A Poem Without a Pocket
This poem has no pockets
Nowhere to put the bits and bobs
it’s collected
Nowhere to stuff the laughs or hide
the tears. Nowhere to put the
pieces of joy to savor later.
This poem has no choice but to
give them all away.
Tag: dVerse
Finding a Community
Finding a Community
She thought she was the only one. Who else cries when
they look up at the night sky? Who else lies on the ground in wonder?
She tried to write poems about the stars, to capture them on film, to scribble them
on a canvas. Friends oooed and awwed. She knew her attempts were feeble imitations.
She drove to a State Park, known for its darkness, its lack of ambient
light, to see the glow, the glimmer, the magic of a sky filled with stars,
connect with the universe.
And there they were, a field of people, staring silently upward, crying.
They had their notebooks, and cameras, and sketchbooks but they knew
they would never capture the soul of the moment. She had finally found
her place in the world with people who understood. That’s when she knew,
the Starpainters are taking over now.
Changing Seasons
Changing Seasons
The geese don’t protest the summer’s end, complain about the
flight ahead. They trust the seasons .
Yet we decry each age and stage of our lives, wishing to be other
than ourselves. And in our protestation, our lamentations,
miss the loveliness of now
Quadrille #354: I Protest
Some Mondays
Some Mondays
Monday tries to sneak up on you
tip-toes in, hopes you won’t notice.
It hears the moans and groans of a Sunday night,
the almost mythological dread of what might be waiting
when it shows up. Monday tries to be inconspicuous,
and, maybe welcomed.
growing pains
growing pains
this poem is boney meter and stanza –
gangly, dangly lines and phrases.
it stumbles over its own feet,
has no rhyme or rhythm. it dreams
of becoming a sonnet, even an ode.
and when its feeling optimistic, it can
Imaging itself a villanelle.
Buried in Lies
Buried in Lies
She tried not to lie, but the words tumbled so easily from her lips. She made promises she knew she would never keep. And she was sure no one would ever know.
It began when she was three, all three-year-olds lie, don’t they? It was just a little lie about a cookie. She really wanted that cookie, and everyone thought she was just so cute.
The lies got bigger as she got older, money missing from her mother’s purse, homework “lost” on the bus, her best friend’s misplaced earrings.
Now she would tell the biggest lie of all when she tells herself that those lies never hurt anyone. Here, lying in a satin lined coffin, with no one to mourn her death or shed a tear, alone with only a lifetime of lies for company, she whispered, “Bury me with the lies I told.”
Dverse Prosery Monday — Bury Me
Anatomy Lesson
Anatomy Lesson
Who knew a beating heart
could make such a rumpus –
that flowing blood could
create swishing
noises as it moves
from one chamber to another,
gently closing the flap behind it.
I listen, waiting to hear
hope, love, joy, echoing
back to me.
These Times
These Times
I roll my eyes and clench my fists –
watch the news until I can endure no more.
Truth has abandoned society and
left us with madness.
It is the worst of times.
Then the hoot of a barred owl in the woods
calls me to leave it all behind, to
sit outside, to bathe in moonbeams
and breath deeply.
It is the best of times.
Altered Heart
Altered Heart
It’s time to take my heart off my sleeve –
unpin the rough edges,
smooth it out, look for tears.
It’s time to mend some holes and,
after a few alterations, gently stitch it
back where it belongs for the
whole world to see.
I Remember
I Remember
I remember the hoot of an owl
coming from the ancient woods
on a clear winter night, the crackle
of dry leaves as some small creature sought
refuge, and the moon, shining like a spotlight,
on two lost souls who had found each other.
Quadrille #219 – A Poetic Hootenanny
