Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Monday's Quadrille #50 over at dversepoets and the word is "murmur"...using exactly 44 words.
Delayed by turbulent morning breeze,
whirled onto my front porch,
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.
Tuesday, February 6, 2018
It's Haibun Monday and we are to write something about our hometown. Check out the responses to the prompt over at dversepoets.
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
Friday, February 2, 2018
The ghazal form of poetry originated in Persia. dversepoets
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.