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.
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.
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.
