d’Verse Poets Pub – Almost a Triolet
Join the fun at the Pub
http://dversepoets.com
—
I like the hush of twilight
When even birds are still
exiled is sun’s gypsy light
I like the hush of twilight
When day becomes contrite
And moon’s glow overspills
I like the hush of twilight
When even birds are still
d’Verse Poets Pub -MTB: The Death Sentence
Here’s the challenge –
one sentence, improvised, end of civilization as we know it
give it a try over at http://dversepoets.com
It had been only three weeks since she kissed
Him goodbye, escaping the gloomy skies
Of home for a dose of sunshine, (something
She craved in the middle of winter even though
He did not), but something had gone awry while
She soaked up those healing rays and he sulked
Under the gray clouds because as soon as she
Stepped into the house, before she could even kick
Off her shoes, he slumped off to take a nap, signaling
The end of the world as she knew it
d’Verse Poets Pub – Quadrille #97 – Filling the Page
De is hosting in the Pub tonight and looking for us to fill our pages in just 44 words.
Play along at http://deversepoets.com
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I have deep pockets –
but don’t ask for a loan
or hand-out. My deep pockets
are in my favorite jacket, the
one I wear on walks along
railroad tracks and they are
filled with treasures –
bird feathers, bits of broken glass,
wild flower petals
Tuesday Poetics with Lillian –
what are your dreams made of?
—
Seven-year olds are wise in the way of dreams –
which shows to avoid too near bedtime
In order to dodge sketchy dreams.
Which ones could lead to full-blown nightmares.
Shows that feature mummies or yetis
are at the top of the list, along with anything that dies.
Only shows that make you laugh are allowed.
I should have heeded the warnings.
—
Check out the dreamers at http://dversepoets.com
dVerse Poetics: On All Things Feline!
The cats are taking over at d’Verse Poets Pub
—
Lenny – (a Lannet)
*
We buried him beneath the garden bench
where I would take my morning cup of tea
to share the highlights of my yesterday.
I often thought I heard his rumbling purr,
–
although I knew it’s just my wishful heart
imagining that he was still around,
still chasing after bugs, both real and not.
Still crawling under sheets when I make beds,
–
still hiding deep within a paper bag
then jumping out to grab me as I pass.
He followed me around just like a pup –
a nosey, noisy, sleek white, furry friend.
–
Quiet unexpectedly we found him gone
and buried him beneath the garden bench.
d’Verse Poets Pub – Prosery #3: Love After Love
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I’m Kim from Writing in North Norfolk, welcoming dVerse poets to the third ever Prosery prompt, when we ask you to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of your choice.
As it’s flash fiction, we have a limit of 144 words; an additional challenge is to hit 144 exactly. The special thing about Prosery is that we give you a complete line from a poem, which must be included somewhere in your story, within the 144-word limit.
For the third Prosery, I’d like you to write a story that includes the following line from ‘Love After Love’, a poem by Derek Walcott:
‘You will love again the stranger who was your self’.
—
The Last Cousin
I carefully pack a dozen jars of homemade grape jam into a cardboard box. Each jar is wrapped in newspaper to keep them from banging together on the three-hour drive to Lake Erie. The buns and a tub of peanut butter are already in the back of my Jeep.
It’s the annual ‘Cousinfest” weekend. I’m the only one left of five. I plan to hold a remembrance ceremony on the beach. I’ll stay up all night eating PB&J sandwiches, that had been our tradition since we were teenagers. In the morning, I’ll scatter the ashes of cousin Number Four in the rose garden of the beach house.
I don’t know how I’ll carry on without those girls who were closer to me than sisters.
I hold tight to the last words of Number Four, “You will love again the stranger who was your self”.
Poetic Bloomings – PROMPT #254 – SECOND WIND
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics : Purifying the Mind
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Just for Now
I will become a spectator
For a while
I will look at art
Smell some roses
Read some poems
And when I get my second wind
Perhaps I will be the
Painter, gardener, poet
Once again
–
