Poetry Queen
Your poetry’s great, both gripping and fragile—
your style of delivery skillful and agile.
Swathed in your gear both sexy and hip,
you have the whole crowd within your cool grip.
Those reticent types who came thinking they’d jeer
are slapping their knees and crying in their beer.
Skillful at words and for sure in your prime,
you’re our favorite reciter of meter and rhyme.
Prompt words today are fragile, reticent, delivery, swathe and grip. Image by Marcos Paul on Unsplash.
Sorry, my friends are making me walk on the beach, talk about writing, drink gin and tonics and play cards instead of posting my blogs!!! See you once they fall asleep. oxoxo J
First Night at the Beach
Culture Queen
She was a universal maven. Up on every trend.
Music, art and literature thrilled her to no end.
She raised no petty cavils. Her eye and mind were keen.
Her taste was impeccable. She was the culture queen.
She painted masterpieces when she was just a maid,
and though detractors said that her genius would fade,
she remained keen in her eighties and proved her critics wrong,
tackling every challenge as they came along.
She kept her zest for life until they laid her down,
and so became the object of the world’s renown.
Although this poem was written about a fictional character, when I started looking for photos of classy ladies, my friend Gloria, who luckily has not been laid down, seemed to fill the bill.
For Cee’s FOTD
Heirlooms
Heirloom quilts, wedding veils, and Grandma’s tablecloths
are but future feeding grounds for silverfish and moths.
Since we cannot control the changes that the future brings,
we should not be flummoxed by the loss of treasured things.
Their value is more visceral than literal, it’s true,
so time can rarely mitigate their presence within you.
North and south and east and west—wherever we are cast—
within our minds and hearts, we bear the treasures of our past.
I cannot help mourning the loss of this quilt handmade by my grandmother over 100 years ago which seems to have vanished from the assisted living facility where my sister lived for the last ten years of her life, so I guess this poem was mainly written to comfort myself.
Prompts today are tablecloth, visceral, flummox, mitigate and north.
The Poet Artist
“Poltroon!” He calls out in his sleep,
caught up in words, even when deep
in dreams—those places where he goes
where fresh ideas, rows upon rows,
spreading farther, stacking higher,
crowd his brain . And now, “Pismire!”
Is he building poems or sculptures there?
What new dream, what bold nightmare
will he allow to come to light
as soon as he has finished night
and carved his way into the the day?
The worker ant come out to play?
Carving stone into a face
or moving words from place to place.
All those schemes conceived in dreams
turned into his creative schemes.
I intrude, a kiss, a cuddle,
bringing love into the muddle
of his early morning head,
still sleeping here in my warm bed.
This is no coward sleeping here.
He has no qualms, displays no fear
of any challenge of his art
or adventures of the heart.
Metal, wood, paper and stone—
no one material alone
can solve his lust. He needs them all.
No stone too heavy. No scheme too tall.
And, alas, no woman will
manage to completely fill
that questing heart. That grasping soul.
seeking to reach that final goal.
See some results of those dreams HERE.
Prompt words today are poltroon, cuddle, pismire, allow and worker.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 