A place for poems and pics
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.
August Again
It’s hot and you are grumpy.
All the tomatoes are ripening at once,
the cucumbers are wilting, and the
neighbor’s orange cat is using the flower
bed for a litter box.
The garden looks tired, worn out, as if
it just doesn’t care any more.
The Sun is an unrelenting ball of heat.
The night air carries no coolness.
I sit by the open kitchen window wondering
if this month has any redeeming qualities
when in a corner of the yard I see the large
white blossoms of the moonflower vine. This
glow of promise amid the darkness reminds me
that each season holds a beauty of its very own.
I shall make it my mission to search for it.
–
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics – Dungeons and Derivatives
Quite a challenge today! Choose a line from one of Sanaa’a poems and write your own poem using derivatives of its words.
Here is my attempt using the following line:
5 “The rustling of leaves; I have stood many a time at the doorway of dreaming.” – Buck Moon ~ Part two: Seeing things.
The Coming Change
Flower petals hang limp and faded
their leaves spotted with disease
The sun’s warmth is abandoning us –
tilting away to warm the faces of others
leaving no heat to see us through the night
Even the geese mock us, honking as
they fly across the sky in formation
Gentle breezes have turned a cold shoulder and
Rusted leaves stand in the doorway of my dreams
—
https://dversepoets.com/2021/09/07/poetics-dungeons-and-derivatives/
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: Garden(ing)
https://dversepoets.com/2021/07/13/poetics-gardening/
Of Peace and Drama
she takes her camera to the bit of land that
she works
looking for bees and butterflies hoping
to find
a Monarch flitting among the milkweed she has planted
a place
where they can lay their eggs, where caterpillars munch the leaves
where peace
is sometimes an illusion, as insects and birds play out the drama of who
exists
–
Waltmarie Poetic Form-
10 line poem, any subject, even numbered lines are 2 syllables and form their own poem when read separately. Odd lines are longer with no specific syllable count.
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: How to Cut a Pomegranate
https://dversepoets.com/2021/06/01/poetics-how-to-cut-a-pomegranate/
—-
Secret Star
The ancient apple tree freely gives up its fruit
The universe held safely within the core of its being
Covered tightly in a smooth red skin protecting the wisdom
Of the ages, the stories of past lives, tales of feast and famine
My knife pierces that skin and sweet juices trickle over my fingers
A baptism of holy sweetness, a promise of things to come
And there, in the center where new life is held, I see the secret star
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: travels in the wild
Haiku
(about a squirrel hunting in the mountains)
–
peaks covered in Oaks
squirrel hunting in the mountains
has found Nirvana
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: Stars that count
—
Seeking Merope
Somewhere hidden in darkness
she waits for her chance to glow.
Seductive and pulsing her
shine is covered with dusty
silken robes of jealousy.
Sisters who fear her brightness
secret her away in shame.
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: Look into my Eyes
haiku
wisdom unspoken
golden eyes that know my heart
the soul of a cat
d’Verse Poets Pub -Poetics – Stoddard, Longfellow and Bryant say hello! (What does November mean to you?)
–
Poor November
Oh, poor November, ugly duckling
of the Autumn season.
Trees stripped bare of vibrant
orange and yellow by a cold, cruel wind.
Left to idly sit, waiting, between celebrations,
with nothing to do but ponder
the condition of the human race.
d’Verse Poets Pub – Poetics: Make some room
http://dversepoets.com
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.
rhymeswithbug 