Robert Hagan 1947 - Australian Impressionist painter -
Driving the convertible with the top down along the coastal highway, mirages shimmer while hinged to hot asphalt before me familiar aromas of the seaside and on the radio - a blitz of summer hits White sand on my nose and
between toes, cures woes lingering near me.
Andalusian colors and ambrosial scents of rose hedges
meet billowy clouds at my favorite beach and sail into my heart
overflowing
Caressing my ankles, sparkling sea gems circle in water;
ringlets of cares subside in sea foam
With sounds of gulls and waves
my sadness leaves me.
At night, a tiger sky descends around me
Ancient whisperings
lead me to dance in firelight
I sleep in tall grass bathed in moon light, awake to a new dawn
Posting today over at imaginerytoads website where you will find more poetry with ditties and other images of frogs and stories..
Within the sanctuary of the soul
abides a spark,the innermost ache of
love -
infinite stories of all the ages,
joys, tribulation, sculpted images
of shed tears
And when one feels forsaken, and does not
fathom the reasoning why, miracles
occur
Acceptance transforms us, in contrast, to
a state of sheer delight in living through
grace -
light from trillions of stars touches us, spills
into our divine space, and splashes our
essence
into tapestries of art all around,
surrendering to the echoing songs
of eternity
To the tune of the song Summertime in Porgy and Bess, I've written another version of how it might read; I doubt there is nothing quite like the original, however....such images it evokes!
Summertime, and the cool lake beckons me
Days are lazy, and fireflies are nigh
A pole to push 'n' pull the raft round the bend
Feel the breeze blowing,
hear the magpies cry
Summertime, and the earth hums tenderly
barefeet and rain, and smell the crayfish fry
Bait on a hook, as you lean against a tree
bees making honey,
kisses your nose, a butterfly
I could not say goodbye to my lover "Hasta la vista baby" was my mantra Ties broken, desire receded into the bleakest bleak oblivion No longer arrive sweet spicy letters; there is no 'keeping in touch', yet lingers the smell of heady cigar smoke Out flame! Out spark! Forget the number I wrote on the menu in a French restaurant My heart sprang free today I'm dancing across the moon now with a mad Sicilian Forgive my callousness, my dear....but oh, by the way, how is Vivienne?
What innovations lie ahead
as cell phone capabilities advance?
Our main connection
to our friends, they're handy
for news at a glance;
for emergencies,
aid is close at hand
Faster, pulses race!
What about a slower,
more personal pace?
What about a more intimate touch,
meaningfulness, for which we yearn;
deep conversations,
innovative ideas, great notions,
beauty to discern
Is it enough or too much -
to make life easier,
to now and then allow us to win a game
Siri of iphone fame understands
it just won't be the same
Now when a man asks Siri,
"May I see your breasts?"
she responds with...
"That question does not compute."
For expressions of love,
there is just no substitute
Imagine a future when she appears-
an apparition in front of you,
gives you a sexy glance
and a tender kiss
A chance at romance
But don't expect me to care;
unless, to make it fair,
there would also be an app
from a man called Lance,
who answers with a deep voice-
lets me touch his hardened abs
It would be, of course,
a socially redeeming
and enhanced app -
under the circumstance,
Today is haibun Monday over at dversepoets.com. I have not posted in awhile but with a short break from busy recent weeks, I thought I'd give it a try. In prose or poetry form, it reads the same; I'm not sure which sounds better. We are writing about clearing the mind and relaxing.
Her climbing skills curtailed long ago, she travels still short distances. She dares not let up in her persistence, pauses at a grassy knoll, hears the faint sound of what could be a piccolo. In her calves, clots in twisted veins remain, map of winding rugged roads meandering, the story of her life travels; miles beg to be unraveled, causing legs to bleed. She rests by a spring-fed mountain stream; sun-light sparkling from it sends gleams to her hair. She splashes her feet clean on smooth flat rocks, douses with wild roses her worried locks, inhaled scents of wet grass and white pear. Dashes of light meet furrowed brow, where unruly lines spread and underscore life's quakes; crow's feet extend much deeper now.
