Can you Blame Me?

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Moon language drifts down from the sky–

a hum, fierce and gentle

known to all who listen—

shhhhhh!—

hear the glow as it falls

lingering on treetops and river surfaces,

 

~poetry of the night~

 

vanishes as I wake

to celebrate flowering cloud-breath,

morning magic flitters in, a bird-winged song,

filling the day with possibility, and if

I smile as the universe blushes,

can you blame me?

 

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A puente from my collaboration with Oracle—I accidentally clicked out of the site, then something else came up. . .and well, it’s one of those days. Still, each day begins with promise and possibility.

 

Her Voice

 

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My mother’s voice is soft now. Her words slur and drift off in a breeze. But today she laughs, and the sparrows twitter and chirp, carrying that laugh up to the sky.

Dawn rises giggling

rose-tipped clouds streak summer sky—

shadows dance on ground

 

For dVerse, where De has asked us to write a quadrille (a poem of 44 words, any style) using the word voice.

 

 

 

 

 

Promises and Dreams

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In the dew-dappled dawn, promises fly,

rising up in murmurations, flowing

into space, tracing patterns in the sky

turning into misty clouds, then throwing

shadows back onto dreams. But then knowing

that the moon rises as the sun sets still

and the earth yet revolves–and will–and will

beyond our mortal lives. So, starlight gleams,

we watch it speckle bright the night—until

it seems, our dreams grow luminous streams.

 

I haven’t been around much lately at dVerse, and I’m sorry for being so behind in reading. I have a lot going on right now. This is my first attempt at a dizain, this month’s poetry form at dVerse.

 

 

 

 

 

Dawn Ascends

Dawn ascends in rosy drapery

Each pleat of her gown a different shade,

Fuchsia to pale pink, daily refashioning her fashion, she

Gathers the glimmering fabric about her, then soars

Higher and higher. Now the robin trills her entrance–and

I gaze out the window, dreaming of what the day will bring.

 

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Frederic Edwin Church, “Beacon, off Mount Desert Island,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

No beautiful sunrise here today. It’s still cloudy and misty.

This poem is for dVerse. Lillian has asked us to write an Alphabet Sestet. We are to pick any six-letter sequence from the alphabet. I chose D E F G H I.

 

Breath of Dawn

Silence—as the curtain falls

weighted with emotion just before applause.

Silence—just before the thunder booms,

as though the sky must first absorb the sound

before it’s released. . .breathe in, breathe out. . .

Silence—seconds before the sun awakens,

the cat stretches and yawns,

you turn over as twitters and chirps begin to fill the air,

where traces of dreams still linger—whispered sighs—

they float away, up into the rose-swept sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another Silence poem for Dwight’s Sounds of Silence dVerse prompt, and it’s punctuation -filled for Björn’s dVerse prompt. 

Mockingbird Dawn–Haibun

Just before dawn, the mockingbird sings, an extensive string of melodies. Does he advertise his riches, or is he protecting his nest? I listen, captivated by his song. I take a mental snapshot of this moment to hold it tight within my cache of memories. Marked for now, but memories do not stay fixed on a map. The maple tree in which the mockingbird sits is ravaged by disease, and soon it will be cut, leaving only a stump. The birds will have to move on, flying into the air–soon gone like a thought.

 

dawn beguiles with song–

with bells of trills and warbling,

summer mornings ring

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This Haibun is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for bewitch and treasure.

Echoes of Sounds and Silence, Haibun

I hear a poet on the radio today and learn that one definition of clamor is silence. It’s a word with opposite meanings—meaning loud, insistent noise and silence both. My mind, too, seems full of opposing thoughts, but it’s never truly silent, even in my sleep. Ideas, voices, songs, bits of this and that spin around non-stop within my brain, clamoring for attention, moving at high speed like race cars speeding around a track. Or, like meandering streams or comets that leave a fiery trail before vanishing in space–the poems that die unborn. They are all the birds in the dawn chorus and the night’s humming moon. They ebb and flow like the tide. I can stop and focus on one or more, if I choose. Sometimes I don’t choose.

