Tag Archives: dVerse Poets

Unseen Forces

Unseen Forces

A sneeze is how a poltergeist gets outside of you.
At night a different stinky elf sleeps inside each shoe.

Every creaking rafter supports a different ghost,
and it’s little gremlins who make you burn the toast.

Each night those tricky fairies put snarls in your hair,
while pixies in your sock drawer unsort every pair.

Midnight curtain billows are caused by banshee whistles.
Vampires use your toothbrush and put cooties in its bristles.

Truths all come in singles. It’s lies that come in pairs.
That’s a zombie, not a teenager, sneaking up the stairs.

 

https://dversepoets.com/

Word Pie

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Word Pie

I take them as a milestone, these long afternoon naps
that make my late nights possible by filling in the gaps
between compulsive writing sessions to meet the assignment
of all these daily prompt words coming to us by consignment!

Blogging’s become a nightmare that’s turned me slightly manic.
Prompts have me fully frustrated and in a mid-life panic.
(To be truthful, only “midlife” if one forty is my lifespan,
which, if I had my druthers, really would become my lifeplan!)

Prompts now come like a waterfall that’s turned on every morning.
I might have just ignored them if I’d only had a warning
that I’d become obsessive in using one and all.
(I have them in my bookmarks and must daily heed their call.)

That WordPress prompt now seems like poverty. One short month ago
we only had one daily prompt site where all of us would go.
Every day, we waited for it like the early morning sun,
but now we face a heat wave for there isn’t only one.

Ragtag and Fandango have become Daily Addictions—
not to mention other Word Prompts that demand our daily fictions.
Cee’s Share Your World still tempts us, as does that dVerse Poet.
We could have stuck to only them. Alas, we did not know it!

Now we are all scrambling to fill  all their demands.
It keeps our poor brains busy, not to mention how our hands
cramp up from all this typing as our lives all go awry
as we all line up to get each daily slice of prompt site pie!

This poem is an attempt to meet all of the below prompts..Ooops, sorry “Heatwave,” I slipped a photo prompt in without realizing it.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/06/29/rdp-29-milestone/

https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/2018/06/29/poverty/

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/06/29/fowc-with-fandango-nightmare/

https://weeklyprompts.com/2018/06/27/word-prompt-frustrating/

https://weeklyprompts.com/2018/06/23/photo-challenge-heat-wave

Share Your World – June 25, 2018

 

https://weeklyprompts.com/prompts/

https://weeklyprompts.com/2018/06/27/word-prompt-frustrating/

Sun or Moon and Smooth or Rough

 

Opposites make the world go round! And certainly make it more interesting, if not always comfortable. For dVerse Poets.

lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown

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Sun or moon and smooth or rough,
old or young and clothed or buff––
opposites contrast each other––
tough or easy, breathe or smother.
Shadows can be made with light,
though sun is opposite of night.
Sarcasm depends on this:
words that praise, but really diss.
Life consists of contrasts that
give yin for yang and tit for tat.
If you can’t find a life to fit,
just change into its opposite!
Reach for the hidden, release the found.
Contrasts make the world go round.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/contrast-2/

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The Ways I Do Not Love You

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“An un-love poem isn’t a poem of hate, exactly — that might be a bit too shrill or boring. It’s more like a poem of sarcastic dislike. “

The Ways I Do Not Love You

I do not want to count the ways I do not love you.
To do so casts me too solidly in your image
without your excuses
for doing what you did:
that you were crazy-jealous,
crazy-in love, crazy-in rejection,
crazy period.

I had always wanted to be loved to distraction,
but being loved to craziness is another thing:
your deep truck tracks carving artless Nazca lines
into the fresh sod of my yard,
the new mailbox snapped off at its base,
the queries from strangers who had met you in a bar
and heard all of the intimate details
of your insane version of our love affair.
The letters to every member of the school board,
every administrator in the district, every lawyer,
every preacher in our town of 50,000,
telling of the wild schoolteacher
and outing her gay friends.

I do not want to count the ways
you proved the heartbreak
of your love for me,
those ways that now delineate
the ways I do not love you.

I do not even love the memory of you
at Vedauwoo, standing on the monolithic rock,
your sun-shy son crouched in its shade.

I do not love the memory
of driving to Jackson Hole,
the twelve-foot-high banks of snow
on either side of the highway
that made it impossible to slide off the road.
The dark, split by our headlights,
pixilated by the mesmerizing onslaught of snow;
and suddenly, the miraculous glimpse of the giant elk
arcing from the left hand snow mass, high above us, over to the bank on the other side,
leaving us spellbound and mute,
as though this was a miracle
neither of us had the words to describe.

What are you, about 21? You asked
that first night at the Ramada.
The music was starting
and I thought you were there to ask me for a dance.
When I answered 26, you smiled that crooked smile
and walked away.
That unpredictable mystery of you
was what kept me intrigued.
I never could stand the ordinary.

Not that I love the memory of this.
And not that I know how long the list would be
of why I do not love you any more.
My mind wanders through the memory of you
like a lazy woman picking chocolates:
testing one and discarding it.
Choosing another.
Finally deciding
perhaps it is the brand of chocolates
that does not suit.
Oh, my once-darling,
I despise the thought of you.
Even these intrusive memories
cannot win me back.

