
There's agony I had not foreseen
in loneliness of aging.
In deers' dark eyes, I see my tears.
Crickits try, but cannot drown out my
raging.
It feels strange and wrong
no one waits here for me.
nowhere do I seem to belong.
Feeling set apart 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 pitch of baseball season
to the whiffs of autum's vinegar air,
unimagined events torment my mind.
I've been a part of life's big picture
unfolding,
shared narratives from birth.
I search in vain for familiar patterns
of living.
The wind that has sustained me
and shook my soul with meaning
blows in a different direction now.
I'm not built to be broken
yet another time.
Too much is expected at this late date.
I've started over again and again.
The remaining chapters of my book
suspended 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.
I’m sorry for myself -
for releasing unresolved pain,
there is no coronation
at the end of the parade.

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.

Quadrille #60 Summer's Prize

Summer's Prize

Sheep laze in shadows 

of elms.

July's butterflies 

sailing high on Jcasmine winds.

By the sea I find my niche.

Andalusian skies 

meet pregnant,

billowy,  white clouds.

White sand beyween my toes,

nd wine,

paper and pen.

I lust berries from the vine,

absorb the view, and 

to satisfy my creative itch.

dversepoets  Using the word 'itch'..

Our Season of Discontent

dversepoets

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.

What I Know to be True

Whatever I Know to be True 

Chartreuse willows softly sway
    in my memories...
Summertime June's
    sunlit tapestries.
 
Shadows therein, hide
 life's harshest realities
 of inflicted pain.

Yet, straightforward oak's
   heart...
like a good Cabernet,
   offers comfort,
      absorbs sorrow via
   recycled rain.

Then it's true...when end 
   meets beginning...
      I'm with you.

Candyland Street

Use the name of a street for inspiration. dversepoets



The taste of bitter chocolate brings back memories of unrequited love.
It happened that day, a matter of fact,
on Candyland Street where he was taken aback.
And if by some chance they again do meet,
will his heart soften and fall to his feet?
Will her sweet face melt his suit of armor,
on Candyland Street, where he once charmed her.
Will he rise above the urge to kiss her peppermint lips, fight off all elements  resembling anything like love?
Would he find safety on the corner of 5th Avenue and Milky Way,
or meet another at the intersection of Hershey Street and Licorice  Lane?
   

Sounds of Silence

dversepoets

Frank offers today's Haibun theme -  "silent sounds".  We are to comment on the  internal chatter going on, which we hear, qbut has no sound.



As suspected, after cutting the cable tv cord, I feel differently.  No more background noise leads me to live vicariously othes' lives via various favorite channels. Also, I am without wifi for a time.  An introvert, I'm used to keeping myself company and entertain myself quite nicely. However, I am more acutely aware of nature alone interrupted by noises I make. Intangibly, sounds of silence are amplified in matters of the heart, the substance of every day living.
Untrained ears and eyes are struck by beating waves and sparkling reflections of sun on water.  Profound changes are wrought by having fresh conversations with the wind, letting ideas drive through clogged highways of the brain, and sifting memories time and again.
More pours in so more may be given out. The world didn't collapse.

Melting lava flows
I quiver as plum skies fall -
worth a thousand words

My Life is a Muddle

dversepoets

Today's Quadrille 

My Life is a Muddle


My life is a spectacular muddle, in complete disarray. My thoughts jumbled, inspiration creates chaos sprung at light of day.  I'm accustomed to confusion, disorder, immense imblogio.  Most disturbing,  I've elevated the tangled mess of my state of affairs to an art, but it's me.

Of Meadows

   

















tha

Variations  on the Rubaiyat was Thursday's prompt over @ dversepoets
 

Of Meadows

Reaching  the  flat upper grassy  hillside,
tiny  voices speak  their stories and minds....
brightest  pink,  yellow,  blue,  white wildflowers,
language  for  waywards,  sweet  refuge oblige.

Ebbing tides

At dversepoets today we are writing about family body traits, focusing on a couple of compound adjectives.


Ebbing Tides

The ebbing of the tide and
silken, dark, wet sand
left no trace of him,
or his footprints.
He did not know back then
it wasn't the end
of the line.

