Moontide

 

I thought him first a ferryman, but I was wrong.

He wore the night as one walks with a cane.  

Slipping on an ancient body, he was an old 

hand to assist you in your crossings.

Next, I thought of him a sentinel & maybe I

am right.   He watches the night closely as I count

time striking at midnight before the new year.   His

black suit scarcely moving in the wind.   His eyes

an orb of midnight oil, brooding as crows

Casting shadows in this street in middle

of the town square.  I first ran into him,

waving my passport, asking him where was Kipling

station.  He pointed it to me in the map & even

gave me tips to reach the airport.   I thanked him

as if he was a locksmith.   He brushed it off, saying

the city can be a puzzle

if you don't know north & south, east & west

in his grave watchman's voice.

That's me, confused as a lost cloud

With a ring of copper keys on my hand.

He said, a bunch of keys confused him.   He prefers

one fishing line & hook.

I was getting on my way when another man

approached him for help on directions.

He said that I am not a wand maker but I can show

you where to fish, where the water pulls, how to reel 

in a catch  

It now occured to me what he really was.

He is a tide maker.

He listens to the currents & shapes the tides.

He catches the moon and puts it

inside the street lamp.

And he holds the one silver key to close & open it

To whoever knocks at his door

and ask him 

Please, give me back my secrets.

Fictional character's voice inspired by the digital collage of Catrin Welz-Stein here.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics:  Exploring the Narrative Voice, with guest host, Ingrid. Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.

mo(u)rning tea/ anniversary

 

before the birds sing

& yellow daffodils unfurl

pour yourself a teacup of mint & jasmine

& write your story of regrets on the pages 

of notebook:  line by line

the words appear waiting      as if motionless

the verses turn wanting        as if suspended

you know all of them, lingering at edge of light 

beautifully absent

but you have learned something by now

you have not mourned them   

you burned your bridges

Posted for dVerse OpenLink Night,hosted by Mish.   Inspired by Tuesday's Poetics prompt on bridges.  Thanks for the visit.

Bridge between moon & sky

 

come dusk, you stitch your broken-

ness with words frayed as blue butterfly

caught in canvas.  you paint walls

out of lines, gaze at silence 

brooding as crows perched on lines. you

watch the moon strip the darkness, 

~shadows flee & light~

spills on your face, the sky

glitters with starlit trees & blooms

buzz at your ears as busy bees 

on spring day.  come dawn, birdsongs 

swell and the marvel of all: you

sun-dewed, yellow-daisied & carefree

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics hosted by Merril Smith - Bridge poem using the puente poetry form.  Thanks for the visit.

slow dance

 

the grating shrills, honks 

of geese & gulls

do not bother me

the mercurial weather

of sudden rain & bright sun

do not despair me

i can wait

for marvel of fresh daffodils

& lazy unfurling 

of cherry

blooms, time of slow

spring dance

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille, Hosted by De Jackson.  The word is BOTHER in this 44 word post.   Thanks for the visit.

this scar on my left knee

is a pink flower petal

faded & crumpled origami 

a time-stamped map

my school girl's body turning to jump 

out from a van

as if i have wings

instead of coltish legs & black 

polished shoes

the door swinging back

its pointed edge, dull rusty blade on my skin

my eyes, once carefree & blind

suddenly became cautious 

of leaping & falling 

blind as maple leaf during autumn

(how i admire the faith of baby birds) 

i had other scars since then 

but you never forget the first time

you see your flesh, not a wrapped & bound book

but a living tissue, popping fat & pulsing 

red blood & bones, tiny veins

fragile as roots 

of a spring bulb

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub:  MTB, The Body & Poetry - where I am hosting about writing a body part/s as part of my history.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  

{happiness}

i pluck happiness

from a pot of soil

it was wet from April rain

dazzling as first cherry bloom

i wash its

plumb leaves gently & encased it in glass

an ivory in perfect repose & sunshine 

muffling all the sadness in the rooms

but in the coming days

it was a dying 

flower shedding its petals

blackening roots

shrinking

losing its colors, spice & flavor

quietly, it begged to be released

as a monarch butterfly

as a wild bird

uncaged, unfiltered, unmarked

over the back yard

& out into the sky

i toss it like a ball

of dragon fire

hissing above the pine trees

{i heard laughter}

In response to my original post:    {sadness}

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

Spin cycle: Spring

 

I fluff & fold away

winter blankets & thick socks

And put to wash my clothes 

on cold water spin cycle

The sun spreads marmalade 

hues on garden of budding greens

On the clotheslines

I hang 

flowering apostrophes & metaphors

and pin the conjugated verbs

with brown clips 

I flick away

the dewdrops of commas

stuck on my shirts

& shake out the dirt 

of hypenated syllabic words

hiding in my coat pockets

Later on, I will

pluck them & toss them all in the

laundry basket

unsorted & missing pairs & sun wrinkled

smell of maple syrup 

in the spring air

Posted for dVerse Poets pub- Poetics - Put Your Words in a Spin cycle - Hosted by De Jackson.

A Painter Without A Brush

 

the brush is a mongrel moon

a sop of soap stone, lump of foolish

grains in my hands, grey from winter

my fingertips are callous

unfeeling of any rhythm on canvas

i am slumbering shadow of dust

among the fine selections of books in garden

the sun brings a jingle of spring's eyes

as bouquet of wildflowers for the first

time & i am enamored with torrential clouds

of hues, shapes & hollows & tangent of words, whorls

of verses, as if famished, i drink it slowly

colors infuse & thrum, sharp as limes & lemons

my lips are basted by magenta & saffron spice

uncorked, honeycomb drips unabashed on ground

bees alight in morning blush of dewdrop

as if i am apricot tulip, budding rosy 

a new day, i 

am

Title from:  A Painter Without a Brush (Gerhard Richter)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub -  Poetics:  The Poet as Painter,  Hosted by Laura Bloomsbury.   Please join us for a wonderful prompt at 3pm EST.

rush of sunshine

 

when midnight strikes, i'm a thief

swallowing pale moon

penning words, as wintered trees

reveal bones - hush - soon.

sunshine lingers, love

etches a spell, rush of gold

i await - spring's dove

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry form:  Sequidilla.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visit.

Seguidilla has seven syllable-counted lines (7,5,7,5:5,7,5), and rhymes the second and fourth, and the fifth and seventh lines (x,A,x,A,B,x,B)

this winter morning (when it is -9 C)

 

the house is a tinder-

box of memories

windows overlook small garden

of papaya trees & bougainvilleas

so pink as delicate buds

our room of mint green curtains

is now empty of furnitures

a place of light & laughter

a world sieved in tropical colors

i smell sugar coated 

yams, rice-wrapped delicacies, 

unmistakable coconut palm breeze

wafting air

of celebratory spirit,

despite the tinge of sadness

our luggages all packed up

with boxes filled with 15 summer beach joys

& windswept photo albums

& sun dried clothes

& sugar cane fields

i take with me

this snapshot of my life -

& leave

the car 

& house keys

my purse bursting of anxious

gratefulness for tomorrow

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Meeting the Bar - Setting (Time and Place).  Thanks for joining in.