Tag Archives: dversepoets

Rambles

 

In our youth, we’re given to wild rambles,
coming home with burrs and brambles
to share on carpets and on towels
that prompt our family’s shrieks and howls.
These thrills we find in fields and ditches
well worth sharp things brought home on britches.

I must admit that I had to sacrifice words to meet the demands of the Quadrille, but I can’t resist sharing my first longer (against the rules) version as well. Here it is:

Rambles

When I was lithe and limber and given to wild rambles,
I came home from my wanderings complete with burrs and brambles.
I shed them on the carpets, I shared them via towels,
never taking credit for the curses, shrieks and howls.
I thought my meanderings among the fields and ditches
were worth the sacrifice of things brought in on my britches.

 

For dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge: Bramble.

Rain

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Rain

Gives an excuse
for that bright orange umbrella
and yellow overshoes
toppled over in the hall closet,
yet it is nighttime and I am old.
I lie under blankets on the sofa,
content with its comforting
rat-a-tat
on the plastic skylight
overhead.

It is a friend knocking
insistently,
calling me out to play.

Six years old,
Imprisoned by summer,
we were given occasionally
the refreshing release
of a hard summer rain.
Bare feet splashing,
we raced dry leaf boats
manned by our imaginations
through the caves of culverts,
down to those ultimate puddles
magnificent in their magnitude.

Sixty years later,
I am caught up in the currents
of that sudden rush downwards
and backwards to
a plastic umbrella
abandoned on the sidewalk
as we opened like  flowers.

Rain
hides tears.
Forces growth.
Cleans up our messes
and provides glorious new ones.
Washes away today
and grows tomorrow.

 

For dVerse Poets: Rain

Loose Lips

Loose Lips

Your tongue is loose, it has been said,
and though you swear “Better off dead
than tell your secret,” still, it’s true
you’ll find someone to leak it to. 
So though you did it without knowing,
I fear, my dear, your slip is showing.

 

For the dVerse Poets Quadrille Challenge: Slip 
I hope you don’t mind that I used this photo I took of you a few years ago, Erin, and Pat. In no way is the poem about you. it was just the perfect illustration!!  xoxo

Enamoured: dVerse Poets, Mar 31, 2020

 

Enamoured

Mere man, mere dame,
a mean red moon.
A dream remade,
mar, a dune.
Marooned and moored
and no end near.
Me enamoré. 
Me arrear.

This poem was written making use of only the letters in the word enamoured. To do so, I had to make use of two languages. In Spanish, a ”mar” is a sea or ocean, but “amar” can also mean to love. “Me enamoreé“ means “I fell in love.” “Me Arrear” can mean either “I got caught,” “Drive me” or “Grab me.”  It also carries the connotation for me that the object of her affection’s love might be in arrears. “En arrear” can have that meaning in Spanish as well. Since I used the British spelling of the title word to increase my choices, I guess you could say this poem is trilingual. Comes in handy when limited in the consonants and vowels one can use.

For dVerse Poets: Red.

The Agony of Defeat

It would have gone fine if she had been able to think up any disaster at all that would make a good story but alas the only disaster she could think of was that for the very first time she was not going to be able to meet a prompt and since she had suspended the rest of her life in order to blog, that pretty much signified the end of the world as she knew it, so she could see that she was going to have to take up another pastime such as tatting or or embroidery or coloring where there was absolutely no way anyone would ever issue a challenge she wouldn’t be able to meet!!!!

For the dVerse Poets one-sentence poem prompt.

Here is the impossible prompt wherein I met my defeat:

Rules from host Amaya at Gospel Isosceles at d’Verse this evening on writing a Death Sentence:
The poem must tell a story in one sentence.
The poem must explore the theme of ‘the end of civilization as we know it.’
The story must tell of an odd or embarrassing incident, either heard about, witnessed, or autobiographical.
There is one more hidden rule that must be followed if your poem is to be a “death sentence” in its pure form: it must be improvised.

Giving

heather-ford-5gkYsrH_ebY-unsplashPhoto by Heather Ford on Unsplash, Used with permission.

Giving

When it comes to clothes, you know that it’s
hard to find something that fits.
People grow from year to year
in the shoulders or the rear.
Kids grow up, adults grow out
while grandparents shrink, without a doubt.
So this year at our Christmas bash,
forget the gifts. I’m giving cash!

For dVerse Poets, we were asked to write a poem we might include with a Christmas gift.

On the Subject of Cracking Knuckles

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On the Subject of Cracking Knuckles

Please don’t snap your bones at me. 
I cringe, I plug my ears, I plea.
If you must make noise with body parts,
please stick to  burping, coughs or farts.
Since popping sounds tend to astound me,
Do not crack knuckles when around me!

