A place for poems and pics
Let’s skip the trip,
stay near to all that’s dear –
brew tea and
bake a chocolate cake.
Let’s write a poem and read the book
that we’ve been waiting for.
Let’s let the candle burn until we hear
finches sing of Springs return
Quadrille #240: Fill, Zip, Trip
Snowflakes
We got a feeble amount of snow, overnight.
Not enough to make a snowman or even
a respectable snowball. It is trying valiantly
to cover the grass and the sidewalk, yet
only manages to look like powdered sugar
on a homemade apple cake. Children don’t
even bother to put on snowsuits – they know
there will be no sledding, today. But if you look
carefully, you will see the intricate patterns of
those scattered flakes and marvel at their sparkle,
like magic diamonds strewn across the yard.
Poetics: New Year Snow
Buried in Lies
She tried not to lie, but the words tumbled so easily from her lips. She made promises she knew she would never keep. And she was sure no one would ever know.
It began when she was three, all three-year-olds lie, don’t they? It was just a little lie about a cookie. She really wanted that cookie, and everyone thought she was just so cute.
The lies got bigger as she got older, money missing from her mother’s purse, homework “lost” on the bus, her best friend’s misplaced earrings.
Now she would tell the biggest lie of all when she tells herself that those lies never hurt anyone. Here, lying in a satin lined coffin, with no one to mourn her death or shed a tear, alone with only a lifetime of lies for company, she whispered, “Bury me with the lies I told.”
Dverse Prosery Monday — Bury Me
Anatomy Lesson
Who knew a beating heart
could make such a rumpus –
that flowing blood could
create swishing
noises as it moves
from one chamber to another,
gently closing the flap behind it.
I listen, waiting to hear
hope, love, joy, echoing
back to me.
These Times
I roll my eyes and clench my fists –
watch the news until I can endure no more.
Truth has abandoned society and
left us with madness.
It is the worst of times.
Then the hoot of a barred owl in the woods
calls me to leave it all behind, to
sit outside, to bathe in moonbeams
and breath deeply.
It is the best of times.
Altered Heart
It’s time to take my heart off my sleeve –
unpin the rough edges,
smooth it out, look for tears.
It’s time to mend some holes and,
after a few alterations, gently stitch it
back where it belongs for the
whole world to see.
I Remember
I remember the hoot of an owl
coming from the ancient woods
on a clear winter night, the crackle
of dry leaves as some small creature sought
refuge, and the moon, shining like a spotlight,
on two lost souls who had found each other.
Quadrille #219 – A Poetic Hootenanny
Finding Grace
I never liked my name. Candace
Grace is
too fancy, too grand for my
simple
soul, that loves the sound of birds
and the
glow of moonbeams dancing through my
open
window in the darkness. This is where my
heart is
content and my spirit can sing along in harmony to
its key
https://dversepoets.com/2025/03/06/mtb-the-poetry-of-names/
Spring Again
Next week it will be Spring
again
The crocus and daffodils, that waited beside the
tulips
for the slanting sun rays to warm the earth,
will bloom
and dull winter birds will put on their best feathers
looking
for mates and building nests, never doubting miracles –
like hope
https://dversepoets.com/2025/03/06/mtb-the-poetry-of-names/
I am Air
I breath it in
and speak it out
in puffs of thoughts
formed into words
I breath it in
and shout it out
in curses of anger and despair
I breath it in
and sigh it out
in fervent whispers of hope
I am air
and breath
and life
https://dversepoets.com/2025/02/25/tuesday-poetics-the-four-elements-2/
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