More Than His Memory
More than his memory, it was his scent that awakened me to the full moon scrimmed by clouds. I moved to the sliding doors and out to the jacuzzi. Who else in this world would float on the surface of the water under this remarkable moon? The curious cat came to bear company, and the dogs. One hummingbird whirred incongruous over blooms in the night. This pulse in my ear of hummingbird and blood drew one mosquito into its chorus, annoying and persistent, to drive me into the water as easily as his scent had pulled me out of my shell of troubling dreams into the glowing night. A hand smoothed a path in the water, as if to welcome me. “If you are a dreamer, come in,” he said.
The prompt was to use the line “If you are a dreamer, come in,” in a story with a beginning, middle and end that was under 144 words. For dVerse Poets.
What Little Worlds
(Ode to a Tiny Fungi on the Rainforest Floor)
What little worlds are lost to us
there on the jungle floor
as, looking up,
we tread them underfoot.
Perhaps whole civilizations
extinguished on those orange orbs—
A solar system of planets with their denizens
too microscopic for us to see.
Heedless Gods we are, our mighty glances
overlooking much of what’s beneath us.
But for the camera lens,
how much more we would miss
as we go about our busy greater world.
For the dVerse Poets Fungi Prompt. Memories of the Lacandón jungle, 2008. Other small memories of that adventure are below (fungal and non-fungal.)
The Sun Hat
Her hat’s broad brim shadows her face,
discouraging his fond embrace.
He removes the hat and then
plants a kiss where it has been.
Both actions—kiss and hat removal
have the lady’s full approval.
So, with no further ado,
he makes it two!
For dVerse Poets: Embrace.
We Cannot Surrender Her
Try as I might to urge her on, she will not go.
She sends me on to test the water
but remains on the shore.
Ankle deep and then no more.
Fingers trailing and then no more.
Having once found a false bottom,
she trusts no foothold.
The falling is the thing, I tell her, yet she holds back from the fall.
Let me go down, I beg her.
I will always bring you up, she answers.
This is the role we alternate being the stand-in for.
What I want she keeps me from.
What she fears I pull her toward.
How many of us, children of the fifties,
find ourselves on this seesaw, wanting to control the ride?
Relax, I tell her, but she can’t relax––fearing what relaxation brings.
She cannot surrender herself. I cannot be content until she does.
Two-in-one, we rail against each other, then hold hands.
Comforting. This is enough, she tells me.
Nothing is ever enough, I tell her.
This is my third major rewrite of this poem originally written in 1976. Only three lines still remain from that poem. It is perhaps finished now.
Here is the link if you’d like to participate in dVerse Poet’s Open Link night and here is the link to read other poems for dVerse Poets Open Link Night
Casting our nets wider,
we gather matching minds and hearts
like small silver fish–
just a tiny bite, each one,
trying to fill a big appetite.
No big fish
to struggle to land.
one after another,
taking the edge off our hungers.
For dVerse Poets “Connections” prompt.
He rolls over,
by her long hair.
He sleeps on it.
She draws his dreams
through its long shafts,
works out his days
into her web.
black raven coal
falling down the chute
between his hands.
to be pulled down.
in each other.
a feast of hair.
Her hair side-winding on the ground.
Her hair whips
his face until he weaves
a bridge of it
to cross the high crevasse.
with a baby
swinging from it.
her hair woven
into bags and harnesses,
yet when a strand
slips from behind her ear,
it makes necessary:
the assembly line
just to invent
Oops, sorry… I missed that I was supposed to start with “This is not a . . . . I was in a hurry because I was afraid the posting time was about to close! For dVerse Poets Prompt: An object.
Number 9 Blues
a bird the color
of the moon
we met under.
a ribbon of sadness.
all the hue
of a trumpet’s lonely staccato.
For dVerse Poets prompt: synesthesia.
The theme of the camp is “When you Wish Upon a Star.” This camper has taken the theme seriously on his mask.
Your computer shares
whatever you choose for it to share.
If what leaks out is happiness,
then you’ve enriched us all.
Let humor be an infection you spread.
Share files overflowing with empathy,
documents that are the organs of kindness,
And above all,
For dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge: Happiness
I wrote this intending to edit it, but when I counted the words, it was exactly 44 words, so I am going to try to let it be. In itself, it formed the star shape. I only discovered it when I centered it.
I changed two words because I had totally left out humor and had truth called for twice. So it was justified. I also switched “have folders” overflowing with empathy.” to “Share files overflowing with empathy.” The reason for the change is probably obvious. Okay..I am also changing “stores” and “store” with “shares” and “share.” Really need one letter more in line two, but leaving it alone. For now. Stay tuned.
Crazy Shirley Writes with Her Teeth, Lips and Tongue
When? says Crazy Shirley,
is the dreadlock on that bucolic
gonna just fall off?
He’s been dipping it in
beef stew and sugar
fahrenheit been hitting the top of the bulb!
He’s in a ubiquitous position,
’cause Bob Marley’s not in the general vocabulary
of this fraternity.
He’s kinda mucous-tasting and fecund.
His face? Chalk-white and he uses
a kitten in the morning for a wash cloth.
And a goldfish is gutteral
while an owl
sorta chortles and
I’m not that keen on bucolic,
I got a Ticonderoga tintype
that’s got the most fantastic hue!
A “sound” poem for dVerse Poets