a work in progress

i would find you
between sun-dried flowers
spent, tongue rolled back

from screaming at the top
of your lungs
hoping to get my attention

forgive me
if i am waddling these days
with my head buried
in numbers

i miss seeing you
in colorful shirts & hats
peeking from wherever

your fancy takes you

but when i am alone
in a silent
and reflective mood

you come
unbidden, unchecked, unfiltered

knocking me out
of my city comfort

you are the stealthy driver

of this imaginary car
bringing me drops-

a green spiraled tendril   
a phrase left beside my teacup
a stitch of a fading memory

i gather them
into my pockets 

lined by moon dust

trusting time
that old gardener
to tend what lies unseen
beneath the page

and you
arrive-
ink, insight, the inglorious beat

of something
i knew before
but somehow forgot

you place it here
an open palm
and i am blown away

by the thought
that my <best> poems

are still walking
toward me

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Ars Poetica Revisted - Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Happy summer break!!!!!

what the water gave me

was clear line of my belly

filled with salt & seashells

holes, much like my memories

fading away, a ship in fog

was bed of drowned summers

plated in orange light,

i should have said some things

let the tower fall & shatter to ash

was illusion of calmness

yet underneath are currents 

a puzzle of faces

a skeleton, whose bones i still

do not know

was questions 

do not need answers 

not right away

see my right foot bleeding

i still do not know why

What the Water Gave me by Frida Kahlo (1938)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Thank you for your comments and visits.   

detours

 

it was the road, the

odd shape

of detours, of

camouflaged hands

that could not hold the

soulful beat

of blues, tyranny of

language denting the heart

it was the pause, the

crease of unopened letters

unsettling, of

stories shaping me, my

path, my name

Original poem:  Driftwood by Sara Teasdale

My forefathers gave me
My spirit's shaken flame,
The shape of hands, the beat of heart,
The letters of my name.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:  Poetry Form - Golden Shovel.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

morning bird notes

i.

spring hides from the window 

the fog is a film

in noir

bathed in memories of tulips & blue irises

(no birds in sight)

ii.

gusts &                thunderstorms

are the weather

heavy-lidded eyes

peek from sleep delirium     & then lapse   

(a fallen feather)  

iii.

the trees

are sticks & stilts & empty 

canvas

awaiting the slight brush of      spring

(a bird song trills)

iv.

what spell is this

to wake up with bones fresh & fevered

my fingers    are running    faster

than i can           catch                   up

sage smoke & songs      

from spring rain to sloshing river

(a cardinal on the fence)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -Zuihitsu, hosted by Merril Smith.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

false spring

 

your hands were warm,
as were your letters
against my cold touch

i did not know spring then -
nor the weight of long winter 

this i now know:
my heart leapt
at the sound of your voice,

that old memories rushed back
like gentle tides returning
to a forgotten shore,

that the air between us
still carried electricity
from long-ago words

who knows what might have been -
how a fragile bud,
a seed of a smile,
a light touch

might have opened slowly
into something larger
under the full glare
of sun, rain, and sky

my mind was timid then,
my resolve even more afraid.
when you are young,
naïve, and unsure of what might grow,
even hope can feel dangerous

so i let it pass -
that brief warmth,
that almost-season.

now i look back
on that time in my life
with fondness -

no regrets,
though a quiet garden
of what-ifs still lingers.

and if our paths cross again,
beyond a night of easy laughter
and borrowed friendship -

you know what?

the older me
is no longer afraid
to take that leap,
to startle the quiet air.

i will wait until then
for our spring to arrive -

not early,
not mistaken,

but true -

with wrinkles,
with louder laughter,
with songs
we are finally brave enough
to sing

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - False Spring.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for the visits and comments.  Have a good day!

Moonseeds

 

Why are your words creased
in moon’s indigo carbon copy,
a blue my eyes cannot hold?

Why are my morning legs
ice-struck at dawn,
yet lift like pollen
when you place flowers in my hands?

Why does this story tugs at my ribs
toward opposite tides-
heavy as wet wool after rain,
light as dust drifting through an emptied room?

Why do my lips freeze into chalk
while my chest is a raging engine
along uneven tracks?

Why is the night crusted in salt,
unmeasured beats 
between the high cries of loons?

My fingers tremble against cold glass
before the question crosses my tongue.

Are moonseeds blooming where breath should be?

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poems of Questions (No Answers).  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thank you for your visits and comments.

at the mouth of the city

can you imagine it 

the world stops spinning

loud music simmers slow,

ice of a hard winter melts;

soft rain arrives

quiet and unannounced

we lay down our warring words,

set aside the practiced rhetoric.

streets remember safety 

calm descends

a river's mouth curling in

we breathe the cool air in

what was fogged lifts, clears

we are flowers

thorns

weeds

rolling down the sidewalk

it doesn’t matter

you have to imagine this-

strangers, briefly kindred,

visible amid a polar-vexed skyline,

walking

crossing streets

without flinching

for once

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.  Inspired by the poem, Proof,  By Cornelius Eady, and with the line, You have to imagine it.   See you at 3pm EST.

borrowed lights

 

the ashen sky is falling

land exhales fumes and smoke

shadows widen, rehearsing

what comes next -

or so it seems

in the rearview mirror

my hands, empty bowls

my body, battlefield

storm-tested terrain

my feet, sore from stone-shard ground

or so it seems

in the rearview mirror

but here, right now

winter sun holds 

bare maples stand, listening

snow hushes what survives

i am here, attending

not to the dimming of borrowed lights,

but to the spark i carry-

fire struck from pen and paper,

time marked without

vines of regret

let us spring

toward the pale tree

where brightness still gathers

                              Inspired by:   Extinction of Useless Lights

                                             by Yves Tanguy

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight, our last one for the year 2025.  Thank you for all your visits and comments.  See you in January 5, 2026.  

December Tableau

 

I unbox gold trees

trimmed festive red bows

there are amber lights

tricking my eyes - moon-

seeds or neon lights-

cold nights, fevered dreams- 

December blues paint

falling snowflakes from

silver dusted sky

still the heat of you

remains - pillows, book-

marks,  coffee-stained mugs

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - MTB - Picture This in Six, hosted by Laura Bloomsbury.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.

sewing me

 

with maple leaves & apricot threads

along the pattern drawn in my head-

a mash-up of seasons

pinched in circles 

crinkled by moss & moonworts

there's a backstitch

to loop into,

brown as long tail of winter wheat

then scattered red as pomegranate seeds 

what hardness i have is softened

what stiffness i have is uplifted

to the steady clacking of the needle plate 

though the hemming is sloppy

and the binding a crooked line 

i am 

resilient as feed dogs,

threading & unseaming each patch 

as i go along

my floral-spiked hair is loose bobbin

my feet the bias, popping with color

i ease into an

applique sutured in green

spring words leaping from my lips

sun's breath on my hair

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Come Sew With Me...Sort of, hosted by Lillian.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.