The Dreams that Dance

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.

 

 

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Girl in the Rain–Quadrille

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.

We Laughed Till We Cried: Haibun

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

How Does the Story End?

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

 

 

 

 

Muddled–Quadrille

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.

 

 

 

 

Walking Into the Future, Haibun

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 We Were Wild

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.

Waves Again (and Again), NaPoWriMo, Day 27

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, Haibun Quadrille, NaPoWriMo, Day 24

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.

As Linnets Take Wing, NaPoWriMo, Day 18

“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.