You told me once, “Babe, you are so good
that you don’t even realize your powers.”
You’d lost your job and most of your friends
and blamed it all on me.
Even your friends had chosen my side, you said,
blaming me when I didn’t even know there was a game,
let alone its rules or its consequences.

I do not want to number all the ways
I do not love you anymore.
Suffice it to say that once over,
love might as well have never been.
Like a snowflake on a sun-warmed sidewalk,
there is no evidence
of its ever having existed.

Better to exhaust one’s efforts on a new love,
for there is no way to list the ways you do not love.
No way to bring to light now that list
that you have never written.

That list.

That list that you keep hidden
in the back of your heart
with all of your life’s other
impossibilities.

 

This is a piece I wrote four years ago, reblogged  for a prompt from  dVerse Poets Pub.

Travel Advisory for Marital Bliss

 

Click on any photo to enlarge all.

For dVerse Poets today, we were to compose a poem making use of the following street names:
Rope Walk, Potacre Street, Silver Street, Catshole Lane, Buttgarden Stree, Gas Lane, Coral Avenue, Dragon Hill, Baron Way, Mutton Lane. Well, I used them all, but don’t blame me for the zaniness of the following:


Travel Advisory for Marital Bliss

When I’m asked to walk the rope,
I am most likely to say, “Nope!”
But(t) Garden Street sounds more ornate.
I might pass through its flowery gate.
I won’t be Dragon up the Hill.
Don’t do inclines, and never will.
Silver and Coral? My confession
is that they suit my old profession
as a silversmith and vendor,
so if you are a generous spender,
I’ll go on a buying spree
and sell the results, then, to thee.

Don’t go for mutton. It ends in gas,
so on those two, I’ll have to pass.
There’s a barrier on Baron Way.
I can’t go there, for no one may.
Acres of potholes also mar
Potacre Street and so my car
must avoid both Catshole and it
lest we wind up in a pit,
damaging our undercarriage
and my stability of marriage.

Are we going there? The wife says no,
for she decides where we will go.
So, much as I would like to wander
up all those streets up over yonder,
dVerse Poets are not my boss,
so this adventure will be my loss.
And though I will not ace your test,
all-in-all, I think it’s best
to limit where I’m going to roam
and simply take the fast route home.

For dVerse Poets Pub prompt.

Bearcat: dVerse Poets Open Link Night, May 4, 2018

daily life color163Bearcat, Bentley and Patti, 1987. The only way you could tell them apart was by their tails. Their mother’s tail bent to the left, Patti’s bent to the right, Bentley’s was zigzag and Bearcat’s was just straightly expressive.  Sweet babies. Bearcat is the one to your left.

Presently, I live with five cats. If you follow my blog, you’ve been seeing them off and on over the past year. The kittens unceremoniously dropped off by my garage door are now about a year old. They mainly reside outside in a sheltered garage in a cushy bed big enough to hold them all or a little cathouse I bought which once held them all but now mainly holds them one-by-one in an equally cushy bed.  

My oldest cat is Annie, now 16 years old and a bit cranky as she rules the roost as an inside cat.  She will allow the other cats inside only if they maintain their distance. About 6 times a day, she yowls her insistence at being served a small meal.  I comply.  She always gets a chin and ear rub first, then she returns to her cushy bed in the large bath/ shower of the bathroom of my bedroom.  Her litter tray and dishes are also there. I’ve pretty much been relegated to the guest bathroom.  

This poem, however, is for Bearcat–upon his death, the only surviving sibling of 4 Blue Burmese kittens that I was foster mother to from the time of their birth. Their mother, a wild cat, moved in with us long enough to give birth and stuck around until the kittens were well beyond weaning before she vanished again into the Redwood Forests of the San Lorenzo Valley near Santa Cruz, CA.  

Only Bearcat was still alive when I moved to Mexico in 2001. Sadly, he drowned in my pool a few months later.  I was devastated.  This was his epitaph, written as a string of kennings for a NaPoWriMo prompt in 2014.

Bearcat
1987-2002
R.I.P.

back lofter
tail wafter
gray bearer
drape tearer
ball loser

lap chooser
bunny slayer
shoelace player
sofa climber
sleep mimer
shadow springer
dragonfly bringer
lizard de-tailer
spider nailer
basement searcher
window ledge percher
tree dweller
mouse smeller
dog chaser
bug caser
door crack peeper
sunbeam sleeper
woods walker
squirrel stalker
rail balancer
prey glancer
shadow catcher
love hatcher
body spinner
heart winner

 

For the dVerse Poets open prompt.

New Faith

I really started blogging exactly five years ago today, when I wrote my first NaPoWriMo poem, having little faith in my ability to make it for the whole thirty days.

In the end, day-by-day, I did it.  A year later, I did it again and when I came to day 30, I didn’t stop.  Since then I’ve exercised a different sort of faith by writing every morning—doing  a number of writing and photo posts, including at least one poem or story, every day for the past 1,460 days. (This post will be my 4,074th one.)

The pool exercises I once did faithfully in a water aerobics class three mornings a week at the clubhouse pool,  I still do at midnight in my own pool under the stars and moon, surrounded by the blossoms that fall from the tall Washingtonian palm trees that rise like giants in the night air above the pool.

I swim with the moon,
stars strewn like wedding flowers
in this midnight pool.

For dVerse Poets Haibun Monday, Faith.