the woman in the garden

 

she sits inhaling the summer day

her lemon dress dappled in light

the children's laughter are light as clouds

while another woman's voice is playful sing-song

this scene looks like a perfect vacation scene

but it is not 

her hands are knotted in prayer

a mother's prayer

her head filled with the pain & turmoil of her son's life

his pain is her pain

she prays for the stillness of doves

and fullness of lion's courage to do what is

right and just

she sinks into the white and green space

this garden is a healing salve

peering over the vase of aster blooms

she feels a deep peace settling

on her lap

soft as a yellow butterfly

Le Pho (1907-2001), Women and Children in the Garden (c. 1970), oil on canvas

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Le Pho, hosted by Melissa Lemay.  Thank you for the visits and comments.

lighter than air

when darkest of night come

or coldest of the hour seep

your skin to shivering blue

when loudest of silence

or biggest self-doubts stand

as black-eyed monster in path 

remember the candlelight 

inside you

allow forgiveness

allow a helping hand

bestowing, un-

bounding grace 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille:  Let there be Light, hosted by De Jackson.  This is a 44 word post with the chosen word, light.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

September sky

paint me a sky of apple green & red         

as flocks of geese fly off as summer kites 

the air is cooler with sun's fading light  

autumn arrives, muted colors & dreads -

the harvest of pumpkins & plums is spread

on table with berrries & gourds weaved tight

on my canvas of hemp & cotton white

paint me a sky of apple green and red 

i watch the rain hammer the browning beds

as maple leaves start to yellow in sight 

dead flower heads begin to roll, a blight

autumn arrives, muted colors & dreads -

painting a sky of apple green & red

moody as trees, lush as pears with first bite-                                 

autumn arrives, muted colors & dreads 

Crab Apple Tree

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetry Form:  Villonnet. A Villonnet is a hybrid of the Villanelle and the Sonnet. It has the Iambic Pentameter of both, but holds the four-stanza/line structure of the sonnet, while utilizing the two-line rhyme nature of the villanelle. The final stanza replaces the sonnet couplet with a typical villanelle tercet.    Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

walking on air

you said, this is the end

of me

the end of the road

-done-

there i was 

discarded, flinted by rust

but i found

fire from smoke

shape from debris

purpose from destruction

now, i am reaching

for the cathedral spirals

i walk on air

framing each steel lattice into

clouds of my imagination

my hands hammer my spirit

into works of art

-undone-

the road's end is ahead

for me

each ending is yet to be born

Inspired by the work of John Pai

Posteds for dVerse Poets Pub - Tuesdays Poetics: Endings hosted by Kim Russell. I took the approach of #4, end by going back to the beginning.

Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Thanks for your visits and comments.

The Tableau

the lake is fog mist

etching the trees in

olive and russet-

wild flowers embrace

dappled morning light

their faces - perfect

a flock of ducks fly

skimming the water-

birdsongs trill the air

soulful strings, sky hymns-

lily pods & weeds

float, serene muses

Washago, Ontario

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - A Tableau for Sam Hamill,  Hosted by Laura Bloomsbury.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

cherry's laughter

she would start 

laughing hysterics 

not demurely as the lady with a spanish fan

hiding her mirth

but belly shaking as the dancer with

cymbals, focusing her energy

on thumping the floor

with feet and outstretched hands 

holding a beer bottle or cigarette in the air

as if her lungs cannot hold back the tides

of comic absurdity

of tall tales of hilarity

the sound was contagious as a virus

& we would fall "dying" on the floor

her laugher now echoes in my head

like a bookmarked page

in our family's album

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: Just for Laughs, Hosted by Mish.   Join us at 3pm EST when the virtual doors of our poetry community opens.   Thanks for your visits and comments.

summer's end

from seed, you grew tall

orange cupcake flower

i wanted you to bloom forever

but summer's end is here

[pause]

spin me out of summer blues

as flowers turn deep sun-blood

slow decay by wind chill-  

dying/dyeing

ink, garden these verses  

[within me]

Zinnia, Orange Cupcake

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Quadrille #207 Poem Spin Cycle, hosted by De Jackson.  The chosen word is SPIN to be used in this 44 word count poem.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

dream catchers

 

i.

how come i cannot find

a playbook for young girls

so they can be 

stormcatchers 

& cartographers of their lives

instead of walking with bounded

feet and wounded hands

ii.

