Coming undone...replenishing, or repairing frayed circuits..

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.

Ablation of veins -

healing portal to the sea
of new clarity                                                              

No Regrets - Haibun Mon. # 10

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 other aspects 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. 

When life is less bright,

cherry blossoms at your feet

uplift and comfort

Awakening - a Quatrain Refrain

Awakening ~

Vistas from snowy mountain tops

seek balance with greening valleys

She emerges blitheful from sleep

Undercurrent powers shifted,

winds blow, new life set free to grow

Edges swell, winter's palm lifted 

Unstable avalanches steep,

changing vistas from mountain tops

Today at dversepoets.com we are writing quatrain refrains:

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

The cat's meow

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.

                                                                          

                                                                                    

The Mockingbird Song

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.

Valentine's Day Rondel

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.com and 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

Apocalypse of living

   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

A common tale of cities...

Written for  Magpie Tales

 

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

Imagism - teascape

                                                                                                                                 
Rattling kettle, spitting steam,
boiling water poured
for pleasing company;
infusion of flavours
from orchard to dynasty,
afternoon libation,
reading of leaves
served with silent steps
cordially

Staple of sustenance
of the bourgeois,
or traditional twinings
sipped from dainty
porcelain cups;
accompaniments - of course,
lemon, jam and cream
Drinking tea leads to good health,
and thinking with more clarity

Tied to trees..

dversepoets.com Today the prompt from Grace is to write ecopoetry which is supposed to set the mood for change, an impetus for changing one's thinking without it being a debate or political writing..dealing with nature of course.


Infinitely small tremblings,
borne of gases,
stirred earth's primal soil;
crying, pulsating from
the cradle of life's beginnings,
you sprang from mossy
bogs, caverns,
where nested fungi,
microscopic life forms
Nursed by our ancient planet,
you were cast, died, and transplanted,
caught in a perfect celestial
pattern, a species
in a class all your own

It was more than just
a fold in time -
when you became giants;
fibrous ribbons in circles
accrued in you;
your fingertips finally reached
the patches of blue you sought
Guardians of our way of life,
you stood in foothills,
along America's river banks
Exhaling into the vastness,
constant and true,
you met every storm

Villages survived when
Eucalyptus held ground;
children learned from you
Strength was measured in
your numbers,
your statuesque image revered
all over the world,
now all deemed in peril.
Man's destruction leaves a
barren wilderness,
a hellish nightmare
of the worst kind
Hearts bleed for you
when you scream and claw
the last soil at your roots

What happened to the great notion
to protect those who also protect?
Trees with mulling scents,
gone from under the wayward moon, 
where in your still sanctuary, 
I hovered- and for 
our deep-seated
bosom relationship,
developed over time,
there are no words 
to describe our loss -
when palpable souls, 
within skins of nature,
once hummed with growth - 
and were an assembly of kings

Snowflakes

From Bjorn today over at  dversepoets.com is a challenge to write a quadrille. There are two stipulations: that the word dance be used as a verb with an object, and to be written in exactly
44 words. Well I was up for a challenge.



Wearing her pink felt hat
among leafy bract,
under yellowing sky -
she arcs her arm, waving at passersby
Perfect lace creations fall, dance around,
become her veil and wedding gown
Bending to converse with another lower bloom,
she discovers in deep snow the groom

Honeysuckle vine..

Happy New Year all! It is a new beginning for d'Verse Poets and out first prompt is offered by Kelly. It is to write about scents that linger.                                                            
                                                                                                                             dversepoets.com    

Honeysuckle roots,
milked oxygen from rich soil,
nursed by a willow
tree nearby, gave birth to blooms, 
exhaled rose-scented fragrance 

Recall a corsage,
shadowed petals pink and white, 
opened by sweet youth,
heaven's nectar to seduce 
bees and buoyant hummingbirds

Angst and beyond

I wrote this last nite in the wee hours. Bjorn and a friend have suggested we write free verse today in the style of Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. Free writing is "like playing tennis without a net" to quote Robert Frost. A zany train of thought comes more easily to me than some structured poem. It is a bit long, but the pen took me there.  Check it out others' work for yourself...some are lovely, some are wild at dversepoets.com




Those in between pre-teen years of angst,
thrust upon us__
encroaching on our individualism,
as we watched our father undress,
Occurring unexpectedly,
as we did, I suppose,
from some unknown tower, or power?
Above reproach, of course,
then he placed his children
in the center of a giant bow,
plucked and pulled the cord back,
shot them like arrows into space__
aiming too far to one side,
or the other, no bullseye
Integrity and fairness count,
but blight blew in the windows
and mother made bologna sandwiches
with mayonnaise
Her apron with blood stains on it,
hung from the clothesline and waved goodbye,
squinting in the sun,
not forgotten

Times when a girdle and panty hose
cramped my style,
hiking uphill to the yellow bus,
minding my own p's and q's
What time does the library open
its timeless gates, please?
And who doesn't love a parade with roses
and a bagpipe band?
Forever dancing in the park blocks_
licorice ice cream,
feeding homeless pigeons
We climbed on Thomas Jefferson's
horse's back, sat in the saddle with him,
feeling the coolness of steel
against our legs
Slow music started my heart beating
under crepe paper banners flying
Bounce, bounce, bounce,
from cradle to measles,
to Paul Anka__
How old is earth, the world?
The tan birthmark that covers half
of the psychiatrist's face__
well the other half, matching his,
is on my back

