For Cee’s FOTD
routes laid out by heavenly bodies
the moon
at its birth
and
the sun
at its death
create
just the
suggestion
of a
road
that is
why
I rise early
for the
sunrise
why I
ask you
to join me
for the
sunset
to howl howl
at the
open moon
This is a rewrite of a poem written 8 years ago transformed into a quadrille for the dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge: Moon. Go HERE to read other poems written for this prompt. I think I like the quadrille version better. Thanks, De at Whimsygizmo, for the incentive.
Sam Says 11/14 is National Cat Day and That’s Enough to Set Me Off!!! I’ve been saving these photos for months…and here they are.
Click on Photos to Enlarge.
Two colors of hibiscus grow on this one tree: red and yellow. This one grows at the west end of the malecón in San Juan Cosala.
For Cee’s FOTD,
The Escape
Lips pressed against a crystal glass,
she gazes at the stars.
A prisoner, she scans the sky
from Jupiter to Mars.
Within this arranged marriage,
her future has been cinched.
Trapped within tradition,
her fire has been quenched.
Blind terror fills her body
as she thinks of what she’ll lose,
for it is another
she’d have if she could choose.
A pity that she has to take
this means of her escape,
as she tucks the lethal bottle
in the pocket of her cape
and drinks the draught in one fast gulp,
then lets out one long sigh
as she enters that dark tunnel
that leads from Earth to sky.
The Sunday Whirl Wordle 628 prompts are: blind lips body escape pressed pitied tunnel lose trapped fire glass stars (Image by Louis Galvez on Unsplash.)
Empty Nest
“Open Morrie, open!” We pried our Scottie’s jaws apart to find a small bird whole inside his mouth, rain soaked and bedraggled, its tail feathers either gone or not yet grown in. For three days, we sheltered the baby bird with heater on, taking him for feedings on the terrace table where his father and mother could find him and return once or twice per hour to fill him up like a small mechanical bird purchased in the market who, when wound up, first hops, then sits dormant until fueled again.
This fledgling had survived under our care for three days and four nights, hale and hearty. Loud chirps brought the mother, at first, until yesterday, when we could see a new nest in construction. Then the father came, first to a nearby rock, then later, clung to the side of the cage to fill his nestless chick like a small car from the fuel pump.
This morning dawned overcast, and though the chick needed feeding, when I neared the rock, I felt his tremors and took him back to the house for another 10 minutes warming, then tucked him into an old nest I’d found years ago and saved. I hoped for protection and warmth and security, perhaps a memory of the nest he’d fallen from. Then I carried him in his cage back to the tree to be fed.
From the hammock, far enough away to pose no threat, I watched the father’s descent and an ascent too quick. Then no return, so that when minutes later I searched the cage for the small bird tucked into that scavenged nest inside, I found the nest empty and one ruffled back against the cage bottom, claws curled upwards.
There is no difference equal to the difference between a body chirping—wings pulsing—and its empty husk after the life has left. No question bigger than: What is life that we can only see it through what it inhabits, and where does it go when it soars away?
jdb photo
This is actually a true story. When I was at the beach a few years ago, I had a house right on the beach and it got so I never knew who I would find on my porch when I woke up in the morning.
I published this poem once before, three years ago, but here it is again:
Found Poem
One and two and three and four.
Four little music makers pounding on my door.
One beats a rhythm, one toots a horn––
wild and sweet––sort of forlorn.
One hums a tune behind his teeth––
a sort of descant underneath
the melody on the steel guitar.
The gulls reel in from near and far
to add their screams to the refrain,
then fan their wings, silent again.
Four musicians at my gate.
I wait for their music to abate.
Then I go and let them in
to add my music to the din.
I sing my lyrics fast and slow
first soft then loud, my lyrics go
up and over the drums and horn–
out into the sandy morn.
Over the rocks and out to sea,
setting all our music free.
When the drummer leaves my porch,
he leaves just three to loft the torch.
Too soon the horn, too, fades away
but the hummer’s here to stay,
and the steel guitar swells out to fill
the morning air until until
the morning fades into full sun
and our melody comes done.
Soon guitar and singer fade,
their morning share of music made,
and I fold my songs away.
I’ll bring them out some other day.
With music left behind I wind
only words around my mind.
They weave their spell with me along.
I lose myself in their noisy throng.
Wander aimless, round and round,
in getting lost, this poem is found.
For Cee’s FOTD
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 