child

draw your dream in a paper

and tuck them in your pocket

-fisher of stars

-wind catcher

-queen of seven seas

-king of lost forests

your pimp will not want them

your jail keeper will thow away the key

they belong to you

in heat of hunger and cold of despair

in the lonely hours of darkness

unfold their inconceivable wings & glorious eyes

unflinching and unvanquished

fixed on you

no, you will not forget them

they belong to you

they cannot be bought

they cannot be sold

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Stormy Weather, with guest host, Andrew Wilson.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your comments.

i dream of dreams (i cannot remember)

my dreams float

in the glass jar,

brimed in peach-

apple cider 

i open the shelf

to admire its color- now amber-

gold & honey

in summer

but in autumn, the 

liquid is deep cobalt-green

the sky takes on a sheen of melancholy

i cannot shake off

i think of another place and time

where the clouds are blue-grey

and the half-moon is glorious star-

i open the jar & inhale the half-

part of me, that swims between sun-

set and dusk

never quite framing the face half-

turning, walking between door-

ways

of meanings 

and blank walls, i am

still air-scribbling, i am 

dreaming

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics:  Dreaming up a Poem with guest host, Truedessa.   Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

an unfinished book project

on shelf goes unnoticed

like brimed-sliced cucumbers you placed in pickle

jar

last summer 

& last autumn,

there is still a jar of

home-grown dried calendula flowers in olive 

oil-

you forgot to strain-

you wonder if your poems

are too mush-salty or 

saffron-flowery

Unfinished home-made calendula oil project

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille 205, A Jar Full of Poems, hosted by De Jackson.  Thanks for your comments and visits.  

gentle rain

you are the gentle rain       

on burning summer sky      

slow patter on my eyes       

lingering kiss that remains   

you are the gentle rain        

sketching greens as birds fly      

scatter-skitter noise, your sighs  

are calming clouds & quiet plains 

you are the gentle rain               

humming blues with bow tie  

my hands are stirring chai     

winding down, hushed vane   

you are the gentle rain        

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry form, Ballata (Italian verse).   The rhymed, rhyme scheme is AbbaA bbaA bbaA .   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Thanks for your visits and comments.

summer plans 2024

we are clouds, rain

and storms

rushing through tracks

and roads

aspiring to be strong

as trees and resilient

as lake-

our elders want

us to leap

barriers and buidings

but this sum-

mer, we are flow-

ers,  yellow-gold , slow-

stitching in bee-laden garden

& finding ourselves

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille #204 - Summertime, hosted by De Jackson.  This is a 44 word post with the chosen word, summer.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

it begins with

 

blue 

blue iris

blooming blue iris

in spring, fresh as dew

heradling a season of flowers-

delicate pink hydrangeas,forget-

me-nots, red roses and orange-gold marigolds

lavender and purple, mixed with laughter & cries

of children, stories & jokes on mustard picnic blankets-

my balcony circled by bright yellow zinnas & orange calendulas

let me remember the pattern of joy

& the weaved threads of gladness-

sun-wheel of blessings-  

before my memories 

sloppily-slip in the 

rain

Alma Thomas, The Eclipse (1970), acrylic on canvas, Smithsonian American Art Museum

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics:   Writing Something Beautiful, hosted by Melissa Lemay.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

Merchants of Venice

 

Dawn rises above the waters

Slapping the Venice Islands to gold

Crossing the arched bridge

Into the Rialto Market

My vest and robes are brown mud

My stall is stocked with fish & spice

From faraway lands, beyond the seas 

Where the sun is goddess of ice

The tides are low as boats

Move towards the Grand Canal

In the square, under the Church bells

The market is noisy & aggressive as gulls

I barter and make deals 

My word is good as gold

I sink my teeth to silver coins

To trade is to be bold

My pocket is lined with parchments

My biggest haul is selling slaves

Caught and weighed in the market

The skin of young men & women

are sold as concubines

Even convents need slaves

for domestic labor in the field, the galleys

are stocked with slaves until their graves

I sell death sentences

That dark gondolier is my slave

No festival mask can hide my gleaming eyes  

As I stake my future in this market

Where I can reap great fortunes

Or where I can lost everything

By misfortune or due the wars 

Midnight or dawn, this business is king

Notes:

