Beggars Without Bowls

d’Verse Poets Pub – MTB: To turn again, about turn again.
https://dversepoets.com/2021/06/03/mtb-to-turn-again-about-turn-again/

Beggars Without Bowls

I offer seeds and nuts to the beggars
and they come, big and small, begging,


without bowls, for alms, for scraps that beg
not to be wasted. And I, like those beggars,


hope for a quick reward, a glimpse, for begging
them with seeds and nuts to appear – those feathered beggars


scavenging for leftovers beneath the feeder, beggars
without bowls in bird-like disguise

Secret Star

d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: How to Cut a Pomegranate

https://dversepoets.com/2021/06/01/poetics-how-to-cut-a-pomegranate/

—-
Secret Star

The ancient apple tree freely gives up its fruit
The universe held safely within the core of its being


Covered tightly in a smooth red skin protecting the wisdom
Of the ages, the stories of past lives, tales of feast and famine


My knife pierces that skin and sweet juices trickle over my fingers
A baptism of holy sweetness, a promise of things to come


And there, in the center where new life is held, I see the secret star

haiku

d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: Beyond Meaning or The Resolution of Opposites

haiku

within its branches
the ancient gnarled apple tree
harbors fresh new life


from Paul Dunbar’s The Paradox: I am the bud and the blossom, I am the late-falling leaf

Lost In Cyberspace Perhaps

d’Verse Poets Pub -Going…Going…Gone Poeming {Quadrille #122}

Lost In Cyberspace Perhaps

where have they all gone, those shots of
flowers and bugs, trips, happy children? I went
to look for them and they had disappeared, snuck
away, without telling me they were going. Have they,
perhaps, found other lost pictures to share my memories with?


I recently lost the photos stored on my computer. Luckily, most of them are
floating in some cloud. 😁

Call Me Gray

d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: True Colours?
Mish wants to know what the colors say

Call Me Gray

You think you can ignore me because
I’m gray
But I am many shades and tints,
like clouds
I am the background of your colorful life
Without
me blues would not be as vibrant, yellows would have no
purpose,
and the color wheel would be nothing but
a blur


A new poetic form from me

“This week, a Poetic Asides member shared a poetic form she created. While I don’t usually share nonce forms, I’ve tried this one myself, and I think it’s a lot of fun. So without further ado, I’m introducing Candace Kubinec’s form, the Waltmarie (which is itself a nod to PA members and Poetic Bloomings hosts, Marie Elena Good and Walter J. Wojtanik).” Robert Lee Brewer on Poetic Asides, 2/12/21

Waltmarie Poetic Form-
10 line poem, any subject, even numbered lines are 2 syllables and form their own poem when read separately. Odd lines are longer with no specific syllable count.

Have You Seen the Cat

Waltmarie Poetic Form-
10 line poem, any subject, even numbered lines are 2 syllables and form their own poem when read separately. Odd lines are longer with no specific syllable count.

Have you seen the cat

It may have been the stomping kids that scared her –
hiding
Or the loud bang of a breaking balloon –
small bits
That sent her running for a place of quiet –
of peace
Waiting until all children are asleep with dreams of play –
to share
Before she cautiously climbs out from behind the couch to sit –
with you

Only a Dream

d’Verse Poets Pub -MTB: endings / beginnings

Only a Dream

She dreamed of leading a big marching band,
With a shiny baton twirling in her small hands
She didn’t want drums or a horn she could toot,
instead she asked Santa for majorette boots

The white leather ones with bright tassels of red.
They’re the pair she envisioned at night, in her bed.
So she went to bed early, this good little girl,
Pulled her blanket way up so it covered her curls.

She kept her eyes closed when wind started to blow,
the rooftops and bushes soon were covered with snow.
The best winter night for dear Santa to bring
the boots that she wanted more than anything

But her letter to Santa must have lacked clear instruction.
The boots under the tree were a felt reproduction.