Memories, earliest to the present, careen; years of tears cried are unleashed, freed. The pain in her legs abates as crooked becimes straight. Upon an invisible keyboard scale, notes play in air a melody. She swims in deep river veins, unafraid, no longer encumbered or cast about. She turns her back, showingn+ hues of the rainbow; no more flounders a shiny silver trout.
dversepoets.com We are taking quotes about cherry blossoms by other authors and using them as a cue to our own Haibun today. “When cherry blossoms scatter – no regrets” Issa
Cherry blossoms remind me of spring days past, pleasant memories of good tidings and long ago Easters,blue skies, and families together. Standing out are the April showers with rainbows, May baskets, and walking through blossoming cherry orchards. The trek home after we got off the school bus was delayed because we loved playing in the neighbor's huge cherry orchard. The grass was green and tall with pink fallen snow all around. We took high steps through it, sat or lay down among them and day-dreamed, and plucked small twigs of pink and white to wear in our hair. Beyond, the mountains and rivers smiled as light breezes flowed through the gorge valley where we were raised as glass chimes could be heard from nearby porches.
As a burgeoning teen, it had such a positive feel. The future seemed endless, bright and full, as if nothing could ever stand in the way of happiness. I'm still unsure if "happiness" in itself is our goal to achieve in life. When otheraspects of life seem to dominate, choke out the feelings of elation, rejuvenation and newness, it is a big challenge to maintain. Routine activities, work and study are necessary in our lives. Then crisis, ills and otherwise bad news follow us all the days of our lives. Anything is possible to happen at anytime
Instead, we understand and accept that as we strive to experience happiness, it arrives in brief segments, opportune moments of sheer delight that come to us unexpectedly. We savor the small simple joys and make them last as long as possible. We try to view all events with courage, with wishful and hopeful thinking and therefore, positive outcomes. Cherry blossoms symbolize this eternal struggle to smile amidst the grief.
A quatrain refrain comprises eight lines: two tercets and a couplet, eight syllables per line or iambic tetrameter, your choice, first line is a refrain, repeated as the last (some variation acceptable).
Rhyme-scheme: A-b-b a-c/c-a b-A
A = refrain line. c/c refers to line five having internal rhyme which is different to the a- and b-rhymes. The midline rhyme does not have to fall exactly in the middle of the line
We are writing from the First person perspective today @ dversepoets.com
Of the morn, my gold-green eyes
meet hers, hazel, as we lay supine
Impressions left in bed sheets
when we arise
to a new day's dewy shine
Quivering and cold,
last night outside,
my coat shimmered
under the moon
racing with my shadow
I ran inside to the warm fire,
but none too soon
I see her as an angel,
Our yin and yang in balance,
so no coincidence -
our lives are naturally spun
into our own honeycomb,
Fate must have led her to me;
it's just the two of us,
you see
Her breath is uneven when
she holds me close
I snuggle against her body
to calm her anxiousness
I watch how birds land
on her shoulders when she calls;
with a single wave of her arm,
flowers spring up the garden wall
Seasons collide, the earth moves,
and life goes on,
but we live on Island time
I nap on her lap and we dream
of riding giant mice and
chasing birds back into the trees
I will keep her young by
playing with balls of yarn
I kiss her hand, put my paw
on her arm She combs my hair,
one hundred strokes a day,
serves me a queen's fare,
cream on whiskers with whey
I can't turn back the page to yesterday,
but I will escort her across every
bridge along the way
A privilege to be with her
(she thinks of me the same)
I lick her tears of joy and sadness away
This vessel called love transports us
to where we belong,
and where we long to stay.
We are writing a narrative today in response to the death of Harper Lee who wrote To Kill a Mockingbird. We are to honor her in some way depicting a scene or the word mockingbird, or something else. I chose to focus on the theme. Taking place in the Depression Era 30's in a fictional rural town in Alabama, poverty and religion carried with them deep hatred and anger from the events of the Civil War.
http://dversepoets.com
She read the book first, of course; it became her favorite. She believed she was Scout, Atticus's daughter. After all, in real life, her father was an esteemed lawyer with his own respectable practice tucked in the back room of an auto parts store in a small town. She looked up to him.
She had a brother like Jem, too. They shared adventures growing up. The anecdotes of Boo Radley storing a small toy Indian and other items in a tree hollow was something she and her Jem could easily imagine. They used to run from the old man who lived in a shack in the neighborhood with upward of 39 cats.
But when Scout observed racial tension and slavery, she learned life is not fair, courage not always rewarded, and justice does not always mean winning, They admired their father for what he dared take on to change, if but a small slice of the world. After all, she grew up in the turmoil of the 50's and 60's.
Surely, the mockingbird referred to in the title had to be the same one in one of her favorite tunes as a child - Patti Page's Mockingbird Hill. "Tra-la-la....,,.tra-la di dee dee" ....Scout always associated the song with the movie in her own mind, even though the movie was renowned for its beautiful soundtrack as well. Surely there was a real Mockingbird Hill just beyond town.
