Finding a Community

Finding a Community

 

She thought she was the only one. Who else cries when

they look up at the night sky? Who else lies on the ground in wonder?

She tried to write poems about the stars, to capture them on film, to scribble them

on a canvas. Friends oooed and awwed. She knew her attempts were feeble imitations.

She drove to a State Park, known for its darkness, its lack of ambient

light, to see the glow, the glimmer, the magic of a sky filled with stars,

connect with the universe.

And there they were, a field of people, staring silently upward, crying.

They had their notebooks, and cameras, and sketchbooks but they knew

they would never capture the soul of the moment. She had finally found

her place in the world with people who understood. That’s when she knew,

the Starpainters are taking over now.

 

 

Changing Seasons

Changing Seasons

 

The geese don’t protest the summer’s end, complain about the

flight ahead. They trust the seasons .

Yet we decry each age and stage of our lives, wishing to be other

than ourselves. And in our protestation, our lamentations,

miss the loveliness of now

 

Quadrille #354: I Protest

Blue Sky Quilt

Blue Sky Quilt

 

The sky was an unrelenting blue

quilt this morning.

It wouldn’t tolerate any clouds

cluttering up the atmosphere,

or wrinkling its glossy finish.

And then one small puff appeared.

A little smudge of batting poking through

a small hole worn in the edge, along the horizon.

Slowly, more slivers of white came floating along and the harsh blue sky became softer,

 worn to a more comfortable shade by time, and sun, and weather.

 

dVerse Poetics — Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

Snowflakes

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

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