downpour

thunderbolt black sky

lightning flash flood waters rise

tears fall from on high

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Imposter?

Okay, I’m giving this another shot…

I have a hate — hate relationship with the new WordPress Editor. Seems everything looks fine when I post something, but when it goes out to email subscribers, it ends up a mess. This is attempt two to see if I got the spacing right. Sorry for doubling up on your inboxes.

If there are any WordPress aces out there, maybe you can school me in how to get verse to show up correctly without double-spaced lines, and without losing all formatting when sent out to subscribers. Arrrgh!

My thoughts
skip across the surface of
a densely overgrown pond,
then vanish – plop! –
beneath the surface
as ripples flee the scene.

Your thoughts
search the shadowed depths of
ancient wells, then reemerge
glistening with brilliance and
shedding droplets of sagacity
to quench the thirsts of all who imbibe.

I think
if I ever came across one of these
wells of wisdom, I’d likely
stumble right in and be lost
forever, a speck of irrelevance
in a pool of adults.

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Imposter Syndrome

My thoughts
skip across the surface of
a densely overgrown pond,
then vanish – plop! –
beneath the surface
as ripples flee the scene.

Your thoughts
search the shadowed depths of
ancient wells, then reemerge
glistening with brilliance and
shedding droplets of sagacity
to quench the thirsts of all who imbibe.

I think
if I ever came across one of these
wells of wisdom, I’d likely 
stumble right in and be lost
forever, a speck of irrelevance 
in a pool of adults.

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Revolt – ing

Don’t turn your head and dab your eyes.

Face square the scene, then raise your cries.

Such treachery we must defy,

prosecute and rectify.

The People’s House they desecrate.

Within its halls they defecate.

Seditious cowards’ acts of hate

true patriots will not tolerate.


dVerse quadrille #119 – Dab

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life song

play all the octaves

highs and lows create the score

melodies of life

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capitol

tear gas, shattered glass;

bloodshed, no shred of honor.

Winter in my soul.

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Retirement Home

 I’m going to build a solid house,
 Good bones to frame it straight and true
 Upon which fasten seasoned boards
 The outside elements to subdue.
  
 It shan’t be graced with gingerbread
 that merely mildews in the rain,
 or gargoyles leering overhead 
 evincing darkness and disdain.
  
 A simple plan as fits my taste,
 I aim to please no one but me.
 One needn’t look for blemishes.
 I’ll know they’re there; I’ll let them be. 
  
 My house will stand the tests of time
 Clean lines that age but loathe to stray,
 With understated grace and strength
 to see me through my final days. 

Today’s dVerse poetry prompt, as posed by sarahsouthwest: “I’d like you to look back over the last year and choose a poem that calls to you, and write a response to that.”

I chose a poem by Elizabeth Crawford Yates, a local poet who published in the 1950s. Her poem, “To a Time-Grayed House,” struck me in that she ascribes the aging process with “dread and wistfulness.” As I celebrate my 60th year on this planet, I don’t dread growing old nor do I pine for those long-lost days of youth. I do want to age gracefully though, and maintain my health as best I can. And so, the poem above was my response to this:

 TO A TIME-GRAYED HOUSE
  
 Though you may stare with dread and wistfulness
 At youthful cottage and its sleek white dress,
 Remember this. Too soon, that one may be
 A peeling thing, with shaken masonry. 
  
 Elizabeth Crawford Yates
 from her book Wind Carvings (copyright 1953) 
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restoration

The idea of the new landscape undertaking was to plant only native species and ultimately do away with all conventional lawn surrounding my house. I began with my side yard, covering the grass and weeds with cardboard and spreading layers of wood chips over that. The scrawny “twigs” of bare root shrub and tree plantings I obtained from the soil and water conservation district barely looked alive. By the time I finished prepping and planting, my side yard resembled a miniature clear cut logging site. Not auspicious.

As the year progressed, some plants grew and blossomed, some appeared to die down and later surprised me with renewed growth, and some just flat out died. A work in progress, for sure, but it’s always fascinating to step around the corner of my house and see how my project is unfolding.

Can nature restore what my predecessors spent centuries grooming to our vain human whims?  And will my tenth of an acre make a difference in the grand scheme of wildlife preservation? I don’t know, but…  it’s a beginning.

bare root crab apple
first autumn foliage drops
mere inches to ground

dVerse haibun Monday: New beginnings

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ruthless

Beware of snakes

selling snake oil,

especially

if you

frequent

the same dens.

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meditation: day one

I sit to center.

First realization: I

cannot discern plumb.

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