She's all that...

She's eclectic, 
wears moss and leaves
in her flowing, often tangled hair

She's full of ideas,  
for language and culture, she 
has quite a flair

One gets to know her, slowly, 
to form an opinion worthwhile

I've seen her through only distant eyes;
it's said one either loves her 
or they don't - seems there's 
no middle ground

A sailor will return to her from 
open seas, endure days to just 
reach her elongated throat.

Her eyes dark as the night sky,
her body curves like a highway
along a mountain ridge
Sitting crossed legged, 
her thighs press together like 
layered hills and valleys
Her waist expands or cinches tight
for adjustments needed

She is eccentric,
beyond belief!
She's winsome, enchanting, 
sexy, and endearing;
but many think her cruel and 
full of greed and guile

I imagine her to be benevolent,
tolerant, open-minded -
in spite of all the lies,
I think all the while,
she feels loss and gain with 
all her heart,
in a very personal way,
She fight corruption,
tries to keep hatred at bay,
has the power and will to change 
direction, make the next chess play

She has flaws and woes, 
can be driven to fury,

yet compassion is her strong suit
One side of her is cold, even numb, 
but she eases her wounds, goes on
by pursuing the best rule of thumb -
striving to be the best of 
what she can be...

she is tough, but she still 
can steal your heart anyway

She is electric -
her dress a resplendent array
of flickering lights;

her poise is unquestionable; 
it's the voices she hears
that try to break her soul,
her colorful lifestyle
Her investments come from
her center, reaching afar
Although her skirts hide the 
darker side of things,

she is demure and bubbly champagne, 
above par
People of all walks of life 
yield and bow to her

She's a caretaker for all;
her Native American history 
goes deep into the hills,

yet she designs dreams for the future,
new pathways to follow
She is built like a formidable ship

ready for battle, yet as a woman 
she is whole, and dynamic;
delicate when it comes to the 
slightest details
She knows-

She's New York - 
her rich history is the vigor
in her blood that fills her veins
and makes her body tick every day,
every year, with new excitement 
There's so much more to her 
than room here to write,
Ric Burns did a nice job on PBS

We are writing poems about cities today at dversepoets.com

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

To a discouraged heart...

When we were young, we did not know 
how much things could change
We heard the phrase "on a dime"
and  "people grow in different ways" 
different directions, at varying speeds over time

We learned tough challenges,
get in our way, continually
Yet when one knows his or her own true self, 
strength and courage will come 
and we face them with power 
from deep within, repeatedly

Anything is possible, they say,
a phrase I never quite believed,
I guess it is meant to be taken
metaphorically - one door 
closes, another opens,
"there is a season for everything"
So many cliches

Answers are not always 
what we want, expect, or dream
but if there were no rocks or branches
obstructing a pretty stream, 
there would be no babble and splash - 
and no one would hear its sweet melody


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

Today..

Thankfulness and gratitude are the subject for today's prompt at dversepoets.com

On this morning's ferry ride to meet family..
...sun shone on the passage                                                                                      

 as a seagull gliding I did see









Slow cooked apples with caramel,
cranberries, walnuts, turkey roast -
pass before my eyes,
under my nose

Pine cones sitting by a fire,
winds take my breath away -
Our cups runneth over
especially today

And I stop the car
to take in this beautiful sight -
a rainbow now by the river
on my way

Three signs for me that shout out -
it's Thanksgiving Day,
so take notice of all earthly delights

Christmas lists..

Today we write a poem using a list of nouns, a list of adjectives without using abstract words - love, jealousy, passion, hate

http://dversepoets.com









Deep silence,
twinkling stars are out,
respectful trees look upward,
then down at me
A wintry cold night,
skies crystal clear
easier to see dainty Pleides
I'm wearing long wool socks,
put my gray hair up with a red clip
Pot of strong coffee brewed,
I take a tasty sip
Aroma of orange biscuits
emanates from the oven,
purring cat on my lap

Sometimes when I want
time to slow, it flies
like leftover scents
of extinguished candles
On the carpet floor lie
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
The straw broom propped
in the corner waits to finish
its work, gas furnace
humming
... what more do I hear?
Pages in a book turning,
volutions of a rolling pen
Louder purring as I comb
her white fur again

On my mind,
holiday meetups
It will be very simple here;
white lights in the front windows
Christmas carols, sleigh bells
greens and thoughtful deeds
Making a gift list -
French soaps, gum drop bread;
something woven,
something up-cycled,
something tweed,
books I hope people will read
I check the calendar,
hope we get 5 feet of snow
before New Year's Eve