Blow Up was a suspenseful film noir,
filmed in England, if you can find it online
Oh, I do want someday to visit the Cotswolds
High winds take the kite away_
along came a ugly faced hurricane, sucked
all opportunities away, to be swallowed
by the biggest bird you ever saw_
and oh, the swing wants
to go higher and higher!
Those girls who smoked in junior high school
had common sense?
I never quite caught up with them
My bobby sox were good behaved well

Shudder to think how ridiculous
the smelly crinkly perm in my hair__
face unclear of fear,
 "stringbean"
He through me a box of Kotex,
said "Merry Christmas" and winked;
up the chimney he rose

Galloping under me a buckskin mare,
We rode into the woods and poison ivy,
pranced up the mountain, tasted
sweet strawberries on the other side
A clean ice cold stream
quenched our thirst as we lay on our tummies,
kissed Frankie Avalon in the mirror
Talking our hearts out
from dawn to dusk, we rode with
Dale Evans and Roy Rodgers, Elvis,
and Martin Luther King
One giant step for mankind
put me out on a limb with Shirley MacLaine
Girls like me usually go far_
Around the world in 80 days,
backpacking, sleeping in cemeteries
Serve paella in a restaurant,
to pay for higher learning_
Magnum cum laude
Troy Donahue's image,
stuck in her head
"Al-Di-La", 1963
The adventure wasn't advertised,
the King and Queen of hearts married
under burdensome wings,
babes in the woods

Rubbery legs give out some times
but one can ride the ferris wheel
again and again,
upside down one time,
this way, that way,
"my ?? is in a bucket" ?
Old MacDonald had a farm,
cows that type__ee eye ee eye oh?
Recorded somewhere, videotaped,
or in a scrapbook,
all is recorded somewhere by great-great-
great-great-great-great grandfather Fate and
Ms. Faith,
where stories weaves wildly, randomly,
like a serpentine _
No pain, no passion, right?
Red and white graduation robes, tassels
on caps,
no pomp and circumstance,
LSD & pot

Descendants can't tell us what it's like to die,
how we live on
If there is a thread through infinity,
I want to be the a needle
It aches to want to know all the reasons,
 "Why" and "Why not"!!!

Building a stairway to the stars

For dversepoets.com today we are writing about stars, winter skies and the heavens.

Living consciously brings all the stars out,
ushers in harmony to the wintry night
Tiny jeweled windows of platinum pink
and yellow turquoise dress up an
indigo sky
Each one channeling 
its own lustrous voice 

Living in the dark, like unconsciousness,
shuts out light of love's purest spirit
Scientists observe shifts in the
universe expanding , measure 
light years bent into splinters galore



For the soul to be illuminated
the mind must be cracked open, 
precious beams of light must trickle in for all the beauty to shine in
Formulas and equations substanciate love and kindness spreads outwardly, everywhere

Astronomers lead us to 
deep space mysteries, 
present us with a map of stars
glowing in clusters of satin red, 
and laser green.
Glamarous galaxies interact with black holes while
edges of shadows play with 
shades of  light

Starlight is required for 
the souls's journey;
we are miracles of such a light,
criss-crossing trails with those
who have moved on or lost the connection,
wanting, striving to be banded together again__
on the stairway to heaven

Tis the Season

Victoria over at dversepoets.com suggests we write in the poetic form of "Synesthesia". If you have ever given a voice or color to an emotion or thing, this is an opportunity to imagination what you might write and give it a try. Check out what others have written today.















Shavings of sherbet served 

in morning clouds 

play in squinting stained glass 

sail boat skies

Markets below sell wares, fruit

cakes,  freshly brewed art for the soul

Gold leaf ladders lean against

invisible walls as I gleefully 

slide down a long curving chute,

land on polar bear soft,

billowy white drifts of linen, 

scents of pine and tart mulberry _ 

Strings of colored lights adorn each door;

 there stands a thin fiddler playing his lute 

for wars no more

I grab a fir tree swag, swing high above 

on an aerial merry-go-round_

all around town

My hair screams, hints of the midway,

life kaleidoscoping by

There, in a treetop of mint frosting,

I sit with an angel 

at the break of day

Trees bow low in meditation 

as I breeze through them on my way

Heavenly birdsong ties with ribbon

red bows to pin to my heart;

The sea is fully dressed in tinsel

Then with the stealth of a doe,

I weave textures of nature into

holiday mittens, frozen memories

of chunks of coal,

gingerbread images 

of red-cheeked children, 

in tweed hats, cookie size wide-eyed

Holiday bustle meets ancient shamans 

pedalling oils of penitence

"we are all brethren", 

say Myrrh and Frankincense 

And when it snows, 

the bitter taste of foes 

and woes of  yesteryear melt away,

leaving us perched on a mountain 

of purple heather,

overlooking a valley of rugged 

cobblestone where gumdrop

toadstools grow 

and say,"this is home."  

We are all in this together.