A place for poems and pics
A Simple Gift
I looked for a love poem to
give to you, but none were
as tender as the gleam in your eyes
I listened for a love song to
give to you, but none were
as stirring as the sound of your voice
I searched for some bauble to
give to you, but none had magic
to touch your soul
So I stand here before you
and hold out my humble heart
—
It’s Valentine’s Day in the Pub
Groundhog Day in Pennsylvania
Crowds gathered, wearing puffy jackets,
wooly hats – braving snowfall to
await the great prediction
Silence fell as night waned
and light streaked the horizon
A collective prayer rose up for an end to winter’s icy grip –
a prayer there would be no shadow
Quadrille #168
Poor Little Poem
This poem’s not feeling very bold
In fact it feels a little cold
Its edges have begun to fold
Its ink is fading, truth be told
The muse has hassled and cajoled
But its ideas seem worn and old
Unrolled
Paroled
Retold
And unsold
–
Tenebrous Friend
We revel in the light
Hang stings of sparkling bulbs
to help us forget that darkness
exists, to erase our fears of unknown
matter. We turn our backs on
the night and worship the sun
How quickly we forget that nightfall
is the one friend that will keep our secrets
d’Verse Poets Pub – Quadrille #166. “I Like Candy”
Candied
I’ve been candied
A hard shell has been poured
over my soft center, protecting it
from constant poking and prodding
Hiding in the creamy sweetness
of my heart is a tiny morsel of
hardness, waiting to defend it from
any who reach too deeply
Still Waiting
It was a time of bangles and tambourines –
a time of freedom, when we were seventeen
We danced, barefoot, in a field
amid a jungle of wildflowers and kneeled
beneath a cashmere moon, joining
hearts and voices with the universe, rejoicing
We thought we could punch a hole in the future
and our dreams would be the mending sutures
And now, we still strum our guitars,
waiting for the promised avatar
—
Travelers
I watch them, young people with
their backpacks and trendy clothes,
their cool hairstyles and uncomfortable shoes.
They walk through the airport with a
confidence bestowed on them by
nature. Secure in their ability to navigate
the maze of shops and signage and crowds.
I can not help wandering how they will
weather the storms that living brings or
if they too will someday join the shuffling
mass of elderly travelers, confused and hesitant.
A Scintilla of Hope
It survived like a susurrus
in the Autumn garden
A small spark, brightly shining
through the increasing feuillemort
and shortened days
An aliferous creature that was
about to begin a perilous journey
to ensure to continuation of its species
I watched, humbled by the courage
of this belle ame as it flew away,
needing nothing more from me but a prayer
–
* It’s migration season for the Monarch butterflies, which have recently been put on the endangered species list. Plant some milkweed.
Mish, I hope I used these lovely words correctly. Thanks for this ‘wordiferous’ prompt
Out of Oz
This poem is tripping down the yellow brick road
Stumbling over letters stuck in the cracks
Picking them up and filling its pockets
Saving them for a rainy day
Looking for some wizard to give it words
Of en(courage)ment, a phrase or two to
Send its ruby red heart spinning home again
But there is no one lurking behind the curtain
No one waiting with badges or magic spells
Only a little dog who remembers the way
So it spills words upon the bricks and
Writes a goodbye letter to this emerald mirage
On Pain and Survival
There is no such thing as getting over something
You will eventually get through it, but a part of
that something will always remain. The tricky bit
is not to let that part be the heaviest piece of you,
to find a place where you can tuck it away like a
tacky old souvenir. Others may tell you to get rid of it,
let it go, but how do you get rid of something that has a
place in your memory? You will find yourself pulling it out,
feeling the pain or fear, or terror once again. The most
difficult task is tucking it away again and again,
until you barely remember it is there. Then, one day, when
you’re dusting off your memories, you will find it, and it may
still hurt, but you can pat yourself on the back and say, “I
got through it.”
-Candace Kubinec
rhymeswithbug 