A place for poems and pics
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/
I’ve Got the Indigo Blues
Not the ordinary blues of
a rainy day or a cancelled adventure
Not the melancholy blues of
a romance that failed
Not even the deep-as-the-ocean blues of
missing someone special
I’ve got the indigo blues of
squashed hope and torched joy-
Just for now
It’s Quadrille Monday!
A Quiet Transfer
The year does not go out with a bang
in spite of the fireworks –
in spite of the music and horns.
While the people sing and celebrate
the old year and the new quietly shake
hands as the mantle of responsibility is exchanged.
Quadrille #214: Going out with a Bang!
Spring Clean
I’’m letting go of all the bits and bobs
that have accumulated in my heart –
feelings that no longer fit or that pinch
its soft places. I’m sweeping out the
people and places that have gathered in
corners like spider webs. I’m doing a Spring
clean in the basement chambers, going
through boxed up memories, keeping only
the most precious and releasing the rest
to be blown away by winds of change
Golconda by Rene Magritte
Everything We See
Holes in the Heart
How sharp does a word need to be
to pierce the shield woven around a heart?
As sharp as a knife blade or the thorn
on a rose bush, or could it
be a single pin prick couched in the soft folds
of tenderness?
Quadrille #197: Look Sharp, Now! (Let’s write a poem.)
The Art of Spring
She sat at her easel, like an old dutch Master,
trying to capture the essence of a bouquet of daffodils,
bathed in the morning light shining softly through her kitchen window.
Her paints were carefully mixed by hand to create shades of
yellow – golden dawn, golden echo, and lemon beauty. She sketched
their ruffled petals, so like lacey lingerie, and wished she could paint
the scent of them – a love call to bees.
Poetics: Daffy for Daffodils, Sprung in Spring
A Simple Request
She didn’t want much –
a touch from a moonbeam
or some such response to
her nighttime entreaty
to the moon that shone down
with benevolent light.
Something she could clutch,
like a sprinkle of stardust
to serve as a nightlight when
nightmares appeared.
A Stormy Winter Night
the night was dark and no moon was in view
bare trees were soon filled with winter rage
all-consuming storm clouds inflamed my fears
and a lonely crow became my sage
MTB: Toddaid
rhymeswithbug 