The Venetian slave trade refers to the slave trade conducted by the Republic of Venice, primarily from the early to the late Middle Ages. The slave trade was a contributing factor to the early prosperity of the young Republic of Venice as a major trading empire in the Mediterranean Sea.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - MTB:  It Begins at Dawn, hosted by Laura Bloomsbury.  I had a fortunate experience of spending some time in Venice as part of my Italy vacation.  I learned the good and ugly from the local tour guides.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

Thank you, Sarah Connor

 

your muse has black wings but

your words, breeze-light as rain 

falling on heads, pink-pleated & flower-crowned 

may your hours be filled with white

crisp pages & pen, smell of lavender & lemon

tea rising from the warm pot, taste of 

freshly buttered bread, seranade of

birdsongs from robins, calls of owls,  

laughter of children, chicory flowers,

sights of life unfolding

and vibrant river moving, you 

are lifted

out of the silence of your space, out of

the skein of your clothes

the limbs of your books

the roots of your apple trees

(sorry, but the mail bag is full)

you are one with the rooks

rolling bowling calling squalling roiling boiling swirling whirling*

black wings glinting & stretching 

& flying into starlit sky

I do not know the notes of your songs

nor do I know where you are heading to

but the windows are open

and i only know this:

thank you 

for the gifts of wings & words

~~~

Inspired by her lines in Always Fire:

From ‘No mail – no post’:

“No words.

No rhymes, no poeming tonight,

just this blank space,

this white page,

stretching endlessly”

and

“Find me a space here,

tucked into the silence.”

‘This Doesn’t Feel Like Home Yet’:

“A bird sings,

but you don’t know the notes,

this window opens

onto streets you cannot name

and words you can’t decipher.”

*Rooks at Twilight

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics :  In Conversation with Sarah Connor.  Hosted by Kim Russell.  Thank you Kim for the wonderful interview.  Thank you Sarah for all the time you have shared with us at the dVerse Poets Pub.  

brooding under our balcony

she should be crabby

over narrow space,

heat & falling bed

but robin sits

claiming her space, 

brooding in silence

awaiting eggs to hatch

come rain or strong wind-

ignoring nosy neighbors-

her eyes steady as sun

casting softest of light

on blooming zinnias

Posted for  dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille, hosted by Merril Smith.   The selected word is CRAB.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

a one-day business trip

the train brings me

back alleys of the city buildings

graffiti walls of neglected streets

wheels bound to the south roads

i revel  at the open spaces

of fields green & yellow

of trees lording it over the

rolling empty landscape

the train brings me

to new city with different

highlights & views

the towns are small packages

to be unwrapped with care

the folks who live here

know the folks who are just

passing by, who is 

watching whom from the windows?

the train is a moving bridge

or am i the train

moving foward

and moving backward

after business is done

i note the small stores,

narrow roads, even narrower lanes

wildflowers greet you

as time slows down

my pulse mellows down to rest

the train brings me

perspective the colors of autumn

a nostalgia of the simplicity of life

in a small city & towns

but also a realization that i am

very much a big city person

i calculate the distance from home

in terms of verses i 

pen waiting for the final 

station stop

 

Posted for the dVerse Poets Pub, Poetics, Travelling by Train - Hosed by Punam.  Thank you for your visits and comments.

mind the gap

i step into the subway train

as the wheels grind & groan

the comfort of routine descend

from passing buildings & trees

my thoughts wander

wayward as dandelion fluffs

over the skyway of cars

over bridges of street art & protests 

this space is unbothered by time

this dark tunnel is a fog of poems

this window overlooks gravity

& spots a majestic bird of prey flying

carrying me

over faceless passengers glued to screens 

& hurried texts & to-do-lists-

how far do I go?

what unknown stops await me?

my eyes rest on the valley of blue

where the lake calms & cajoles

a murmuration of birds 

until a whistle breaks

rudely intrudes my train of thoughts

my subway stop is here,

my seat is cold metal & plastic

my backpack weighs a ton

mind the gap (subway sign)

footsteps & faces crowd in

the city, whose clock hurries by

                                        Rick Amor (Australian) “The Agent,” 2019 Oil on canvas 81 x 117 cm

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry in Liminal Spaces, hosted by Dora.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

the owl and me

 

The owl gave me a book

I was excited to open it

Is it a book of wisdom?

So I can follow it, a river

ever flowing, a bird knowing

its way home

But when I read it, what came

To me is a cacophony of sad poems