They walk just like him,
short legged, yet of fettle form,
sharing his casual gait.
They mimic him,
hand in one pocket,
letting the other
postulate.

Like he did,
his son wears
astute specs on his nose.
There is a tilt, blink,
a nod, salty eyebrows
squint in the sun like his,
a striking familiar pose.

Grandsons have similar
jawlines, smiles, hands
and sophic eyes.             
In certain blue angles
of light, his great-grandson
resembles him,
though taller in size.

I wonder if my father knows
his granddaughters,
a new great-granddaughter,
have such fair bonny faces.
Surely he guides them with
a full, happy heart
on journeys to faraway places.

                 

Seeds of Spring

dversepoets
Monday Haibun

Victoria has kindly asked us to write a Chijitsu or kego, a Japanese poetic form  which refers to the transitional time of dawn or dusk, spring  and fall, a lingering. It is a paragraph or so, finalized with haiku.


Seeds of Spring

Summer left me..my heart slumped to the ground. Pummeling rain has been my companion since, keeping my heart safe with books and other such indoor friends. Now, lilac and cherry blossoms take their turn to fall.  I'm keenly mindful of roses under terra firma, as they harness their reserve to flourish again, Spring is late.  I wish it would stay all year - for it's resplendent parade of color, blended scents, baby insects fleeing on their journeys, however short.
Does and their fawns arrive to feed on grass. Birds return, eyeing me warily, yet with familiarity. They still keep their distance, except for the chicadees.
By their sharper chirps or alighting on my sleeve for a split second, they remind me their seed is almost gone...my heart again ascends.

Spring rallies my heart
All life's possibilities
tremble with the earth

Term paper days

Petrarchan sonnet 
abba–abba–cdc–dca or cde cde
English - abab cdcd efef gg
Remembering school days, bed strewn with books
Writing term papers meant I had to cram,
burn midnight oil to pass midterm exams.
Geometry was pure gobbledygook
Good teachers prompted curiosity,  
inspired my soul with good literature.  
My mind, a craving thirsty aperture
Spanish, chemistry, physiology
Parameciums, amoeba, and frogs,
colored pencil drawings and diagrams.
Unimagined were the internet, spam;
Homework did not include Facebook or blogs.
I wrote about diseases of the horse,
learned of the electrocardiogram.
Enticed by both fiction and history.
Studied hard eating bread, p,b, and  jam.
Awoke to the harder lessons of life,
to the sounds of Good Morning Vietnam
the Kennedy, King assassinations,
Reflected on quotes by Omar Khayyam?

Stars Tremble

Our Thursday prompt comes from Lillian at dversepoets.com and the form is a Shadorma,  a phantom poem, origin unknown. Lines are 3-5-3-3-7-5, one or more verses, a fun challenge. The pretty ethereal watercolor below is by Whidbey Island artist, Judi Nyerges Art, and was my inspiration.

 

Stars Tremble 

In concert with choirs
of angels, stars tremble,
welcoming into high heaven his soul.
Beyond the cobalt blue,
light streams through
the panorama of
stained glass windows.
Ivy climbs gilded stairs
There he sits at a table
for highest tea.

He explored life's
beguiling mysteries,
relativity, all
laid before him
in Earth’s fog
and time log.
Awaiting him,
a physicist's dream
only imagined before,
a kingdom of answers to
eternal queries.
Freed from his twisted body,
his empowered mind free,
he's handed the keys to unlock  the secrets of the universe.
At his fingertips,
billions of galaxies,
black holes, space travel.

Honored by his presence,
we were privileged.
For his shimmering legacy
and elegant equations,
we thank him for his
curiosity.  Still with us but
light years away.

Transparency of a Phantom Thread

It is Open Link Night (OLN) at dVerse poets as we write without a prompt.  This prose poem may not appeal to many but it is what came from my muse because it needed to be written perhaps.   

