Grey Winter growls, Spring dreams of green when flowers grow, and love birds preen. Soon rabbits wake, the vixen prowls then runs and hides, afraid she’s seen the fearful beast, who’d foul with howls spring dreams of green–grey Winter growls.
Now what comes next, before green spring when sparrows fly, and robins sing? Do wolves bare fangs? Do bears get vexed by hopes or dreams, by what spring brings, and seek with blood, destroy, annex before green spring? Now what comes next?
Before spring comes, the bullets fly. The people grieve, the winds just sigh as they drift by soldiers and drums. Power? Money? Who knows why the bloodlust soars. The moon just hums– the bullets fly, before spring comes.
For dVerse, a made-up form called the Sparrowlet. You can read about it here. The name of the form made me think of spring, and I wrote the first stanza yesterday. Then when I heard the news today, I wrote the last stanza. So then, I wrote the middle stanza to connect them. We are living in a very scary time, and so much disinformation is being spread constantly.
Let me tell you about the clouds, the sun, the flowers, tall and smiling, the tons of debris left, the work that must be done.
Now the hawk screeches and broad-wing flies in concentric circles, as the wind sighs at summer leaving, but with the prize of bluest skies
September comes, and we are in-between the muggy green and russet- gold; not yet seen the frosted crunch, yet geese convene
debating if–or when–to leave. But I don’t grieve summer’s end, perhaps naïve I must believe
that it will come again.
And so, I dip my apples, and ponder time, drink my wine, as the sun sets and moon climbs. Another year passes, she chimes,
while the stars in constellated chorus sing, and light scatters from white egret’s wing in the universe’s laughter, from winter to spring.
Most of you know we had storms, tornados, and flooding in my part of the world last week. Then we got beautiful September weather. We went to Dalton Farms, where they have a sunflower festival going on. Yesterday we went to William Heritage Winery. It was rainy, but we were fine under an umbrella. Part of their weekend sales were going to help Mullica Hill homes and farms damaged in the tornados last week.
Today is Labor Day, and tonight is Rosh Hashanah. I’ve baked some challahs, and we’ll be dipping apples in honey and drinking wine tonight.
The wind whispers, storms over river dreams, the river seems awake and wild, shimmering—riled by ancient breath or humming moon.
The wind whispers, storms— too soon the blue, the hue of water-sky. So high the ospreys fly through shifting clouds, the rustling loud
as the wind whispers, storms, through trees, bent but proud. The squirrels chitter, the deer skitter, while blue becomes slate grey–
they hide or stay. The wind whispers storms, but the sun, bright-rayed comes out to play.
And the wind whispers, the storms have gone away.
Ingrid is doing a dVerse prompt on oral poetry. I’m not sure that I did it exactly. I often read my poetry out loud and adjust it. This is not the best recording, but here it is. 😀 I finally figured out how to post it here.
Open a window to another universe– there is always an after and before
the bang and birth of stars, the flutter-shift of vibrating strings across dimensions, the light on stellar wings—
he sings, she laughs the fever-dreams of future-past- perfect brings
remembrance, she, and we see-saw imperfectly and fractured–all colored by mood and life-swings
in revolutions, the Earth spins, love, laughter, tears, and fears—it begins and ends
the stars sing, and we catch their light, swallow to hold it within, and in our dreams, or in some after, we sing their songs in flight.
Today my father would be 102. We’re going to have Chinese food and ice cream for dinner tonight–both of which he loved. My mom’s birthday is later this month, and she would have turned 99. My parents divorced (twice), but in my mom’s final years she believed my dad lived in the same building, and in her final months, she talked about him a lot, always with smiles and giggles. I think she was in love again. Of course, they were my stars.
The first set of photos were taken long before I was born. My brother is about twelve years my senior.
My mom’s first cousin, who was like her sister, turned 95 yesterday. There was a small party for her. My sister, husband, and I stayed masked in the house, but took our masks off outside. We got her a blanket that had a word cloud of English and Yiddish words we chose.
We ate homemade pizza and streamed a play this week: The Most Spectacularly Lamentable Trial of Miz Martha Washington by James Ijames performed as part of the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival, which looks like a beautiful place to see a play. In the play, Martha Washington is dying, and the enslaved people around her are waiting, as they will be freed when she dies. In her fever dreams she imagines them in various guises, as lawyers, Founding Fathers and Mothers, and King George and Queen Charlotte. The play is funny, sad, witty, and unique. Here’s the NY Times review.
This is when the world takes wing in the turning of summer from our spring when everything becomes lush and greenest green the grass and leaves
sigh in gentle breeze and rustle in the storms as cotton ball clouds flower to take new forms and azure sky turns charcoal-hued until another day spins by
another day older, children fly out the door calling good-bye— chicks and goslings grow so fast, you hold the thoughts to make them last.
And so, now the days grow slowly darker, imperceptible at first, no marker for the shadows cast, till autumn comes and winter’s darkness cast
but in shadowed darkness the light never disappears— despite our worries and our fears, we make another turn round our glowing star– do we measure it in miles or hours—the journey how far?
Seasons of love, freedom, and glory, we celebrate each story in the turning from spring to summer when the world, despite everything, yet sings
in robin trill and mockingbird song all night long, and all night long the dreams drift from sea to shore, where in the past our children played
and in some world, I think perhaps still do.
Saturday was Juneteenth. President Biden signed the law making it a federal holiday on Thursday. Fourteen Republicans voted against it. I found this post from several years ago by Henry Louis Gates on the history and relevance of Juneteenth.
Yesterday was Father’s Day. My husband Zoomed with older child as they worked on a woodworking project together. He’ll get together with younger child later this week. It was also the summer solstice, and it was a hot, but beautiful day. I got my husband this Father’s Day t-shirt to add to his collection of nerdy shirts, and we tasted two of the three red wines we still had left from my wine-tasting box. It looks like you have to click on some of the photos to see them properly.
Our anniversary is later in the week, and that’s the time of year we used to take our children to Ocean City, NJ for a summer vacation.
Beneath the blue of wayward sky, beneath the clouds that wandered by, like whispered words above the river floated, just so my cries above the river floated.
Do you remember the day of peaches? Do you remember the sway of peaches– their fragrance sweet in the sultry air, fuzzy-furred and opened inside pink—just there– the way their juices dripped on our skin and hair— leaving drops of summer shared—we didn’t care.
Under the peach sun, we laughed and loved. Under the fruited moon, we moaned, and loved the summer, loved in the summer, all through the summer, we loved, and at the harvest moon, I loved you still, but you were gone
after the summer, all the peaches were gone, their sweetness dried and packed away, and away you stayed.
Now, another year has passed, another year beneath the sky beneath the sky, I wonder why— but I am fine, the past’s gone by
though the scent of peaches still makes me sigh.
Something a bit different from me for dVerse. Laura has asked us to use repetition, specifically, epiphora:
1a. Epiphora (aka Epistrophe or Antistrophe ). The repeat lines should for the most part be consecutive although allowances are made for alternates as well as the use of the repeat word with variance. Employ repetitions with the maxim ‘ too often is too heavy’!
AND those who like an extra challenge might like add in some
1b. Symploce – the combined use of anaphora and epiphora. . .
Fun Fact: Epiphora in medical terms means watery eyes due to excess tear production. So you may like to write a tear-jerker, something sad at least. Its optional!