Thursday, March 15, 2018

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.



Friday, March 9, 2018

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.






































.