Christmastime, years ago,
I worked long tiring hours;
but at the Post Office
it was all convivial fun
Now, the season is slower,
more about watching growing
smiles, long awaited embraces,
eggnog with rum
I think of families -
all different kinds, shapes
and sizes, more defined now
by human kindness
I check the supply of ribbon,
homemade tags, wrapping
paper, birdseed

I contemplate past merriment,
think of all who are not here
Things are tense in Ferguson,
the President will act on
immigration, climate change
As I watch the new day
break, I see the skin of trees
Quiet and still, no need to rake
more crinkled dry leaves
I think of the female deer
found trapped in barbed wire
yesterday - frightened she was,
her eyes were afire,
yet when set free,
she calmly blinked at me

Sunday Swirl puzzle # 187

http://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com



Today's wordle:

\

When wind blows the leaves of toasty palate

and wood-smoke fingerlings float slowly by,

those not so subtle hints of winter's kiss

drive away the short sleeves of summer's sky

Trees cease to yield fresh flavors lingering

Gentle breezes give way to frosty air

tended by a moisture mix from the north

Warm winter fires stir sexual desires,

feeling closer means there is more to share,
intimacy is healing for the soul -
next year expect another child in tow

Life is never boring...for there is art..

Today Victoria's turn to suggest a prompt - we are writing about what form of art we are especially drawn to, engage or dapple in besides writing poetry.  Check out what others say over at:
http://dversepoets.com 





If drawing is the more formal approach to sketching,
then I am somewhere in between -
and when I add paint, watercolors speak to me

I whirl the color wheel around, become embedded in its sea,

riding a transparent wave,
collapsing into a pool where I swim
in every color, shades that gently push and pull nudging against each other, blending,
never really coming to a stop - except when dry
Clear water cascading mixes with earth's origins,                                                                                     minerals and clay

I am in awe of watercolor's ancient tapestry,
humbled by its beginnings -
mpressionistic, picturesque landscape paintings
by Turner, Fielding, and Collier
to paintings by Sargent, Hassam and Homer -
all fine hands, with a passion to explore,
desire to share their perceptions of their world
I've learned to focus in on my world,
gained a higher degree of fulfillment 

Like writing, sculpting or designing,
the action soothes the soul,
more important than excelling

Brushes of sable I have not tried;
I do like the natural squirrel

How you hold or tilt the brush determines what emerges,
like putting one's hand on the Ouija board
Guided by the breadth and depth of one's own heart;
it finds it's way through my veins, hands, to paper
Pleasing to the senses, like transferring an image with
the touch of a butterfly's lightness of being or
a hummingbird's touching down for an instant,
on my hand, to leave tiny footprints

I've learned to not dominate it, let it happen,

for the welcome surprise of what develops
For poetic's sake there are new labels for colors -
not as true as indigo or raw umber, yellow ochre
There is quinacridone rose, sap green,
opalescent white - for stirring the imagination;
or perhaps a certain turn of phrase sends
a more precise intuitive connection
Texture of watercolor paints is lighter than butter,
smoother than honey, can be glazed or granulated;
pigments are suspended, cool and warm hues,
like a rainbow upon a white cloud

There are secrets in the layers,
a tale in signature tones, or between the lines

Whether it's pain I've forgotten, fondness of things
remembered, the ultimate anguish or joy,
it's all broken down
Instead of finger painting like a child,
one finally puts things in their right place
No underlying science to drawing
or painting a fantasy, reality, or telling a story;
it's like walking on a divinely empowered
landscape of color

Whatever gift we have, natural or otherwise,
it is up to each of us to find it
Forget trivial things, align your whole being;
only treasures of truth can set you free;
you will see where God resides
in the phenomena of this beautiful life
Thank goodness now, no one decides
what label to put on art you create..

respond to the force in you that compels
expression, reveals your compassion, inner beauty
Anything can be a work of art -  song, music,
any creative release

Let your own true colors shine

your unique version of the world, for life itself
is a work of art, a masterpiece

Hunger games..

