Sylvia took us unaware with her violet eyes and rainbow hair, was she human or sprite—perhaps a spirit of the light, or the embodiment of flowers of all seasons, of all hours. Once, I saw her twice in a blue moon, twice, I saw her floating n o o l l a b a like her laughter drifted down from the sky, lighting it, like a star somehow--yet how and why? Consider the source—the whispers and sighs of flowers, of poets, the artist’s eyes. I’m hosting dVerse tonight. There is some much awfulness and horror in the world, so I decided on a bit of whimsy. For my prompt, I've asked poets to use one or more of the garden rose names I have selected in their poems. I chose Sylvia and Twice in a Blue Moon. My mom’s name was Sylvia. She did not have violet eyes or rainbow hair. She did have an unforgettable laugh. And she was an artist who often painted flowers.
Flowers almost embrace
the blushing clouds of morning
broken by a kiss of light,
and the blue of new beginnings
lifts the purple shadows
~through an open window~
birdsong, music of summer mornings
calls rain, recalls life
in honeyed glow—
dream whispers that linger
in pink sprays, above the trees
the wind sings if, when, now.
My message, another puente, from the Oracle. She likes to be a bit enigmatic, but she knew–of course–that I went out for a long walk this morning.
I dream of huge white blossoms flaming and shooting off petals into the sky, turning it dark with flowery ash. Wondrous and a bit terrifying, this puzzle of my mind.
Moon silvers the trees,
green leaves pale in midnight glow—
dreams waiting to bloom
A Haibun quadrille for dVerse. Mish has asked us to use the word “puzzle,” or some form of it, in a quadrille, a poem of 44 words.
I wake to thunder. Lightning flashes in silver zig zags across the sky, and then the rain comes—first pelting, then plothering, then fading to a fine mist. Branches fall, weighted by their burdens. Flowers smile as they drink. If only summer storms could wash the world clean, ensorcelling all its inhabitants. I sip my coffee and gaze outside, dreaming of today and tomorrow, wondering at hearts that cannot be enchanted.
Verdure of summer,
nourished with morning rainfall
finch sings good morning
This haibun is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday, using synonyms for magic and green.
We have the restaurant patio to ourselves. Though it’s a hot day, it’s pleasant here in the shade. We’re surrounded by hanging baskets of red, pink, and white flowers that block the outside world. We chair dance to the 80’s music playing in the background. One of my friends says she has few female friends, as she treats us to dinner. She and I tell our friend, who has recently had surgery, how people miss her at the gym. We had her the card that so many people have signed. This has been a bad week for our country, for the world. Not everyone has the luxury to forget the evil around us—because they are experiencing it. We’re fortunate to be able to do so–and I celebrate and cherish this gift of friendship.
Summer evening comes–
breezes brush blossoms with joy,
blooms of laughter fall
This Haibun is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday—using synonyms for the words give and receive.
Monday Morning Musings:
It seems to rain from moon to sun
rain over and over, never done
and then a break, till it thunders
again and again.
I feel lethargic and dull
and it’s hard to mull
over this or that—
the people who insist the world is flat,
or guns don’t kill, people do,
except there are more dead kids shot through,
and it seems we will never cease
with hate and violence, the human disease.
But in the midst of death we see the love—
yes, pomp and circumstance, uniforms and gloves,
the fascinators, and the meters-long train
(and the sun-filled day with no hint of rain).
It’s storybook fantasy, mixed with Stand By Me,
gospel choir amid the history and pageantry,
but these two appear so much in love,
and if it helps, gets us thinking of
better things, well, I can take a break
in the coverage of hate, it’s not a mistake
to celebrate love, or a wedding day—
a bit of color amidst the world’s gloomy grey.
Still–spring insists on being seen
and here, the world is turning green,
though I don winter clothes because it’s turned cold
and we go through rain, to visit
friends of old.