 

birdsong wakes the day

growing with summer sunlight,

echoing in dreams

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is for dVerse, where Frank has asked us to write a Haibun Monday poem on “silent sounds,” “all those thoughts and chatter that go through our minds. . .”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dawn Chorus, Tanka

Laud the dawn chorus–

robin, cardinal, and wren

trill night into day

light streaming golden and pink

as cherry blossoms in spring

 


By Awesok [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)%5D, from Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This tanka is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for sing and celebrate, and for Frank’s Haikai Challenge.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Storm Music

I’m awakened by the rain hitting the window, the barker for the upcoming show. Step right up, folks! This one’s a dazzler of light and sound. The lightning takes center stage as it illuminates the sky, followed by the chorus of thundering kettle drums. One cat leaps off the bed; the other snuggles closer to my side. My husband sleeps, but I’m held captive, an unwitting, unwilling audience for this production. Do hours pass, or does it just seem that way? The endless percussion, the strobing encores? The fortissimo storm music finally ends, drifting off, pianissimo, until it’s gone. I dream then of shadows and golden light, of distant seas and far off worlds, until at last, the sun rises, waking me again, with a gentle song.

whirling midnight storms

shadows flit through worlds and minds

in dawn’s light, vanish

 

 

 

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This Haibun is for Colleen Chesebro’s Weekly Poetry Challenge.

The prompt words were shadow and light.

I’m also linking to dVerse, where Gayle is hosting an open link night.

 

 

The Feathers: A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time. . .

a girl left her home as the morning moon shone through the tree branches and hummed a farewell song.

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Before she began her daily chores, she wanted to enjoy the peace of the forest, to hear the birds sing, and to see the sun rise and gild the treetops in golden light. These moments of beauty both stirred and quieted her soul. Her village was expanding, but somehow the lives of all who lived there were shrinking. They parroted the words of the king and expected riches to follow, but life had not improved. Her parents had seen no reason for her to continue with her schooling. Other villagers felt the same way, and so the school closed. It stood empty on a hill, a silent beacon.

The girl walked, enjoying the feel of the cool morning air against her face. From above, the dawn star winked, startling her and causing her to stumble and fall on a small pile of feathers. They sparkled, iridescent, blue, silver, and red. She wondered what sort of bird could have dropped the brilliant plumes. As she stroked the silky quills, a door appeared in the forest. It shimmered in the air, and opened just a bit in silent invitation. The girl opened the door wider and walked through.

Inside was a land filled with light and color. Wisdom dripped from the trees, and animals licked it up. A deer came up to her, and shyly nuzzled her hand before sprinting off. Her hand tingled, and she was filled with joy. She learned the feathers came from the bird of knowledge, which was perpetually in motion. Its size and color constantly changed, and it looked different each time she caught a glimpse of it. Over time, the girl learned many things in this world from the trees and the animals, but eventually she wanted to go home.

She found the door and opened it–for it was never locked–and she stepped back into her forest. It looked sadder, smaller. Her parents were happy to see her, but they too, looked sadder and smaller. The villagers were disillusioned. The village had not prospered, and though many still dutifully echoed the king’s words, others were seeking something more. The girl joined these seekers, as they reestablished the school, and she shared an important message:

Ignorance brings fear; knowledge leads to hope.

The girl became a woman, and she remembered the lessons she had absorbed. She made time for books and nature, and when she had children, she read to them every night. She told them the story of the bird of knowledge, and showed them one brilliant blue, silver, and red feather that she had kept. Sometimes the dawn star looked down at them and winked.

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William Llewellyn, “Girl with Pigtails,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

This is for a writing challenge that Jane Dougherty and Jeren of itsallaboutnothing concocted. You can read about it here.

Well, I suppose this is too long for flash fiction, and it doesn’t involved insects, and I guess it’s fairy tale, not a folk tale, but other than that it fits the challenge perfectly!