Nothing to eat or drink,
rations depleted -
perhaps a kind farmer's 
wife nearby
would offer goat's milk,  
porridge or potatoes with rye
 ..to soak in water from a pump -
life savers for fatigued men 
miles from home, 
bombs burst in air 
Veterans' Day, D-day
old movies play,

Soldiers gone to battlefields 
on the other side of the globe, 
where every day 
futures end in hunger, 
of aids, or war 
thirst for a free land - 
Somalia...not even 
stone soup to survive..
days before they perish, 
less if dysentery, 
takes longer sometimes, 
to run a touchdown play 

Meager portions, 
not enough to go around;
nevertheless, 
a stranger can become a friend found
But for no good reason
they can't get away
..for lack of sustenance..

They used to say - all the rice in China,

was nourishment enough,
might even decide 
the outcome of a war

Sometimes life has little 
chance at all..doctors say 
when there's no appetite,

it takes time to die,

months, weeks, 
could be days, 
Pot eases the cancer,
hugs the pain,
but for no reason, it's kept away
A body tortured for days on end,
bleeds, swells.. it's too much
How do you measure life, 
a candle snuffed...
how many will die of old age..

A spider weaves for food,
a scorpion stings
In America, however, 
SOME sit daintily on pillows, 
dressed in lace, 
wearing fine hats...
unlimited food and drink
Do they know fasting..
of  Ramadan..
Do they think ...?  of scant
clothing or food of hungry babes?
The grapes of love wait..
to be picked and fed to all...
not politically withheld 
....for no good reason.




dversepoets.com

County fair..

dversepoets.com  Gay Cannon asks us to write using the word "fair" in any of its forms..

She won a big teddy bear, a monkey,
ate cinnamon elephant ears, first time
I carried her home, her curls in my face,
tucked her in, kissed her goodnight, and I knew
she'd sleep and dream the same dreams as did I

Of lights and mirrors and painted horses,
going 'round, first time on the Ferris wheel;
blurred faces, wide eyed wonder flashing by,
a balloon pops, some ice cream, then a squeal

Aromas of caramel corn, peanuts,
fried onions rings, freshly baked scones with jam;
buttery corn, sticky cotton candy,
it was a thrill to pet a goat or a lamb

A lively barker gathers a crowd while
teens hold hands, buy tickets for wilder rides
play games with darts, hammers, baseballs, and coins
Went in the fun house, come out the other side

Taking off her boots, memories come back
the kind of fun found only once each year
when we go to the county fair all day
I remember grandpa carry me home
when the sky turned soft pink, violet and grey

Can you hear me?

My dear, don't cry -

combine my ashes with
cinders of incense
I'll be forever on your mind,

 in blue jeans

It hurts that you will be
moving on
You are free to love,
by all means
Time has no meaning                                                                                

for me now,
so I'll wait for you

Upon your demise,

come looking for me

Remember to  take
the road less traveled

You will find me
leaning on                                                                                            
 a red-spotted toadstool,

wearing my old school
Letterman sweater....and hey,
my tennis shoes

You will always be my sweetheart
 I long for your caresses,
 the smell again
of your sweet perfume

Claudia asks us to write  today from the perspective of  a dead man.......

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Field of dreams..

The smell of hay and horse -
 she lifted the latch of the wooden fence
How does one really know
when one stays too late
for one or the other's sake;
what is it about fences and fate?

She fill the water trough,
puts wild oats in the feed bag,
 Large nostrils spray saliva on my shirt
The two lovers dallied by the barn
his arm around her waist -
the blazing sun went down

The sanctuary of a heart welcomes
and echoes love's shouts and
occupants step in it's open door
When someone occupies one's heart, 
then leaves, never to return,
is it in the finer scheme of things?

It was so perfect,

to ride those long summer days

Her withers shuddered
as her buckskin hide was brushed
Sable eyes sucked in affection,
boots closed the fence gate with a slide

He left her when 
he said he loved her most
She felt it seep into every pore
During a lifetime, she wondered,
how many have just one day
like their 10 months before?

Like being served warm apple pie 
with two scoops of ice cream -
 The sweet tooth of youth
is the sweetest illusion
One can't really lose love
if one doesn't have the best kind


Does life imitate art mostly?
Or did she simply borrow him?  
Did it really happen?
She wanted to know true answers,
what she did wrong?
She built better fences with her pain
keeps her horses in meadows green
 What does she sing  for a refrain?
For if one blots out the blood

it still leaves a stain




Claudia at dversepoets.comasks us to write about seeing things around us, looking at them differently.

Prophet vs Profit...

How dare I - who am I,  to paraphrase his beloved work...his vision and wisdom put forth in one small book?   A masterpiece - the face of his soul on the cover of the little black book on my bookshelf..I read it again, it bears repeating, so the world can hear...