The melancholy of death songs

The owl looks at me

His bulging eyes filled with questions

His huge body carved by half-moon

Unmoved by my restless hands

Then he points to me a pen

Nudging me to write my words

Listen to my tides & heartbeat

Grow my own feet & feathered wings

Map and unmap my journey

I want to fly to the sky, I say 

The owl is still, waiting for me

I scratch the pages with ink

I scour the edges with electric

moods and soulful dances

A flow of energy curls within, crisp as rain

I lose myself in the salt of verses

and valley of melodies and refrains

I forget where I am

Standing on a tree of life 

Singing to the wind - my song

Artist:    Catrin Welz-Stein

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - PoeticsdVerse Poets Pub - Poetics hosted by Lillian Hallberg.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   

Sounds

There is an itch in my throat

Dry cough, ugh,ugh,ugh

Bubbles up my cheeks

I gulp it down with water

Trying not embarrass myself

In an open space office with cubicles

All around me, the office buzzes

of tapping of keys and busy fingers, 

Snapping of headphones

I catch snippets of small & serious talk

This is nothing compared to

the summer construction outside-

Snarling buzzing of equipments

Clanging chinging of metal on metal

Whizzing of sand & dust & pollen

Screeching brakes of trucks

Beeping horns from impatient drivers

The city is a hive of buzzing energy

I sigh

At the end of the work day

After being enveloped in 

The chug-chug-grating of train wheels

I step into the garden

Splattered with light and flowers

Chirp-chirp goes the birds

Zip-zoom for the bees

Ringing laugher of children from the park

Humming, tinkling from trees & leaves

My plants are greening & grinning

It is a good summer day

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- MTB by host Bjorn Rudberg, where we are incorporating sounds in our poem, Onamatopoeia.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thank you for your comments and visits.

lilacs

 

lilacs bloom during my birthday week   

along the pathways, they are all white  

and pink with fragrance a streak           

of jasmine and rose-almonds, spring    

air is cool while sunny sky is meek       

i walk on clouds, i write about love       

i gather dainty blossoms that reek        

of rain, promises and silky nights-          

lilacs on the vase, clustered & chic   

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry Form, Magic 9.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for the visit and comments.     

here (this place)

 

is where dandelions and wild

flowers bloom

and where

red maple and lilacs rise to

greet the spring morning

hello yelllow!

is planted roots, 

4 seasons

and city bursting & bustling 

of hues, stories & languages

we're settled now

this place 

we call

home!

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Quadrille - hosted by De Jackson.  This a 44 word post with the chosen word, PLACE. Thanks for your visits and comments.

self-help

i read a poem or a book

and give them away

i gather every leftover tears & misses

and stir them to my green tea

i put down the mirror 

and go for a walk in the park

or go to the unbeaten path, somewhere

strange & new to marvel the trees

i palm a fallen leaf or stone, 

and get lost in the wonder of its veins,

palettes, ridges & wrinkles

i bake my mother's bread 

and travel back in time

i try out my daughter's salad from IG

and heard the birdsongs outside the kitchen

i bury my nose among the wildflowers

and found my valleys & hills

i inhale the beat of your verses

and discover my music

i grab every chance to unfold & re-

fold and fold into my-

self, a butterfly every season

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, How About a Selfie, hosted by Punam.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

morning commuter

he was earth-skinned and sky-scarred

with his dark brown jacket, black beanie,

dark jeans and black shoes

he got in the transit train to Toronto & stood

with left hand cupping his ear, conversing about

rides, station stops for the entire 30 minutes ride

was he talking to God?

because his jacket elbows & sleeves were

frayed & tattered, as well as his jeans & worn shoes

his fingers keep pointing to the train subway

map, marking his destination to the west, further

than my stop.   he did not sit down but stood pacing

and talking by the exit doors.   his voice - 

a lost wind, a lone bird without a flock -

swearing & mocking to the invisible party

was he talking to God?

because his hands were empty

because his pockets were empty

his eyes, the black sun

or was it a black pearl?   or was it my

eyes reflecting back, wanting daylight to arrive

& banish the darkness from the tall stranger

 The False Mirror by Rene Magritte

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

dear traveller

 

Do not wait for me

I have found my map

Though my pockets are lined with sadness

I carry your gift, a wild flower yellow pin

I have found my map

And travelled to another country

Carrying your gift, a wild flower yellow pin

