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.   

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.  

the sleeping gypsy

the heat of the desert

calms my body to sleep

tired bones slump on red sands

sun-shifted by blue sky

moon rises silvery

above snow-capped mountains

begging me to play and

dance with my mandolin

but i am kicking coins

and cares away, stillness

wrapped by brown earth

ignoring the curious lion

where goes my dreaming

i say, where my gypsy

feet & heart are free &

wild - there, here i am 

 

The Sleeping Gypsy

by Henri Rousseau (1897)

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

autumn

 

my face, blank canvas 

my body, sand and stone  

until

you unlock me:

riddles, stories, rings, colors

your beating heart

is my green flag, furling sorrows 

to songs, stamping the sky 

blue, rubbing saffron & spice

on every blurred page of my book-

my northward wind

you gift me:  autumn's eye

drawing character lines on my face

my wrinkled hands hold closely

pot of red olives & spring seeds, i   

am 

sailing deeper & further across tides 

& mountains

with you

Ismael Nery - Infinity

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

this room is under study

the room is triptych

a distortion of the manifesto:

space, silos, substance

there is no roof

nor ceiling, only sky & clouds

are our constants

whatever lies beyond

the dark blue skyline is anyone's

guess

spin your story & see 

where this takes you-

imagine:  there is no wall

or cabinets to display photos

or keepsakes, yet

every absence holds shape 

of what can be 

every unopened door stirs & tears

of what may be 

you are told

this room has two doors-

but what you see is not just two doors 

the openings are everywhere

also the ground is unlevelled, moving

under your feet, folding & unfolding-

you roll over

get egg wash all over your face

& unroll again & again

this ground is not a vanishing point-

the room is under study

for you see so many possibilities

and in this moment, you are 

both light & darkness

both ending & beginning

Kay Sage, entitled, My Room Has Two Doors (1939)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight.   The image is for the optional prompt but I also used some words from our Tuesday's Poetics, In Our Words, hosted by Melissa Lemay.

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

Yellowing

 

i am just chilling here

toasting the blue line gaze

cool breeze is licking my skin

warm as melting chocolate

my bumblebee car awaits-

i mellow down under the

dandelion-inspired umbrella

as if summer sun is cracking

spicy tortillas on my head

this blue chair will do

nicely as i people-watch-

sketching convervations in my head-

imagining where they are going to-

my glasses are sweaty

my shirt is sticky as a granola

i lost my lemon-trimmed sandals in sands

but it is fine - no map, no timeline

for the day, just a yellow bird

on my knee for company & cheer

this space is what i have worked 

for:    peace & rest

not burnt-out but clutter-free

in all the ways i deserve-

i am just chilling here

                                                        All Yellow (Morgan Hill), by Teresa Dunn

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub-OpenLinkNight, hosted by Lisa.   Thanks for your visits and comments.

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.

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.

haunted & uncrowned

your thin hands are those of a sparrow

poised to slump, defeated scarecrow  

no caws or birdsongs can reach you

no grunts or hoots from small creatures

can meander near your shadow

the green and lavender hues in the faraway

distance hurts your eyes

wallowing you deeper in your wounds & woes

how you allowed it to fester, red & rot 

can the wind make you swish & sway at all?

can the sun spark a seed of memories:  lush 

yellow green needles, pine cones and nuts?

sorrow seeps from every pore of your skin

oh the agony of being uncrowned leafless tree

bark beetle-bested, your inside is solid carcass

knees keeling

ribs reeling

tell me when you are ready for the

axe to fall

Georgia O’Keefe, Dead Piñon Tree (1943), 40 x 30 inches, oil on canvas, Gift of The Georgia O’Keeffe Foundation
2006.5.180 © Georgia O’Keefe Museum

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Haunted, hosted by Melissa Lemay.   Please join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

wake up & touch the grass

i wake up in the morning waiting for the sun

to soften me, soft as linen, softer as mud pie

my fingertips are tapping, checking the blue sketch

of canvas, granite silver stones, the studs, the slow motion

of time, rocking me to stupor, here in my pink dress, white

socks, shoes off, floating, i twist my body to bend

into the hourglass of sweet complicity & simplicity

but this solid bed of recycled plastic is hard, my thoughts

run grey, spiral to crawl, crash, cramp__

i cannot move to lift myself off this loneliness, this rabbit hole_

tell me you care, tell me to touch green grass,

tell me to get off the phone & social media,   

this body swells of longing for rain, soil & seeds,

sounds of birdsongs, the smell of pine trees 

i want to drown in my dreams of clouds, as the sun 

softens me, soft as linen, softer as mud pie, sinking to earth 

María Berrío, Closed Geometry, 2022, 

paper collage and watercolor on linen, 72 1⁄8 × 90".

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - We are writing Ekphrastic Poetry based on the 3 artwork selected in the prompt.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for the visits and comments.