Transparency of a Phantom Thread

With nothing of  
himself to hang onto,
it’s a wonder he stays in one piece.
He stares at a lava lamp
for hours.
In his loneliness,
his mind threads every needle with
hope he finds in the light of day.
He scales and walks that narrow brick wall
as others fear his balance.
He weaves himself through textures
of green new leaf growth
and forlorn winter berries,
For in his lapses of memory,
in and out of his reality,
there is always  nature's clarity.
The spirit, not to be dissected
into shallow holdings
or remain in a cage with rage,
leaps forward in darkened corridors,
a panther pacing.

Unable to concentrate,
he dwells in  a mixed state with bawdy dreams
of secrecy.
Moments of brilliancy submerge, only to re-emerge
amid indistinguishable mumbles.
He goes from  taciturn to talking wildly,
to being laid bare in excruciating emotional pain.
Dressed  in garb of the ages,  
drawing attention from passers by,
he is a curious oddity.
Lacking  the wherewithal to be productive,
he walks aimlessly,  yet desperately
wishes to be constructive.

In truth there is genius and kindliness.
When stars wished upon are everything,

worries are set free, like a bevy of butterflies.
When it comes to a healthy mind,
what cuts through everything
is the common thread memory of
the tender touch of a mother’s hand
caressing our faces.
If it were not for his wit,
word searching,  for poetry’s sake,
would leave me bereft.

None of this is something a glass
of wine can cure.






































.

Monday's Quadrille #50 over at dversepoets and the word is "murmur"...using exactly 44 words.


Helicopter Seeds

Delayed by turbulent morning breeze,
whirled onto my front porch,
helicopter seeds.
I pondered what all falls from the folds of God
onto a mountain slope,
colors its face in radiant hope.
What voices murmur in forests' cradle,
but tender footsteps in soft ambiance.

Slaughterhouse Road

It's Haibun Monday and we are to write something about our hometown.  Check out the responses to the prompt over at dversepoets.

Slaughterhouse Road

Walking home from school over  the "Old Slaughterhouse Road" had its pros and cons. The mile long trek across a small mountain built strong legs and heartened our souls. Alongside the road were meadows with wildflowers, tall grass full of grasshoppers and some horses, an occasional house or small farm. Halfway up on the other side were the dark, eery oak woods. Obviously,  the gruesome fact of the then working cattle barn nestled therein was not lost on any of us. Often, frightened by our own imaginations, we ran past it as fast as we could. Walking downhill was easy, through the cherry orchards where we loved to run, climb and play, wading, lingering in falling pink and white blosssoms. There was a picture book view of the Columbia River gorge in the distance. We even hiked the road in the dead of winter instead of riding the school bus, throwing snowballs and sliding on the way.

Those moments of our youth are imprinted deep in our souls. When I close my eyes, I can almost put myself right back there in space and time, on Strawberry Mountain, almost like one lifts and moves the arm of a 45rpm record player to a previous groove.

Veiled footsteps in snow,
Echo screams of laughter, fear
Summer's blossoms buzz

Looking Glass Eyes

 The ghazal form of poetry originated in Persia.  dversepoets

Looking-glass Eyes



She appears from the past forever young,
her reflection in his looking-glass eyes.

Images within images repeat,
tiny flecks of blue in looking-glass eyes.

His portrait passes through  portals of time,
infinitely through her looking-glass eyes.

Like ribbons of twinkling Christmas lights mirrored
rows of memories displayed in windows' eyes.

Their smiling eyes drink in each other's love,
sipping summer orchard tea with adoring eyes.

Together soulmates easily surrender
to their bliss deep within smoldering eyes.

Irises project a dream within dreams,
ferry on the tears of green Irish eyes.

Swimming upstream in golden sunlight,
to only float back in looking-glass eyes.

January Still Life

At dversepoets.com today it's the Monday Quadrille - #47. We are to use the word "leap" in a 44 word prose or poetry paragraph. Stunning photos to be taken locally in the crisp clear weather.

January Still Life

Under crusty frost,
ivy leans into sun,
defying senescent ferns...
A day shy of full,
a gray moon stares through naked branches
into the window,
...onto
rumpled bed,
leaping low across
inky sky...
as rabbit shadows dash below through snow  -
January's otherwise still life canvas.