Reminding me to smell the flowers along the way

While travelling to another country

Your letters keep me company, soft as light

Reminding me to smell the flowers along the way  

Will our paths cross again?   Maybe, I'm hopeful

Your letters keep me company, soft as light

Though my pockets are lined with sadness

Will our paths  cross again?   Maybe, you said.  

Please, do not wait for me.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Pantoum, hosted by Merril D.  Smith.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

Insomniac

Let us talk about insomnia

at 3:15 am.   A dark bird sits on my bed

& wants to talk about his ambition.   I am 

curious, where does ambition come from?

Is it a seed that suddently grows into

giant tree out of my head?  Is it a slow

painting of canvas, taking shape, defining my face?

The bird wants to climb Japan's Mount Fiji.

The bird wants the fancy feathers of peacock.

And fling himself to the moon.

His ambition is burning his feet after jumping

over fire stones after piercing the hornet's nest

Well I had enough of the bird chatter dream

I want to talk about my ambition - that 

fire within me that refuses to die when an idea

Comes to me, like a buzzing bee 

over the blooming yellow daffodils

Deafening sounds, lively chitter-chatter  

As my heartbeat is running faster and 

faster.  Sleep is forgotten library book.  

My feet are itching for calm after 

leaping into the air, like a gazelle

bounding out to the open fields

My spine tingles as if a lover's touch

stole my sleepy head.   Finally 

dawn comes with pink hues and holds

a giant mirror to my small idea bulb, 

now scribbled with crooked arrows.   Will I survive 

the scrunity of harsh reality? Dark bird, remind me 

again, where does ambition come from?    

Come to me in circles.  

Come to me, piercing my bosom.

Inspired by Anne Sexton, The Ambition Bird

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- Poetics hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.   The theme is Maggie Smith and Conversational Mode of Address.  Thanks for your comments and visits.

Other Worldly

 

we are floating in dust & gas

we catch burst of light

as well as the tail blue-violet of darkness 

                                                                         there is an awakening 

we are shapeless yet shaped

by forces unseen, more powerful than ocean's

turbulent waves & scorching as

volcanic eruptions

                                                                         a daffodil blooms 

a nursery of beginnings of space &    

matter.  over time, where do we cast 

ourselves listening to the waves 

of energy & light  

                                                                        budding leaves of tulips rises

around us, clusters of stars & dark matter

colliding, collapsing, pulling & pushing as if

following the blue print of Master Hands

                                                                       digging the soil, soft as rain

the black hole divides

us,  the sun completes our divinity

though we are mere specks, wrapped

in the continuum of light

                                                                          a season of firsts, spring

 Photo by John McKaveney: The Orion Nebula. “This is an active star forming region about 1400 light years away, of condensing gas and dust, illuminated by newly forming stars. Our solar system formed in a region much like this about 5 billion years ago. The photons that were observed when this picture was taken, left the nebula in 624 AD.  At that time, Mohamed had just won the Battle of Badr, in Saudi Arabia, the classical period in Europe was ending and the middle ages beginning, the Mayas were just beginning to build their largest pyramids, and Europeans had not yet set foot in North America.  Throughout this entire time, those photons of light were traveling through space to be captured to form this photograph, where their journey finally ended.”

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Stepping Out of this World, hosted by Lillian.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

coaxing spring season

my mom forgets her thoughts, butterflies in flight

but not her prayers.  her rosary beads are bright as sunlight

where do you find yourself at end of the day

are you cradling a lady bug?  or do you stare at the moonlight ?

the shadows have their seasons too.*  filled with dead poets.

yellowing regretful sighs.   time to change curtains to spring light

i will etch the walls with songs.  with color.  with feathers.

because inside me, is cardinal, awaiting spring. with sky light

the white wall.  the blank page.  you stitch the emptiness

into fullness.  you are embroideried canvas & edged with light

*Line:  The Shadows have their seasons, too"  from John Updike, Penumbrae

Posted for dVerse Poets pub - OpenLinkNight - Hosted by Sanaa Rizvi.  Thanks for your visits and comments.  Poetry form:  ghazal.

the building (land acknowledgement)

you moonwalk out of the building

whose wall tiles are blue-etched in history

giant banners follow the marbled columns 