When a storm comes
         and winds shake our world
             we wonder how to navigate the discord?
And when the serenity of the hills
        gives us peace, how we exalt each new day!

But in our souls we sometimes struggle
        between right and wrong,
            justice and injustice
On the other hand,  we sing melodies and praises
         of all that's right and within our reason

How are we to be
         our own peacemakers
              when the battlefield is within ourselves?
 For without one, we do not understand
         or know how the flip side might be

The other side of the coin,
         so to speak, clashes; therefore
               the rivalry between good and evil
All creates a battlefield in our souls
         where we misplace our common sense

Reason becomes fused with appetite;
         appetite fuels passion that smolders
               In the sea of reason, our judgement
wages war against oneness
         Our sails and rudder broken, we drift or burn

 Destructive fears and pain
         take the place of reason,
               and turns around  passion in our sails
 In spite of nature's propensities for violence
         and inhumanity, our faith fails
           
 Instead, let us me mindful of balancing,
         attending to our Yin and Yang
               Let us direct our energy
 to live and breathe love and faith
         to cultivate passion with diplomacy

Making lists...

Have you ever seen the website called Listomania.com ?  It's handy for some and fun..a list for everything!  I wrote a villanelle, not sure why, for Tony's prompt at dversepoets.com today, which is to write a poem about lists, list making. There are many, many kinds of lists. I guess this is a partial list of what to be grateful for. 


Writing daily greatly eases one's soul 
to list each day how our hearts are gladdened
For all the bounty, how empty our bowl

Write lists to prioritize, self control
exorcise from within what has saddened 
Writing daily is easing for the soul 

Words to express just how the bell did toll 
written to tell the world how impassioned
For all the bounty, how empty our bowl

Writing down things to do, fulfill our role
puts into perspective what has happened
Writing daily is easing for one's soul 

More than errands to run, gains to extol
writing keeps one from becoming maddened
Lists help to remember what makes you whole

Preferred lists help one fall out of a hole,
describe how it felt to be abandoned
Writing daily is easing for one's soul 
For all the bounty, how empty our bowl

Ebey's tree - haiku..

Ebey's Tree - haiku

                                                           by klr

Eighteen sixty three

when the white man settled here

tribes fought for salmon

Indians attacked

 killed Captain Ebey one night

then smoked the peace pipe

                                                       
There still stands the tree
where the lighthouse meets the fort
near Ebey's Landing

Thick trunks to crawl up

shady place where children play
 Tree branches reach wide

 It welcomes the ships
passing through the narrow straight
eagles come to nest

Dark mountains saddle
 evening's rose-pewter clouds
Fog rests on the sea

  

                        

Intergalactic

In 1999 the poetic form called a Pleiades was invented, after the constellation.  I  didn't know - it can be defined as a seven line poem with each line beginning with the same letter as the title and having six syllables in each line. The title must be of one word only.  dversepoets.com

Interspersed sparkling stars
individually
insight our most vivid
imaginations yet
Inky dark matter holds
inflated heavens weight
In truth the cosmos are
infinite in their wake

Inclinations persist
interplanetary
interactions exist
If life is recycled
in solar winds and dust,
indeed it inspires new
ideas poetic

Rolling river...

Writing about music in any way, shape, or form, but in a poem @ dversepoets.com



Rolling on the river, roll on
Hold me in your major C chord
Rock me with trombone waves
that bend and break,
back and forth repeating
Can you hear the drums
underscore the melody?
The splish splashing 
of the mermaids tails, 
the trickle of liquid keys?
When you hear the bass strings thump
behind the piano's tune,
you are rolling on the river,
riding the river's blues
Sometimes it plays another song,
if your ears are keen;
more like the Lindy Hop
or a lounging smooth beguine
Rolling on the river, roll on
It is music for the soul -
can make you tap your toe;
it can sing you to sleep  
in murmurs adagio
or send your heart racing
when the undercurrent eddies 
and flows
winding, piping arias into the sea,
imagine Huck Finn, you and me..
Rolling on the river, roll on

From brownie to digital

For a change, I am contributing this poem to magpietales.blogspot.com and Tess's Sunday photo challengs?

