A place for poems and pics
Cat Nap
This poem would like to fold
itself up, like a napping cat,
curl its tail over its eyes,
block out the raucous world.
This poem is tired of scribbling
words of peace that don’t work –
lines of ink that fade before its eyes.
Quadrille #186 – Fold
The Collector
She collects old bottles that she
finds buried in her garden,
and places them on a windowsill.
When the sun shines in, her kitchen
is filled with a kaleidoscope of colors –
blues and greens and browns. Bottles
from old remedies for headaches and
stomach aches, laundry bleach, and ketchup.
Smooth bottles, square bottles, tiny bottles,
one that still has a piece of rotting cork
in its neck. Bottles that tell a story of hard work
and pain. She feels like an archeologist discovering
a lost way of life through the colored glass
detritus of another generation, and she wonders what
future generations will think of her when they
uncover the bits of her life left behind.
Haunted
Canned Memories
The days have grown shorter and
there is a chill hovering around the
last of the Maple leaves, as they dangle
listlessly from the branches that nourished them
Thoughts turn to all things warm – sweaters and
blankets and soup. My freezer is stocked with
containers of tomato soup made from the
fruit of our garden. Ripened by the sun, picked
and peeled, chopped and simmered with garlic and
basil and onion – ready to warm the body when
Winter makes itself at home, here.
But the soup that warms my soul with memories
is the kind that came in a red and white can, the one
made famous by Andy Warhol. The soup my mother
served for lunch with small round crackers and a
cup of hot chocolate.
Poetics: Time for Soup!
Five ways to Cross a Lake
1 sit on the edge of the old wooden dock
with your toes dangling in the water
until you feel nothing
but the ancient ice that
is slowly melting
2 let your eye find the red
eye of a loon as it glides past
as if pulled by a string –
hidden feet walking under
the choppy surface
3 cast your heart out as far as
its tether allows and watch it sink
below the surface. Hold your breath
until it bobs back to the surface,
then slowly reel it in
4 put your thoughts on a leaf and let
them float away to become yellow hills
on the pebbled beach of your mind-
each one smoothed by the careless
touch of the waves
5 catch the wind as it pushes the water
to another time and place and then meet
it on the way back. Write it into a poem
that soars above the clouds and
touches down on some distant shore
MTB: Writing The Five Directions
Wee Fairy Queen
She was a fairy queen of the piney woods
Her crown was fashioned from pine cones
And her throne was a soft pile of pine straw
The squirrels and chipmunks were her royal subjects
Until the sun set and her mother called her home
Brighten Up
This poems wants to add a PoP
of color to its black and white lines
Maybe slip a pair of red shoes on its feet
Tie a purple scarf around its stanza
or meter out some magenta syllables,
shining like bubbles, just for fun.
The Quality of Dust
The quality of dust is not measured in abundance,
but rather in the fineness of its particles.
True dust contains no lumps or identifiable
bits. It is silken to the touch and rises easily
on wisps of air. True dust settles silently
atop flat surfaces and collects in corners without
fanfare. It is a magical powder that appears
just before visitors arrive to keep us humble
and grounded. True dust is ever present,
waiting patiently in mid air, hovering over
our busy lives, until it finds stillness. It can not
be caught or trapped, or tricked into vanishing.
True dust is the constant in this human-made world.
In the Beginning
Sounds had no order, no form
Each note played randomly,
like early morning birdsong
Chaos was the melody that filled the air
Harmony, just an illusion, a vanishing act
performed by strumming magicians
Instruments rang out in unrhythmic time
and there was no key to unlock the secret
Until someone began to bang the drum –
and music was born
–
Think No More of Me
Forgive me for seeming timid
Or shy, or quiet, or rude
Forgive me for appearing to be polite
Well mannered, courteous, but
I ask no forgiveness for my feelings
I hold them in my heart where
They are guarded from judgement
They are the music of my soul
They belong only to me
They’re the percussive blow of grief
The vibrato of pulsating joy
The solo of winter-like loneliness
The persistent tinkling of hope
And I share them only with you
Flies in Disguise
They dress up like a bee
hovering, zooming
around each tiny flower of
the Lamb’s Ear in my garden.
They seem fierce in their quest
to chase others away.
Some would back away, keep
their distance, but I know
they are just wee flies
—
Zoom on over to d’Verse Poets Pub for some quadrille poems, if you dare
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