as you stand to witness sunset throbs 

in glorious colors, washing 

large window frames with ecru & peach tints

beneath black suit

how sober cold you hold yourself

refracted by city neon lights- 

you belong here yet not quite from the tilt of your head-

on cobbled steps, you marvel the carvings

and gothic shape of the building 

and hearing the folklore rising from the relics

and feeling its hot breath on your skin-

maybe it will take another decade or two

of walking & inhaling the sun-baked streets

to feel connected to the ancient land the building

stands after hearing the land acknowledgement

for now, you just want to respect 

the ties that bind us all under the eyes

of the ever-steady moon-

for now, you just want nothing more than be hurled

to the sky, star-wrinkled

glinting of mysteries, stirring in you an ocean of awe

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Hosted by Kim Russell.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

This is an example of a land acknowledgement:  

Land Acknowledgement for Toronto

We acknowledge the land we are meeting on is the traditional territory of many nations including the Mississaugas of the Credit, the Anishnabeg, the Chippewa, the Haudenosaunee and the Wendat peoples and is now home to many diverse First Nations, Inuit and Métis peoples. We also acknowledge that Toronto is covered by Treaty 13 with the Mississaugas of the Credit.

False Spring

I listen to western wind's murmurings - 

Birthing songs by iris and daffodils

High-pitched cries by broad winged hawks nurturing- 

There is restlessness in the air, the chills

Of winter are ebbing low & bordering

Small buds & silky tendrils sprouting gills

Shedding dark skin of soil & instinct to cling

And inhale the marvelous light of spring

The sun's crimson fingers brings fresh mirror

Sketching the pale grey sky blue as bluebells

Coloring the leaves young and green, clearer

Than raindrops that shimmers with silver spells

But all that is short-lived as once more, furor

Of winter wind comes back, peeling back shells

Of green & draping its white coat, unasked

It's false spring.   We all huddle back, hands clasped!  

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry Form:   Ottavo Rima or Sonnetto Rispetto.  We are learning this traditional Italian poetry form.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

cold & lost in the song

 

What was that I see

Over the bridge

Not two lovers walking in dance-steps

Not line of cars threading slowly

Away from the green lamp posts 

To where the lake swallows 

                                               you    

It is bleak darkness

As if the sun is lost behind trees

As if all the colors got sucked out

And wounded tightly in hard fist 

Or is it I who is 

                                               lost                                                            

A bird 

with wings heavy as pewter 

with no driving instinct to return 

To where "home" is

That is nowhere between

                                               me   

and the goddess with lion's mane 

Magnificent but so pale                                 

As ghost, listless and weary as 

                                               i

Where is the zest for life?

What secrets did we keep that broke our peace?

Our yesterdays changed us

All the energy is spent

                                               lost    

And though there is this undeniable longing

inside my chest

To return to the familiar womb

To gather all the light once more

and embrace your laughter

i am content with the cold

absence of

                                               you            

René Magritte, Homesickness (1940), oil on canvas.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:   Everything We See, hosted by Melissa Lemay.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm for the ekprastic challenge.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

my hand holds a pomegranate

 

I swallow the seeds  

spilling

warm sea in my womb 

bless my body

- a child -

untouched by sorrow

bestowed from darkness to light

through slumbering fog

hear my plea

heal bleeding pain

i'm weary but hopeful

when will our child of love be born?

Created by Microsoft Bing (AI)

Posed for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille, hosted by Punam. This is a 44 word post with the chosen word, slumber. Thanks for the visits and comments.

the hands of the artist

the middle finger of my right

hand

   grows a tree

white tap roots skitter

down

   interweaving with my veins

branches protude 

fingerlings swimming upward-

   against gravity

northbound -

    this is homeward drive

where mollusks are plenty    

my body is listening

   leap

capture the raging

   tides swelling within-   

this warm clay

coarsely molds friction & fire

   with flights of fancy

to sculpture -

wings are not required 

   the fruiting is art

   

Artist Credit:   Anastassia Zamaraeva

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -  Poetics - 2024 Poets Leaping hosted by Lisa Fox.  Thanks for your comments and visits.