Category Archives: Poem

The Bread Train for dVerse Poets

The Bread Train

When you hop aboard the bread train, there’s no negotiation.
Folks aboard the bread train become a congregation.
It’s a happy wagon, a life-fulfilling ride.
Everything comes easy when you are inside.

Don’t bother about lowlifes who wait along the tracks.
You can’t be responsible for everybody’s backs.
This trip through life is better if you have some dough.
These folks who have an easy ride everywhere they go?

That there may be enough for all is what they do not know.
They want no interference with the status quo.
If folks don’t have what they do, it’s just because they’re lazy.
Those who think the bread train crowd will feed them are just crazy!

Every riff-raff wannabe can’t have what he wants.
If he can’t afford the bread train, let him eat croissants!!

For dVerse Poets: Train
Go HERE to read more train poems!

Old Feelings

Old Feelings

Our prairie  town  stood
in an unending stretch of South Dakota plain
that rolled on for as far
as any eye could see
with not one tree.

Here I dreamed
in the crouched shade of rabbit nests
and killdeer flight,
in the shade of the feigned broken wings of mother birds,
in the shade of tractor blades and haystacks.

This was where  I  would sunburn  and sand stick and deer fly scratch.
Where the ticks waited for me on the wood of the thickets.
Where no dangerous animals lurked
since the gray wolves were ghosts
and the brown bears memories.

Here the Sioux were sequestered in the bars and the reservations.
The horses were safe behind fences,
the cattle wore the tattoos of their owners,
and  feral  cats  were the only descendants left
in the decaying houses  of the homesteaders
of half a century before.

The  floorboards of my Grandmother’s  homestead
sagged  to the dry dirt,
and the roof and timbers
fell  to blanket them.

The ribs of  plows  rusted
in the spring  rainstorms.
Prairie fires burned away  rust
and  snow peeled away ashes
to the muscle of iron
which it picked at like scabs—
iron to rust to ashes to iron to rust.

Kicking the hard clods with my feet,
I knew that under me were arrowheads
and flint strikers
and white stone buttons
in the shape of thunderbirds—
All the rich Indian treasures
buried under the soil
to be turned up some day  by the plow of my dad .

Curled up into the furthest corner of the couch,
I listened to the stories traded between my dad and his friends.
Tales of gray wolves
and children lost in snowstorms,
Indian wanderers and recluse homesteaders
to be lifted out of my dad
like he lifted the Indian relics from the soft soil.

And I feel a part of the prairie dogs and the wild kittens,
the rabbits and the killdeer in their nests.
I feel both threatened and protected by the land––
like a child given asylum under the shadow of trees.
Like myself sheltered in the arms of  the child  I’ve grown from.
That child who, wanting to grow up and feel  less,
Comforts its  grownup self,  who wants the feeling back.

For dVerse Poets Open Link Night.

Paper Shoes for Ragtag Daily Prompt, June 8, 2024

Paper Shoes

I’m folding me some paper shoes
so I can walk away the blues.
The love poems I cannot recall
I’ll scuff off as I pass the mall.
Someone will find my words all shredded–
how you wooed and won and bedded
one so young and so naive
that she could not help but believe
words pilfered from a Hallmark store
that you had often used before.

All those lovelorn lines obscured.
All that loneliness endured.
On Main Street I will shed my heart—
that part of me you tore apart.
All the lines I wrote about it,
all the times I grew to doubt it.
Your words the heel, my words the sole,
the sidewalks will consume them whole.

All the futile poetry
that passed once between you and me
ground into the pavement where
perhaps two lovers will find it there—
the words like seeds that hung around
hoping for more fertile ground.
Love sprouted from a used-up word
might strike some others as absurd,
but I like to think perhaps
our use of them was just a lapse.
Repeated by those other voices
who choose to live by other choices,
all those words that we now rue
might work for lovers who are new.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt, the subject is Paper

“Words” for dVerse Poets

                                                       Artist: Catrin Welz-Stein.

Words

By their adjustment,
I change their drift,
but when I alter their lilt,
I am as transformed by them
as they are by me.

I am inebriated by words.
I reel in their power
as they call my bluff.

They reflect the changes in me
I would otherwise not know.
I can float in their buoyant comfort
or shoot the rapids of emotion.

Words are my river and my raft,
my cushion and that daredevil conveyance
into a new stream of thought

from which I never return
to the exact same world
I left from

for dVerse Poets
To read other poems written to this prompt, go HERE.

