d’Verse Poets Pub – Rain
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hidden beneath leaves
sparrows perch on tree branches
rainy afternoon
Category: d’Verse Poets Pub
The Golden Hour
d’Verse Poets Pub – Quadrille #105: Cry Havoc and Let ‘SLIP’ the Dogs of War
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The Golden Hour
It happens just before the sun slips
out of sight, behind the pine covered
hills. Those few moments when the
whole of my world is painted gold,
as if King Midas touched his finger
to the trees and houses
and they shimmer in delight.
The Old Cat
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: Make some room
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The Old Cat
The old cat has no room he calls his own,
he claims a spot til it’s no longer new.
He wanders round this space seeking a throne,
a sunny nook to warm his weary bones –
a padded window seat will surely do
The old cat has no room he calls his own.
Somedays a mournful yeowl he does intone,
when favorite blankets have been left askew.
He wanders round this space seeking a throne,
preferring quietness, to be alone
to ponder catching flies and mice and shrews.
The old cat has no room he calls his own –
he owns it all, each board and stepping stone.
His humble servants also know it’s true.
He wanders round this space seeking a throne,
a cardboard box that he can get into
and fall asleep, curled up and unbeknown.
The old cat has no room he calls his own,
he wanders round the space seeking a throne.
The Reality of Gardens
d’Verse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday: Meet Piet
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The Reality of Gardens
On winter days I spend a great deal of time thinking about my flower beds. Outside the wind is blowing wisps of snow around the corner of the house and only the hardiest birds come to the feeders. I stay hunkered down with my dreams and schemes and plans for next summers perfect garden.
When spring sashays her way across the yard I’m faced with more weeds than buds. So begins the relentless battle with ground ivy and winter cress, which have been patiently waiting for those first warm rays of sunshine. My ideal garden vanishes in a puff of reality and I am happy to scatter some seeds in the empty patches of dirt. I’m pretty sure the bees and butterflies don’t visit for the aesthetics.
Outdoor gallery
Blooms of multi-colored zinnias
Abstract garden art
Mockingbird Tanka
d’Verse Poets Pub – MTB: 5-Line Japanese Poetic Forms
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mocking bird sings
a song of imitation
as the sun sets
listening for a reply
from a lonely mate
On the Death of the Family Historian
On the Death of the Family Historian
She was the keeper of the portal
The one who held the only key
And I believed she was immortal
Asked only what pertained to me
Relied on her for memories
And now I sit out side that door
A box of pictures from a drawer
People without names or places
No tiny scrap of family lore
They stare at me with somber faces
Stress fixer
Quadrille #104: Oh, We’re in a Fix.
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Stress Fixer
This poem is virtually
Exhausted from zooming
All over cyberspace, an
Avatar of a masked
Bandit in an old film
It has grown weary of
Recipes, cat videos
Going viral in a viral world
This poem is going to fix a cup of tea
The Wisdom of a Cat
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics – Solitude
http://deversepoets.com
–
The Wisdom of a Cat
We can learn much from a cat –
how to gracefully spend a day
without the company of others,
how to calmly avoid the chaos
of our surroundings by finding
a sunny spot, a comfortable
place to watch the cardinals and
blue jays, and goldfinches at the
feeders and the chubby squirrel
that scampers through the grass.
Then, when you get too warm, you
find a little snack, curl up
on your favorite chair, and
purr in contentment.
Silly Wherefore Art Thou
d’Veres Poets Pub Quadrille Monday – Lighten up a bit!
Lillian has us looking at the ‘silly’ side of things.
http://dverespoets.com
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Silly Wherefore Art Thou
What has happened to silly,
that willy-nilly, slightly
frilly state of giggling quite
shrilly until you very nearly
lose your breath?
When words like piccalilli
or vanilli leave us
in a dilly due
to really, really
watery eyes. Oh, how
we need some silly.
Hush
d’Verse Poets Pub – Almost a Triolet
Frank has us flexing our poetic muscles by writing a Triolet
Join the fun at the Pub
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—
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
