one day

the sky will be a mushroom of blue butterfly wings

the ground will be tallowed with yellow pollen

the trees will be needled with green & pines

the streets will be lively with music

the buildings will be festooned with flags & kites

the church bells will peal with gladness

you will sing again with nightingales

dancing in your yellow skirts & teal hat

relish the family meal of beet soup with garlic bread

i will tally the days with light lamp

and jelly beans in my jar

keeping faith

the sun will keel the broken sails

and rise above the long shadows of grief, dust & dire

dappled light,

at the end of this tunnel, awaits you

Artist:   Vika Muse

“Freedom” – This artwork was made due to the hope, that we have the light at the end and the name of this light – is the Victory. That we will survive and rebuild our country.

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics:  The Light of "Vika Muse", hosted by Mish.

We are getting inspiration for our words from Vika Muse.  Thanks for the comments and visits. 

the paradox of the changing clocks

minute hand moves 

forward, but escape wheel

is stuck

-tiny buds wilt in tail of winter's breath-

-leaves shiver-shrink from false

spring's embrace-

grip this season 

of becoming

as the blossoming earth

peels back

-dead skin-

-mourning dress coats-

we thirst for life

(deeply)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille hosted by Lisa.  This is a 44 word post with the chosen word, SEASON.  Thanks for the your visit and comments.

Tea at 5:00 pm

 

i leave this familiar abode

in the morning, time moving fast-

the train

noisily chugging across tracks 

behind city streets, underground

tunnels

in the dim lights, my mind wanders

to summer nights when blue rules - sky 

and lake -

slow the sunset tides, slow the burn 

of sands & fading music - bell

rings - stop! -

her fingers are now tapping time-

billable hours, accounting

minutes-

she becomes the clock in the room

tallying with her purse until 

it's time

to head west, passing by strangers-

time moves slow as a sweeper's broom

slow as 

stitched tulip.  trees are calling.  house

is warm tea, inviting.   i meet-

myself

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry Form is Synchronicity.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

Swooning with the moon

I.

The early morning sun holds a mirror

Painting yellow sunflowers on my face

Look, maple trees are wearing green slippers

And flowers are knitting hats with a lace

Busy as bees

II.

The mid-summer sky is an anagram

Where I rearrange the tidy letters

Into clouds of swirling sea tides & kelp

Where boats crammed of tourists, heave, sway & roll

I swoon with geese

III.

The end of the summer night is a page

Half scribbled in blue, hastily as kite

Lost in the rolling fog.   I masquerade

Sipping the last bottle of smooth red wine

Moon on my knees

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Colour me Poetry, hosted by Sarah Connor.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.   Thanks for your visits and comments.

 

you write your words

on paper

blue-smudged, yellow-curled of verses

lifting us in lark

of fun, light as clouds

months later,

on grieving your leaving,  

we read 

your letter

<dart-folded plane>

we should've been giggling

but your voice cuts

& weighs heavy as stone door 

we cannot close

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille, hosted by De Jackson.  This is a post of 44 words, with the given word, PAPER.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for the visits and comments.

after the strong southwest wind

 

when your eyelids shut

do you recall white-pink sands 

or the rage behind mud-graffitied walls 

do you see the bluest skim of lake

or spiralling darkness of missed turns of road signs 

weep

but open your eyes 

the light 

inside you

is never spent

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Quadrille hosted by Bjorn Rudberg.  This is a 44 word post with the chosen word - EYE.  Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.  Thanks for your visit and comments.

Clothes

The wind beneath us

Misses our sweat, stains & messes

Rinsed in clean water

Scrubbed in soap & bleach

We jiggle & jam to be free 

Instead you pin our shoulders on

Lines with brown clips

Hooked our faces to marvel

The heat from this cloudless day   

Our bows are scattered across

Blues, pinks, blacks & whites

The sky watches the chorus

of birdsongs & buzzing bees

The green in the grass is new

You peer from the window

ready with your basket & starched hands

to fold us over your skin

Cotton-  softly sagging, frayed edges

Linen-  loosely wrinkled, stretched out

Smelling unabashedly - wind-kneaded, sun-baked -

Franz Marc, Flatternde Wäsche im Wind (1906)

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, March Wind Ekprastic, Hosted by Merril D. Smith.  Thanks for your visits and comments.

celebrating trees

smell of pine trees, under half-moon

wafts citrus, musky as burnt wood, 

we inhale deeply fragrant breeze

recalling season of spring - soon                                         

soft are needles veiled in deep freeze

under half-moon, smell of pine trees

dark sap, scooped earth, trickling slowly

of zest, upon pine cones wholly 

fresh.  we make ardent wish:  peace, berth

under maple trees - brown, closely

tuffed by light, we witness green birth-

trickling slowly-  dark sap, scooped earth 

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetry Form is Sparrowlet.  

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

Maybe A Missed Connection

It could have been, maybe, it might have been

Deep dive to sea of passion, leading to a chapel 

Who knows but the wind, spinning tales with grin

It began with friendly banter, light as pins

Harmless I thought, but for you, a secret, an apple

Oh - what could have been, maybes or ifs of 

Had you looked at me, not with a twinkle of a pal 

Had I taken a small bite of your blushing-red proposal

Who knows but the wind, spinning tales with grin

I remember your face, filled with sunlight, a bean

Shivering with energy, the look of an open book - I missed..

it.  It could have been, maybe, it might have been

Had you held my hand, so boldly in another time 

Spinning me in a dance, kissing me up my spine-

Whew!  Maybe the wind knew, spinning tales with grin

Rewinding the clock, our paths entwined

Would lead us - here - our hearts bespoked- 

It could be another tale to "might have been"

Only the wind knows, spinning tales with grin

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, After St. Valentine Left the Building, hosted by Sarah Connor.  Thanks for the visit.

Monday's list

pastel pink and aqua blue tints

slowly nibble away heavy fog of winter greys

look:  caterpillar of clouds

on cusp of blossoming

there is joy in mindfulness:      

quietude of mornings

crisp air from pines, maple trees

smell of warm buttered toast with fruity smoothie

Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - hosted by Mish. Quadrille is a post of 44 words, with the chosen word, nibble.   Join us when the pub doors open at 3pm EST.