 

 

I do not like that brittle sound,
so please don’t crack your bones around!

For the dVerse Poets prompt “crack.” For Quadrille Monday.

A Woman Alone

A Woman Alone

I am airborne in the hammock,
the small dog on my stomach,
but patting the bigger dog
on the ground below us
to assuage his jealousy.

I watch this week’s brand of butterflies
popping like popcorn
above the audacious flowers
of the tabachine bush,
and that confused hummingbird
that has mistaken the Soleri bell for a flower.

My friends and I
serve as constant reminders for each other:
what we walked into the room to do,
what word we meant to end the sentence with,
the name of everybody’s favorite movie star––
the one marooned on the island with a soccer ball?
It is as though loss of memory were infectious.

I eat pizza at midnight
and swim naked in the pool at 2 am.
My cats know my sins
and like me better for them.
My friends
are comforted by my shortcomings,
which legitimize their own.

When I talk to the air,
it is unclear whether I talk to the cats
or to myself.
If it is loud chiding,
it is to myself
and I wonder if the neighbors wonder.

“You idiot!!!” I yell in a loud tone at 8 a.m.
when I drop the glass,
spreading my papaya smoothie
in shards of glass
across a ten-foot expanse of tile floor.
Who might they think I am talking to?
Some new lover?
Most probably not.
Yolanda, my housekeeper and friend of 17 years?
Then for shame.
They must alter their impression of me.

“Out! Out!” I bellow at the bigger dog,
whose enthusiastic nails slice my sandaled feet
as I dish out his feed if I do not demand his absence.
“That harpy,” they must think,
not knowing it is the only decibel
he responds to.

Those of us who live alone
are never really quite alone in Mexico,
where private lives
are so easily shared
in spite of walls.
It is as though
sounds echo more easily
in the high mountain air,
and we become one large family,
putting up with each other’s secrets.

But, no responsibility
for husband or children or roommates,
we sink into the luxury of selfishness.
Sleeping at odd hours,
wearing our pajamas from bedtime
to wake-up
to next bedtime,
calling out to the gardener from behind curtains,
accustoming the housekeeper to our sleepless nights
and long mornings of slumber.

No one to explain the junk drawer to,
or the large accumulation of toilet paper rolls,
for which you have a definite purpose
that you never quite get around to.

The luxury of a nude body
no one else short of the doctor
will ever see.

The back of your head
where snarls can exist
unchallenged
until the next trip to town.

The Petit Ecole cookies
you need not share
with anyone.

The unmade bed uncensored.
The best hammock always your own.
An internet band unshared.

Three huge double closets––all yours.
Only your toothbrush in the glass beside the sink.
Every leftover cup of coffee
sitting on surfaces around the house
one you can sip out of
with no fear of any disease
other than the ones you already harbor.

Alone.
What you always feared.
That fear now behind you.
You were so wrong.

For dverse poets.

Advice to a Poetry Critic

I wrote this for the figurative language prompt but missed the deadline for posting it by 30 minutes, so here it is in all its tardy glory!!!

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Advice to a Poetry Critic

Each poet worth her salt adores
well-appointed metaphors,
but when they step up to the mike,
similes they only like.
Before you discuss simile
consult an expert vis a vis
the difference between the two
so you will never have to rue
mislabeling your imagery.
Hyperbole is not allusion,
so don’t add to the confusion.
Synecdoche to oxymoron––
as you choose what to write more on––
get their names right for your reader.
There’s more to poems than rhyme and meter!

for dVerse Poets Open Link .

Uprooted

Uprooted

“Can you get even closer to the tree?” he said—so I went inches from the trunk of the tallest of the trees, crowding the fern that reached tentative tentacles from the tree’s shade into a ray of sun that escaped the fast-collecting clouds. “I’ll protect you,” he had said years ago, when we declared our union. But now, in this time of the approaching storm, I wondered about both tree and one who over the years had been in turn protector and threat. In times of gentle rain, a shield. In times more volatile, that sudden bolt that left bruised places easily hidden. I saw the tree’s scar, devoid of bark, burned at the edges––that place now easily overlooked in the shadows. And I moved away from the tree, walking with new confidence to the car. Uprooted, finally, after so many years.

 

Italicized line is from Sharon Olds’ poem, “Pine Tree Ode.” For the dVerse Poets Pub prompt–to develop a prose piece of 144 words making use of a line from another poet’s poem about a tree. Go HERE to read what other writers did with this prompt or to participate yourself.