Fishing for the moon

You are the fisherman crouching- 
rod, reel, cast nets, tackle, pliers- 
wearing boots and jacket to ward off
the chill of cold misty morning

Your face is quartered by floppy hat
with every flick and spin of your line
we are drawn to your bait 
until we're hooked to your side

You read our faces by single lamp 
Undisturbed by our weighty life dramas
But the funny thing is
you never reel us in, inside
your darkness, your mountains of mystery- 
your net is empty by dawn
as if you're satisfied with what you have-

we catch ourselves
waiting for your boat every midnight
always at a measured distance
content with star-gazing,  
feeding us with your flickering light,
and our dreams of a hundred cranes in sky






Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics:   Moon-muse.  Please join us when the pub opens at 3pm EST.  The prompt is to write about the moon as person.

Potpourri

In a large bowl, I arrange the dried leaves
And brittle pine cones inked by blazing sun 
Here is the bark of the tree, stamped with ash
A red flower stolen, plucked for lady's hair
And bay leaf, sprinkled of coriander seeds
Here's a purpled husk, bereft of buzzing insects
A white flower fluffy with vanilla flax
And curl of tamarind pod, stiff with long ago rain

I hold skin of yesterday's summer days 
thin parchment, furling under blue-grey sky 
.... and the fragrance of you


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight, Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg.

Join us when the pub opens at 3pm EST.   Thanks for the visit.

The Empress with Silk Clothes

I strike a coquettish pose
With my red robes & gold slippers

And thoughtfully exclaim
What fine and colorful clothes you have! 

How imposing you look.  Show them
Your beautiful clothes

Light as air, soft as feathers 
Visible only to the smart ones

You are most intelligent ruler
As I kneel before your soft belly

and puckered knees for your shoes
I marveled at your gleaming crown

as I, the empress, hum your favorite song
as you stride out into the streets, eager

to strut your expensive, branded clothes
Your vanity equals the sun's fiery show

The crowd and critics will lament & tear
their hair out

Trying hard not to stare at your torso
so they don't look unfit for the job

Your ego is intact, even after the parade,
scalloped hair gelled by pride, your knees stiff as ever

I wait faithfully with your other clothes
satiny black, snow-crusted with diamonds

And soothing your ire with tea
Placating your pain with more sugar

I, your empress,
am your mirror, another fool who wished for gold

Trimmings, who knows this:
Being naked is a hard truth, a pill I can't swallow

(I mean, I will parade naked with no clothes
if someone pays me a good amount of money) but he

My Emperor, has the balls to show them
how it is done to those ignorant folks

I feed him now with exotic fruits
in between musing the details 

of his amazing clothes
and firing those two incompetent tailors

It was their fault, you see
It was even the child's fault, crying at that

But he has got nothing on!
Everyone is blind not to marvel at these clothes.

I, your empress, nod while patting 

silk embroidered clothes

wrapping my naked ambition 

sharp as eagle's claws

Inspired by photo:   The Emperor Has No Balls, Trump Statue:  Here    This was supposed to be short but I had fun imagining the scenario.

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub- Poetical Spouses - By Guest Host, Kim.  The challenge for this week’s Poetics is to take a character, fictional or non-fictional, and re-write their story from the point of view of their husband or wife. To avoid any accusations of libel, no living people please!

Crashing waves & rebellion

The sound isn't sweet murmurings
It is coarse with passion
Loud, booming bass
Shrill, cawing of black birds

An alarm raised
By night watchers
A giant beam of light
By tower guards

Towards other ships
Encroaching your land & peace
Towards tyrants & traitors 
Wrecking havoc on your country

It is a roar of sea storm,
bleached by oil and chemicals
It is the heartbeats
of a million slayed elephants

for the love of earth
for the love of country
of mother towards children
erred of ways, unrepentant

It's not silent hymn of tears
But a cacophony of broken heart





Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Walter  Wojtanik, Sound of Love.   I wrote from an activist point of view having watched people demonstrations against governments, and documentary on slaying of elephants. 

Jar

Here on shelf
jar filled with small things

-mismatched, chipped, forgotten- 

Against the light
I imagine threads pulling these small
things together, like bracelet or fishing line

-lost, no more-

Sometimes, I'm them 
jarring against confined glass
until I find 

-fishhook, net of voices-

Picture credit

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub- Quadrille, hosted by Bjorn Rudberg.    This is a post of 44 words with the word JAR.

Thanks for the visit!

Breathing in Blue

A trail of black birds, along the middle, dark blue line

@Grace

lift my feet above limestone cliffs
plume my wings of salty spray 
crisp my tongue to hunger,  wild
is your call, gleaming of sun's fire

bring me far away and beyond
to this blue, dazzling of infinity
open my tired eyes, from smallness 
to behold your eternal charm

not even shadows from forest 
can destroy your artless guile
you soothe our fickle shallow lives
with steady rhythm, this is you- 


breath of my heart, carved me blue
until your light, inside me, shines true



Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Breathing in Blue,  Hosted by De Jackson.  Join us for all things blue when the pub opens at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visit.

A little romance

Book Sculptures by Bronia Sawyerby

It was the sudden click in my head, a spark of intuition in my guts. I heard it above the din of school books and chatter one sunny afternoon.  It was our first meeting but I felt a deep connection that I have not experienced with anyone.  Perhaps it was in the way he phrased his words, so eloquent, with heavy American accent.  Maybe it was the tilt of his head, or the way his eyes followed me with hidden mirth.   He made me giggly at his jokes and funny comments.   He still does, after 36 years.    

above the hushed lotus pond,

the moon is half-silver goddess

swaying to fluted wind 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Haibun Monday,  A Little Romance - hosted by Kanzensakura.   Share with us your romantic side or moments when the pub opens at 3pm EST.   Thanks for the visit.

A staircase of fear

heat percolates
in grip of terror
      (no) air
      (no) breath 
      trapped stony silence
            as stomach churns 
                                       up (down)

i step back 
angling towards sea
      (mis)slanted 
      (mis)take
       feet searches for solid ground 
            so near, yet so far


heights twist my guts
to this white fear
      vertigo
      (un)hinged
      (un)conquered, 
                       a quicksand
                                  i'm falling
                                         down (up) 

Stairway of the King of Aragon, France by Allard Schager

Acrophobia (from the Greek: ἄκρον, ákron , meaning "peak, summit, edge" and φόβος, phóbos, "fear") is an extreme or irrational fear or phobia of heights, especially when one is not particularly high up.

Written for D'verse Poets Pub- What are you afraid of?  (Fear, phobias)  Hosted by Mish. Pub opens at 3pm EST.   Thanks for the visit!

Self-portrait

Underneath
mother's worry lines
woman's dry skin

I feel girl's thumping heart
A work in progress,
still learning power of words
and fruits of imagination

My canvas:
deep roots beside moving tides
above white-cotton clouds
& tropical sun
licking the lake water 
with gusto

Me at the Scarborough Bluffs Marina over the long weekend

(My hubby thinks I'm a mermaid with legs)

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Quadrille - 44 word post, Hosted by Lillian.  We are asked to write a self-portrait.

Thanks for the visit!