Pre-Textos Del Solsticio

This is an international show, this year occurring in Tabasco, Mexico. Poets are asked to send two poems and the poems are given to artists who paint a canvas inspired by them. Very anxious to see what my poems yield. Links to the poems I submitted are below. A poem inspired by a painting is called an ekphrastic poem. I don’t know what the reverse is called!

 

The Place

 

NaPoWriMo 2017, Day 16: What I Do with Love Letters

 

Within, for MVB Prompt “Unnoticed,” June 3, 2024

 

Within

External episodes are thrilling
but may not be half so chilling
as other splendors that reside
within ourselves—so deep inside
that they may be unmapable
because they are not palpable
to anyone except ourselves.
They’re mysteries that science delves
by means of psychotherapy.
They seek the treasures that may be
hidden in us, but so deep
we think they’re secrets that we keep.
It’s where we go in poetry—
exploring places we can’t see
unless we voice them lingually.

Prompt words are splendourepisodechillingpalpable and external.

For MVB Prompt: unnoticed

Night Chorus

Night Chorus

When a bright full moon escapes the cloud,
the dogs howl long and the dogs howl loud.
A burro brays its harsh assent
as wind whipped palms whisper consent.
Only you and I stay silent still
As the world around us speaks our will.

 

 

For dVerse Poets, the theme is Dark and the form is the Quadrille (44 words only.)

“Final Payment” for The Sunday Whirl Wordle 656

Image by Vitaly Taranov on Unsplash

Final Payment

Bees hum and die in brambles, hidden from our sight, 
and scrawled across the sky, untethered in their flight,
are birds swept by a tempest, urged on by its blast,
as down below, the earth cracks, and our future’s cast
in hurricanes and fires and climate change so vast 
that mankind’s ancient rituals no longer work their magic.
Our cut-down trampled forestlands foretell a future tragic.
We leap ahead to our own end, speed it on its way,
waiting for that reckoning for which we’ll have to pay.

For The Sunday Whirl the prompt words are: trample crack swept untethered hum urge scrawled bees sky ritual leap brambles

 

Why I Write, for dVerse Poets, May 24, 2024

Why I Write

I write for the same reason
that blue is blue and red is red.
I write because that is what I am.

Words are my sport
and my art
and my discipline.
My bones are words
and so is my flesh.

I am held together
by an understanding
I would never have found
if I didn’t write.
Words are the road I am choosing to take
to become who I will one day be.
Who I want to be.
Who I am intended to be
if there is any purpose in our universe.

Words wed us to our creator.
When I write,
I talk to a part of myself
that is united with the whole
and I become wiser in my everyday life.

Words are how I bring my dreams into reality
by creating a pathway between the two.
Words are the power I have
over the greatest things that I am subject to.
They are the only part of me that no one can take away.

In times of danger, they become thoughts.
In times of safety,
they venture again onto the page.

I write because it is what weds me to a past
I have been long divorced from.
I write because it shows me a path into the future.
I write because it is through writing that I become my best self.

I write to show my fear,
my admiration,
my love,
my revulsion.
It is like a bleeding,
getting these words out––
like a forced birth.

I write because it is the only thing I’ve ever found
that I have felt I am meant to do.
If I am a fish,
words are my water.
If I am a bird,
they are my sky.

For dVerse Poets May 24, 2024 Open Link Night

Elegy for Eunice: Mono No Aware, For dVerse Poets 5/20/24

When I was little, life seemed like one long summer day.

Elegy for Eunice

Most who might have mourned her
have followed or preceded her to dust.
Those few who still do,
think of her less often every year.
It is only in the fleeting moments
when beauty she might have appreciated
crosses our vision
or a song she once favored is heard
that a sweet pang of missing her
stabs into our busyness
and we remember
how she guided our footsteps,
taught us a gentle way with animals,
prodded us to attain more
and let us go.
This is an elegy to one we have forgotten
too easily and too soon.
One that calls her back to mind,
restores her to her rightful place.

The dVerse Poets prompt today is to write a haibun making use of mono no aware—the beauty of transience. My post is not a haibun, but I hope it meets the rest of the prompt. You can see how others responded to the prompt HERE.

Mono no aware is not simply a morbid attitude toward impermanence. Rather, it is accepting “the beauty of passing things.” As such, Mono no aware lies at the heart of Japanese poetry. Basho, the progenitor of the haibun, exemplifies mono no aware in an excerpt from his “Narrow Road to the Interior” that you can read on the dVerse Poets prompt above.