Stardust

 

A season of darkness descends 

Heavy as our worldly cares 

Of wars & long disagreements

Blanketing candle light with chill

Can we recall the bright sunshine

That books give us, turning hours to

Gold and greens the path we trod upon

Words filled us, stories infused us

Can we fall as sepia brown leaves

Soft against the wind, accepting

Of nature's cycle, dying to dust

Belonging back to soil, a moment

So brief, we are but a speck

So mote, where millions & millions

Have walked this way before

Have gazed to the sky with awe

That we are & all that we can be

is second in time, a blue dot 

Of infinity.  I float, light 

as stardust, the tide rises in me

Of hope, blue as cosmic ocean

Of love, calling us back home

Inspired by Carl Sagan's Cosmos.  He was the Director of the Laboratory studies and David Duncan Professor of Astrology and Space Sciences at Cornell University . He was the recipient of the Joseph Priestly Award "for distinguished contributions to the welfare of mankind", and the Pultzer Prize for literature.  He died in Dec. 1996.

“The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.”

“One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time.”

“The cosmos is within us. We are made of star-stuff. We are a way for the universe to know itself.”

Goodreads on Carl Sagan

YouTube, Pale Blue Dot

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - A Bookish Mood, hosted by guest, Dora.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

autumn wishes

 

Blue windspells, slivers of sunlight, apple trees 

Carve us in silhouettes of geese in flight

Keeling in gratitude, with fruits, sweet & scarred

Blue windspells, slivers of sunlight, apple trees 

Hold us awed by falling leaves - plum, gold & russet

Filling each grey hour with pines & yearning 

Blue windspells, slivers of sunlight, apple trees 

Brighten our nights, warm as butternut soup

Folding time pink as origami cranes

Posting for dVerse Poets Pub- OpenLightNight.

Join us with a poem when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your comments!

we are lungs and history

 

Under the maple trees, we fall

Soft as pinecones, sun-creased skin

We worry not where we land and rust

We embrace the autumn season

We are kin with elm, oak, pine, spruce

And so many more than we can count

We worry not where we fit & thrive

With wildflowers at our feet

When sky is blue, we breathe as one

At night, we dream of stars, all bright

We worry not about darkness

And bow to the tides of the moon 

We grow older than elephants

With wrinkles, warts & wounds

We revel our fruits & seed pods

Instead of poison, spikes and strifes

We are your lungs and history

But we can also be barren land

When forgetting about us, a voice calls

For war, spilling oil, blood and gore

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Writing from a Collective Point of View, Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg.

Join us when we open the pub doors at 3pm EST.  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.

the show, the frontman, at their very best

 

when the showlights are blazing bright

its time to put on cryptic smile

your inked arms are love letters, sight

on your fighter's stance.  this trial-

your art, your music are your knights

to knock down the rumors with style-

your band is the greatest- that's right 

(&) you're the best - chameleon with guile

waxing the theatre floor with green

grass, crooning to sky of shadows

there's a mirror of you, not clean

shaven, but stark naked, no prose

to mask real fear, loss, the scene

to question our life's highs and lows 

there are no answers in the screen

we left, beating hearts, with caws from crows

In response to the poem, When I'm among the Blaze of Lights

by Siefried Sassoon

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Dead Poet's Society, hosted by Kim M. Russell.

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burning

you can turn red hot, an angry wildfire

on this autumn season

but the cool nights have prevailed

casting a soft brushed-golden light 

on your skin

on your cheeks

browning

mellowing

slowing down

your pulse rate simmers to lethargic

wait

you bow to nature

autumn:  burning bush

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille hosted by Lisa Fox.  This is a 44 word post with the selected word, brush.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visit and comments.

flamenca in the plaza

when midnight strikes, let's meet-

bright moon is white knight by

pomegranate tree 

i'll bring my castanets,

clicking lights, red tight skirt

swishing & stomping feet

on fishbones cobbled steps-

you are red as wine

toasting the good harvest

with big bottles of cheers 

the plaza is buzzing

hands clapping fast, faster

we are swept along- 

tales of love & lament

we are sands in lost land

Pomogranate Tree, Spain

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Flamenca, Spanish verse form.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for the visit and comments.   Form:  The elements of the Flamenca are:

1. stanzaic, can be written in any number of quintains.
2. syllabic, 6-6-5-6-6 syllables per line to imitate the rapid click of the heels of a dancer.
3. L2 and L5 assonate. (same vowel sounds)

   
   

early autumn

the maple leaves are changing hues-

cranberry, ochre, toffee, velvet, ember

all radiant from the cool wind-no blues

to witness the dying summer blooms

i marvel the maple leaves changing hues

exploding  from green to colors to tickle

the fancy of poets & nourish the muses 

of artists.   imagine the harvest of sun-dried

fallen leaves on your hands & feet - whose

jolly idea was it to engulf you with earthly wishes-

maple trees are yielding (like myself), changing hues-

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, Folding Into Autumn, Hosted by Melissa Lemay.  Thanks for your visit and comments.   Fold Poem format by Gillena.

moon spells

We chatter to sangrias and songs

In Vintage tees, we cheer to yesterdays

Look up, there's a full moon beckoning-

A blue moon, silk & serene, round-eyed

Silver light, its wholeness lifting us

To gaze beyond trees, city lights, cars

Blue moon, give us the longing for stars

Map our hands with sage & bay leaves 

We are soft as ocean, flowing into you

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub- OpenLinkNight.    

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bottles of memories

you drained the bottle of San Miguel beer

as if it was tap water

showing me, your first cousin,

how you have grown:

loud arguments for women's rights,

with cigarette pack (ignoring the surgeon

general's warning)

& a swagger pose for an 18 year old

i joined you and our cousins 

by grabbing a bottle of beer myself,

proud to show off that I can hold both the beer

& lively talk (a rite of passage as a teen)

the beer tasted a bitter lager to me

but the ice made me gulp 

each swig a little easier & bolder

it was never the bottles of beer though

or uncle's signature pork & beans dish 

that made this family gathering remarkable

our fathers (all 4 brothers) were gathered

around the table, expertly brandishing

the golden beer bottles

(we are poor imitators of their beer rowdiness)

with their eyes teary with mirth

as their wives 

chatted in another huddle, exhanging gossip

our fathers are the heartbeat &

life of this party

it was the jokes & silly advices

(repeatedly ex/changed over the years)

it was the sloppy conversations

(he said, she said versions)

it was the fake quarrels & rousing debates

(challenges issued & done)

my father's belly laughter

(young, rippling of energy)

that echoed in the night 

that i still remember 

long after our fathers

(all the 4 brothers)

have died, 

& yes after our

silbings & 2 aunts have died too

now, you (still a proud 

single first cousin) quit smoking & Scientology 

& rowdy arguments

we don't order San Miguel beer 

but sip our glasses of water with cheers

as we catch up with the lost years

in between 

the chasm is wide

but we warm up in our distinct sing-song vowels-

also, the family jokes still make us giggle

your face is soft sadness of sunset

and my hands are looking more like my

mother's 

as our voices fade, holding on to lost

letters

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Bottled Poetry.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST about what is brewing inside your bottle.  Thanks for the visit and comments.