His thoughts And prayers
were broken-winged she thought, meaningless things
never soaring sometimes boring, never driving
far to the stars, where she longed to go,
but earth-tethered unfeathered, she remained
he stayed, staid, while she longed for blazing rays,
only in night’s dreamscape wandering high to dance together in the sky
A contrapuntal poem for dVerse, where Paul is tending the bar. My poem is three separate poems.
Such rainy rain
fell–
dropped
for days it plopped,
then finally stopped,
so she could play
in shiny coat and
rubber boots,
skipping and prancing
and stomping and splashing
into those puddles
dashing–
Asked why, she replied
to step into the rainbows,
hiding inside.
Embed from Getty Images
This is a quadrille for dVerse, where Kim has asked us to write a poem about rain.
I’m getting sick of rain and writing about rain, but then I remembered a recent conversation I had with one of my now-grown daughters.
My sisters and I help my mother try on new clothes on Mother’s Day. She has trouble getting up and sitting down, and she can no longer see very well. All of us, including my mom, laugh so hard at the maneuvering and manipulation of her body parts in and out of sleeves that we cry. Our tears fall lightly like the spring rain dampening this day. Our giggles create a euphonious sound, a rainbow of multi-colored tones that arc across the small room. I tuck this moment into the folder in my mind labeled “Mom Memories.”
fledglings cry for food
spring to summer, then they fly–
stormy skies soon clear
Carroll Sargent Tyson, Jr.
Kingfisher
From the portfolio Twenty Birds of Mt. Desert Island
Philadelphia Museum of Art
Xenia Tran who is the guest host for Haibun Monday at dVerse asks us to write about compassion or self-sacrifice without using the words.
I’m also linking to Frank’s Haikai challenge, Spring Rain
Like a ghost,
a man already dead–
the dread
of knowing others bled
and he was complicit
in acts morally,
if not legally,
illicit.
Would he be called enabler,
or traitor?
The victors tell the story,
when truth is denied,
then histories lie.
But his eyes betrayed–
me too, they said,
a clue
to what he was thinking–
that he was lost, sinking
lower and lower,
flowing out with the tide
(conquer, divide)–
he tried to divert the course
of fate—
perhaps too late.
And now he only watches
wondering how and why he was chosen.
Like his ancestors there
against the plaster
on the wall—
frozen–
in the famed paint of dead masters.
For dVerse, Amaya asked us to take two quotes from different sources and use one for the first sentence on a poem, and the other for the last sentence. I used Munich, a new novel by Robert Harris, which is about the Munich Agreement of 1938. Despite knowing the outcome, it was still a bit of a thriller. I also used a phrase from Maya Angelou’s, “California Prodigal.”
“In the shadows, at the back of the study Hartmann watched it all without seeing, his long face blank and ashy with exhaustion—like a ghost, though Legat, like a man already dead.”
–Robert Harris, Munich, Knopf: New York, 2018, p. 251
“Under the gaze of his exquisite
Sires, frozen in the famed paint
Of dead masters. Audacious
Sunlight cast defiance
At their feet.”
Maya Angelou, “California Prodigal
Muddle my mind
with syllables that sing
the zing of spring.
(Fevered believer.)
Befuddle me with blackholes and space–
see the moon’s humming face,
timeless, timebound,
her fullness, lost and found.
There the dying star
glowing from afar,
it’s unmuddled light,
clear, still bright.
Morning Moon
A quadrille for dVerse, where De Jackson (aka Whimsy Gizmo) has asked us to use the word muddle.
We walk through an exhibition, “Modern Times”—art and music of an age now past. In a museum, moments are captured, set, and time seems to stop. Real is what the artist sees; it has its own truth. We walk outside. The sun sparkles on the Schuylkill River, as it did in Thomas Eakins’s time. The rowers could almost be those he painted—except that now there are women rowing, too. Cars zoom by on the street where horses and carriages once cantered. Bicyclists and runners pass us on the path. Spring is moving on, too, and summer’s lush greenery is appearing. My husband and I walk west, then circle back, and into our future.
Spring buds and blooms fall
drifting like fragrant snowfall–
time moves in circles
On Monday, at dVerse Björn asked for poems on walks/walking for Haibun Monday. I’m posting this for dVerse’s Open Link Night, where Björn is hosting again.
Once your ancestors roamed desert lands
stalking and hunting.
Once my ancestors also roamed
hunting and foraging for food,
till we learned to plant, and sowed
our seeds into fields and generations into towns
where your ancestors chose to live with mine.
Now, we are wild only in our dreams–
you are content to purr and sleep on my lap,
and I am content to let you be there.
This for dVerse, where Jilly asked us to write about being wild.
No flask, no wine, no book of verse, this night
We reach for stars and moon, seek gleams of light
Hear the silver streams from the humming moon
Time and rhythms flow, in eternal rites
Upon the sand, waves pitch and break and roar
While spindrift flicks in salted breeze to shore
And you with me, now standing hand in hand
Watching the sea, waiting for dreams, and more.
Ilya Repin, “What Freedom”
I’m off prompt for today’s NaPoWriMo challenge. I took bits of yesterday’s NaPoWriMo poem and tribute line from Omar Khayyam’s famous verse for this attempt at a Rubaiyat for Frank Hubeny’s challenge on dVerse.
I don’t mourn winter’s passing. Time’s river flows, carrying me. The air will again turn silver-cold. Then I’ll gather a blanket about me like a hug and wait for spring.
spring sun grows, gathers
bright rays trilling on robin’s wings
dawn flames green branches
It’s been a busy day, with work to finish, and a doctor’s appointment for my mom. And so many posts to catch up on! So this is not exactly an elegy, the prompt for today’s NaPoWriMo. I may come back to write a proper elegy at some point. This not-elegy is a haibun quadrille for dVerse, where Lillian asked us to write a quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, using the word gather.
“There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.”
–W.B. Yeats, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”
Around the glimmering lake, where birds still sing,
though you’ve been gone for many a year,
I stayed and watched as linnets take wing.
Once I longed to wear your ring–
before things changed, I sought you here,
around the glimmering lake, where birds still sing,
You promised the sun, the moon, and everything.
before the bad times came and settled near,
I stayed and watched the linnets take wing.
I realize now, I was just a fling
though I thought you loved and held me dear
around the glimmering lake, the birds still sing
Here at my side, our baby did cling
without a father. She brought me untold joy and cheer–
I stayed and watched the linnets take wing.
I dreamt I was a queen and you my king,
before you sailed far from my pier
around the glimmering lake, where birds still sing,
I stayed and watched the linnets take wing.
Faye Collins, “Pine and Fog at Thirlmer”
Somewhat related to today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, I’ve stolen Jane Dougherty’s idea, so it only seemed right to base my villanelle on her beloved Yeats. In the spirit of the prompt, this one probably needs a lot of revision! 🙂
I’m also linking this to dVerse, where Sarah is hosting for the first time. She’s asked us to write an ekphrastic poem (which I’m not sure that this is) based on the work of artist Faye Collins.
