d’Verse Poets Pub – Quadrille #111 – What’s That Rustling in the Eaves?
Kim has us doing a little ‘eavesdropping’ in the Pub
Secrets
The sound of rain dropping
From the eaves takes me back
To a wet summer night
To a wooden cabin and girls,
Giggling from their bunks,
As they eavesdrop on
Their counselor kissing a boy
Behind the building where
No one would ever know
Timeless Shockwaves – a Tri-Fall
two black holes collided
combining
into one, sending waves
that have not subsided
aligning
energy to each other gave
and seven billion years
across space
the hum of this union is real
ripples like souvenirs
a slight trace
to touch this world, wonders reveal
just like black holes our hearts
converging
together become a single beat
not one, but counterparts
emerging
humming with synergy and heat
(I read a news article about two black holes that merged over seven billion years ago. The shockwaves just reached Earth last year. I was determined to use these black holes in a poem.)
d’Verse Poets Pub – Meet the bar: verbing
—
Camera This
I need to camera these moments
Save them somewhere in my memory
I need to camera these moments
Album them in my heart to keep them from
Negativing into ghosts of themselves
I need to camera these moments
Lens them into focus until I can’t forget
Quadrille #110: Shall we bum around a bit?
Bummer
This poem is feeling rather bummed out.
Tired of just bumming around, all alone,
unable to even bum a ride with a friend
It’s turning into some kind of fashion bum,
In gummy waist pants and baggy shirts,
sitting around on its round bum.
d’Verse Poets Pub – Rain
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hidden beneath leaves
sparrows perch on tree branches
rainy afternoon
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.
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.
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
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
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