From the time I was a young girl
when asked "What do you want to be?",
photography came to my mind,
I gave my brownie camera a whirl,
to reflect my world
to record pleasant places and times

After photos of horses,
cats, dogs, my school friends,
I aimed my camera
at forces of nature,
considering wondrous colors 
in wilderness panorama

From meadows of flowers
 erupting, rivers forever flowing, 
birds on branches -
to young and mature faces
Later I recall trying to capture
moments I found touching

Like what brought smiles and tears,
and empathy - I'd shine light 
on all culture gaps,
capture a newborn's soft  skin
Taking shots of textured yarns,
cowslips at morning's dawn 

I'd find new angles to shoot the moon -
evoke what's in the heart of me
Now It's now about digital art,
macros and micros 
of a weighty salty tear
in your shopping cart 

From his hushes to her blushes
photographers take joy in beholding,
conveying the essence of life
in this Milky Way so dear-
the good and the bad 
in the historic story of man

Do's and do-knots..

Another attempt at cubism poem for dversepoets.com


Progressives clump when clover hums,
skirting spirits in orange rooms
where anecdotes live unbridled
Hardened by homeless queries
They wore
wore starry headdresses,
sable fur and ate claret berries
Tugboats toasted silent trains of morning leaving
and pledged
pledged unknown amounts of
turmoil to cowards on the beach heaving
Antiseptic allies march
as trinity flaunts her new shoes
Snake pits are no one's pleasure;
meanwhile Ivanhoe leaps
into the lap of Zanadu,
and I cradle the
incense leather and watch the spinning of canoes

Flipper - for Dverse

Bjorn has us writing cubism today at dversepoets.com  We are challenged to write true avant-garde in the spirit of Gertrude Stein, focusing on sounds an simple words



Dolphins bask and flap their flippers
- then there's Flipper,
the screen star flapping his fins,
flip flops, my shoes
Flipping pancakes,
the first one, of course, gets thrown out
because it's never perfect,
usually burned, not nicely browned
Like kids who are thrown out
of the house, live in the streets,
but the dilemma is more
than meets the eye;
they cook Meth, do drugs,
and generally don't care -
parents' despair
They burglarize to support their lifestyle
which is no style at all
Glad I am not a young mother now,
When I reach the age of my mother
when she died, will I die?
Or will I pass before? Or,
how far beyond will I surpass
her time on earth?
But she is not of this earth;
she sits on the middle star of Orion's belt,
Alnilam,  or is it Betelgeuse?
Or Beetlejuice?
She told me from there
there's an excellent view
and she's probably conversing
with Gertrude Stein about art
I can't be sure, though,
maybe she said the star was Rigel,
or Bellatrix ?

Just the other day..

Marina has us write poetry along the margins at dversepoets.com today, poetry that happens while we're busy with the important things in life and maybe almost miss the small but really spectacular and life-changing things going on around us..


We walked the sandy beach that day,
in search of shells, 
and watched the dogs and
their owners with no leashes
Only there, do I feel as they do,
unleashed and free 
to romp and play, 
though in a more subdued way; 
seaweed and broken shells swept away 
by incoming morning tide 
The wind was balmy, no chill on my neck, 
warmth inside me;
clouds allowed a narrow strip of blue 
to open on the horizon
I looked afar and studied the surf,
kicked clumps of sand with my boot
I searched for the little girl who frolicked once, 
used to jump incoming waves,
who learned to love the sea 
early, its smells, the fog, 
seagulls calling, hidden caves
Reminiscing childhood days -
when brother and sisters 
played at her side, 
where tender dreams were born and fed
of places she longed to set her feet,
far away lodgings she wished 
to lay her head

It was a lifetime ago, 
but voices can still be heard 
loudly and clearly;
the sad-eyed basset wagging his white tail,
howling as we buried ourselves 
in the warmth of soft sand and sun
Gone are those times, 
but for photographs and old movies run
But supposedly, they are recorded by 
heaven's quilled pens in mighty script,
in the sky, giant graffiti wisps -
with notes in the margins that read 
"families that play together
 stay together and...."
Abruptly, the thought came to an end
Suddenly, in the present day,
I let my legs get wet; 
water cold, but I didn't care; 
took off the boots, my bare feet
needed to sink 
into the sand and foam, 
my thoughts let out to roam,
like strings attached to kites soaring 
with my soul to the treetops
where eagles watched us below,
 a good salty taste on my lips
No unbroken or perfect shells 
to put in my pockets that day
just thoughts and feelings to take home,
pulling at my heart strings 
like a giant bow,
unmercifully telling me 
that little girl is me,,.and she is free..
to ' let it all be' -
'just let go!'