We eat Chinese food, laugh, talk over the meal
how we can’t understand the hypocrisy of those who feel
the man in the White House is okay
when they were upset at bare arms and a tan suit,
birthers and ape images, just try to dispute
there’s no racism there,
some very fine people on both sides–but I’d beware.
The next day, the clouds break and the temperatures soar,
everyone wants to get out of doors,
I see a hawk atop a weathervane,
perhaps she’s trying to ascertain
the state of this territory, her domain,
which no doubt is full of tasty things
grown and born in rain and light of spring.
We walk city streets, where life beats
in harmony and patterns, under the blue sky
and birds sing and fly,
and there is so much green and flowers in bloom
filling the air with their perfume,
and it is a relief from gloom and rain,
though I know people are in pain
and children are dead, and women are raped
and the world is shaped
by guns, disease, and violence
and we must break the silence—
but for today, just let me feel the sun and say
nothing but “see the hawk there”
and smell the roses over there.
We see a movie about motherhood and coping
with a newborn and others and life,
sometimes mom’s need an extra wife
or helping hands and people to truly see
beyond the façade, the hyperbole
of motherhood’s joys to the cries and sleepless nights
the clutter and exhaustion—along with the delights.
We drink coffee, walk and talk some more
then it’s home to feed the cats, take care of chores.
In the night, my mind wanders and roams
far from home
(Macbeth has murdered sleep)
But in my dreams, I hear the chirps and cheeps,
As the mockingbird sings through the night
and we are fine, it’s all right,
We saw the movie Tully, which we both thought was excellent, but I don’t want to give anything away. I’ve seen it described as a comedy. At least not in the modern sense.
I’m reading Jo Nesbrø’s take on Macbeth, set in a Glasgow-like city in the 1970s.
Sorry about the weird formatting and gaps. WP gremlins are still hanging about.
Spring is buried now
tender buds sway in the wind—
sun hides behind clouds
Today, the vernal equinox, snow dances lightly in the air, turning to large, white flakes that cover the grass and cars. Soon, sleet pounds against the windows. The wind blows in angry gusts—winter rages at having to let spring back into the world. I think of how tomorrow children will wake to a silent world of white. They will happily build snowmen and make snow angels, while the daffodils and tulips wait for the sun to return, and for the snow to melt to nourish their roots.
Soon, I think, soon. . .
skipping from the underworld—
the light lingers now
We may get a foot of snow tomorrow.
Assume the world’s full of joy,
stare at birds,
wonder at our fate
and if we’ll mind what happens after–
they’ll call us,
if not the great–
but we’ll be gone,
beings that are not immortal
(unless time folds–perhaps a portal?)
and so, we shouldn’t hesitate
just assume the joy
of stars and earth
of moons that hum with charming mirth
then laugh, my dear–
no, stop, wait
there–the robin on the garden gate
I needed a poetry break this afternoon!
This is for Secret Keeper’s Challenge.
The prompt words were: Assume/Mind/Late/Being/Stare
Spots of color bloomed,
there in the mist,
pink and red, surrounded by green
with glistening sheen
life burgeoning, not yet entombed
but solidly rooted,
to withstand the rain–
again and again–
but then to greet the sun,
when at last, it comes
crowning the day on floating rays
lighting the wings of birds in flight
whisking away the gloom
(the scent of petrichor lingers)
making color, life, and love bloom
My husband planted these yesterday between rain showers. It made me happy when I looked out the window.
For those keeping track, I needed to take a poetry break. 🙂
Sweet spring shines
bird, and bee,
squirrel over tree,
a secret song,
must grow, thrive
at peace, but knowing
if my blue earth, a sanctuary
is soon through,
we blossom, berry, bough, follow, too
from sacred garden to prairie brown,
how eden leaves
By NASA/Apollo 17 crew; taken by either Harrison Schmitt or Ron Evans [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Day 22, NaPoWriMo. The Magnetic Poetry Oracle was true to the prompt. She gave me an Earth Day Georgic Verse.