All said and done, Atticus, was an excellent father and righteous man. He could do no wrong in Scout's eyes. In the real life story of Scout, the reader, however, racism became the storm that hovered over and the blister that festered between father and daughter. For when it came to his own daughter, her falling in love with a colored man would not do!
"You have no idea what you will be up against," he said. "I forbid it."
A father's love is not perfect; they do the best they can do. We discover they are not always as tolerant as we believe. Without his blessing, it was not to be. But it did not end then, not yet, as the couple fought to stay together and succeed. She became so worn down and resentful, her love let her go. Disappointed and her heart broken, she felt betrayed. The relationship with her father was permanently damaged and she found it hard to trust again.
Hence, no happy ending as in the timely advent to the big screen,"Guess Who's Coming to Dinner"- with Sidney Poitier, Spencer Tracey as the father, and Katharine Hepburn....and what Scout's father did, in her real life, was something I'm sure Atticus Finch would never do.
1st line A2nd line B 3rd line b (rhymes with B) 4th line a (rhymes with A) 5th line a (rhymes with A) 6th line b (rhymes with B) 7th line A (entire 1st line repeated) 8th line B (entire 2nd line repeated) 9th line a (rhymes with A) 10th line b (rhymes with B) 11th line b (rhymes with B) 12th line a (rhymes with A)3th line A (entire 1st line repeated)
Here is a rondelle for Gayle's prompt over at dversepoets.comand for Valentine's Day. Dawn broke in shattered shards of stippled green;as the gentle voice of spring was heard;you arrived on a shrimp boat's bobbing stern,I swam to meet you in night tourmaline I found you as you were finding meAt each glance or sound, my heart stirred Dawn broke in shattered shards of stippled green;as the gentle voice of spring was heard Soul mates, you were the best part of melike sipping the sweetest of Sauternes,leaving me nothing for which to yearnEmbraced by time, our love endured, unalteredDawn broke in shattered shards of stippled green
This is a haibun for the first Monday of each month, a short story with haiku to follow. I like doing these. You might want to read others' submissions over at http://dversepoets.com/2016/02/01/haibun-monday-6/ where Gabriela has presented several photos to choose from to base our haibuns on.
Torrential rainstorms slap the earth. Thunder clouds fine tune their instruments: blaring tubas, cymbals crashing, rolling drums. Orchestral chords rise and fall; string instruments echo melancholia. We see an extended dimension of rain mirrored in the skyscraper's broad gigantic window of a wall. It shimmers with the reflection of wet pavement and street lights, providing a vivid light show. Nowhere to cling, forlorn gulls seek protection, as do we when a calm sea becomes a loud roar, a call to awaken from a stupor. Our travels in and out of fear are like gusts of wind spent. We rebuke the storms, but move quickly to fiercely fight for retrieval of a spirit breached. The weather forecast is uncertain. Holding onto ropes of hopes for smooth sailing again, we curse the unplanned, unpredictable and movable war zone. We battle raging storms within us again and again. Life is Topsy-turvy, and as the weather changes, we compose and rewrite the original score. The musical storm changes - The Overture of The War of 1812 into an orchid soft Hawaiian love song. Tides obey the pull from the moon. For a time, we hear a concerto to waltz to, when clear blue skies are reflected from the huge video screen. Each time the game of weather changes, we nery miss a beat. Like a game of pickup sticks we hone our response. Perseverance reigns as, on the enormous monitor, we watch the show play out. Our spirit innate leads us with courage again to sing with the birds
Set apart from the townsfolk of Manchester, they stand as fortresses, remnants of an old castle, but not as majestically The circular columns brandished heavy stones, moved with bare hands, by the people With mortar they built welcoming pillars for fellow countrymen, a stronghold to the city, to keep away certain 'ne'er do wells' and sinister enemies Soldiers once gathered weapons, fought there during the great war; many a winter, grain and staples inside were stored
Early dawn draws a shroud of dim pink fog over the village Cow bells ring as business of the King begins to hum Beasts of burden carry fresh wares to market People awake, leave their crowded homes with multiple chimneys, trod to work or to the ancient towers as sanctuary, where they still stand ghostly in morning's light As reminders of the power of faith, townsfolk make the daily trek, a distance of .5 mile, to pray for redemption and forgiveness of sins, to gain hope for better times and health Therein lies their strength, having the will to not only survive, but to thrive
