Bold jumping spider’s cheeky grin
inhabits not his fuzzy chin.
Indubitably not rude nor snooty,
you’ll find him smiling on his booty.
An aerialist, short facile leaps;
satin sacs in which he sleeps.
Eyes galore, vision intact:
eight plus the pair upon his back.
dVerse prompt: write a quadrille: (a poem of exactly 44 words) and include a form of the word Jump.
The smoky air carries an orange tinge. Leaves droop on hot, dry trees and shrubs outside my window. Eyes sting, throat burns, head aches. Doggo whines to go outside, but I don’t want to expose his small lungs to this foul air.
My wildlife garden looks vacant. The crows that usually occupy the utility wires at this time of day are nowhere to be seen, though I did spot a lone young squirrel this morning, darting across the lawn towards the walnut tree. Talk about little lungs…
For the umpteenth time, I wonder where we humans went wrong on our earthly odyssey. But maybe this was the inevitable destination all along. I mourn for the innocents who’ve been caught up in our reckless journey. My eyes leak.
wildfires run rampant
summer blooms stand powerless
where do the birds go?
dVerse poets Haibun Monday prompt: Journeying
My thoughts are with all affected by this wildfire season. Loss of lives, homes, possessions, livelihoods.. as well as wildlife and their habitats. Incalculable. Huge thanks to those who are fighting these fires, and all who are aiding those suffering losses.
I once cared
how others perceived me,
whether I fit in,
if I was loveable,
if I was enough.
Now I couldn’t care less.
Now I care
about my own priorities and values.
And in loving myself, I find
I’m far more than enough.
These have I loved:
the scattering promise of springtime sprouts in my wildflower garden;
the burbling waters of summer-lessened streams,
metallic-blue dragonflies zipping past ramrod straight cattails;
deep summer shade;
the musty smell of an old book, its thick, browning pages
steadfastly preserving the author’s words
whether deserving of such honor or not;
well-earned rivulets of sweat streaking down one’s cheek
after a spell of honest labor;
dusty brown feet sunk into the warm, soft dirt of a well-tended garden;
the triumph of pulling up a dandelion, its root completely intact;
an intriguing story;
old hymns sung in wobbling harmony by an age-burnished choir;
stained glass windows and the kaleidoscopic colors
rendered by filtered sunlight;
short sermons;
old cemeteries, moss-covered tombstones with
names scrubbed illegible by centuries of wear,
family plots delineated with tired sagging fences;
curls of wood shavings, the crisp pitch scent released
by newly planed pine boards;
antique woodworking tools with handles smoothed by
generations of artisanal use;
well-brewed coffee and warmed almond croissants;
freshly churned buttermilk;
fresh baked bread;
a full recycling bin rolled to the curb;
unexpected blessings of chance, such as spotting a
praying mantis ootheca just as its tiny residents emerge
to face their next stage of life;
combing my fingers through the luxuriant undercoat
of my fluffy white spitz;
his generous smile as he greets my returns home;
stink eye glares from condescending cats;
time spent with my daughters, the delight of witnessing the loving,
thoughtful women they have grown into;
grandchildren playing contentedly on a toy-strewn floor;
the smell of a newborn’s silky-soft head;
warm evenings, rocking chairs on the back deck,
a curiously formed piece of wood to whittle…
All these have been my loves.
Inspired by a dVerse prompt from Kim:
Based on the second stanza of ‘The Great Lover’ by Rupert Brooke, “write a list poem that begins ‘These I have loved: ’ of the everyday things that are important or precious to you. Be specific, picking out tiny details, and don’t stop until you get to the bottom of the page. Finish with ‘All these have been my loves’.”
our lives unfold moment by moment by moment
though we try to clump them together into
years and weeks and minute-by-minute or
compartmentalize them into
home and work and hobby and
now and then and now-and-then
and maybe it helps to think there is
some underlying structure to it all since
otherwise we are like untethered balloons
caught up in an errant breeze that
pulls us right past the delineations of
time and titles and self-imposed strictures
and how would we ever manage to define ourselves
if we just let life unfold moment by moment by moment
Unfolding like spring itself,
phacelia morphs from
ram’s horn to barbed-tailed scorpion to
cat’s tail curled at the end
in a wary twitch.
Anomalous to neighboring
bright-faced poppies and asters,
unpretentious in muted greens and beige,
she nonetheless shimmers with
foraging bumblebees;
nature’s cornucopia.
It’s my first excursion in my newly acquired camper van. I drive from city freeways to arterial roads to country roads to the vague essence of roads in middle-of-nowhere eastern Oregon.
I remember driving roads like this in my younger years, in a handpainted red Dodge pickup, where I sometimes had to hop out of the cab, raise the hood and shove a rod back in place so I could shift out of neutral. A simpler time, a simpler vehicle.
When oncoming drivers begin raising a hand in casual greeting as they pass, I remember this neighborly act from my small-town upbringing. Though the van and the road are new to me, I recognize this pace, this sense of community and commonality.
On reaching my campsite, I rest easy in the stillness and reminisce about times past when ruts and potholes preceded speed bumps, and when drivers raised more than just one finger to one another in common salutation.
in burlap-rough folds,
hills of scrub and juniper
bask like sun warmed snakes
Neither shy nor shrinking,
vibrant orange blooms
jostling with neighbors for territory.
First to show in a bed not yet
reclaimed from winter’s neglect;
last to go, refusing extinguishment
by autumn’s bluster.
Wallflower, who ever thought to name an
awkward, peripheral introvert after you?
dVerse quadrille prompt: bloom: write a poem of exactly 44 words and include the word “bloom.”
There is nothing new under sun or stars, so
bleak a plight we dread admit as much.
Life’s meaning now on apathy depends;
and even that we scarcely rely upon.
A rose is a rose is a
rose, especially if that rose is red,
primary on the color wheel,
predictable on barn or barrow.
You see it in our eyes, glazed
over and toneless and done with
useless tears. Instead, we let rain
track our cheeks in sham rills of water.
There’s nothing to do now but sit beside
old memories: books with cracked spines, the
way new snow once appeared impossibly white,
and the cackled surprise of egg-laying chickens.
It’s the last day of National/Global Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). I’m taking today’s prompt from dVerse, where we are challenged to write a Golden Shovel poem. The form:
*Choose a line from a poem that resonates with you.
*Build your poem so each line ends with a word from that line.
*Keep the words in order, forming the original line down the right margin.
*Let your poem move in its own direction. Surprise us!
*Include attribution (after [poet])
The poem I chose was The Red WheelBarrow by William Carlos Williams. Since there are only sixteen words in the poem, I used the entire poem to form my own.
The Red Wheelbarrow, by William Carlos Williams*
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
*Source: The Collected Poems: Volume I 1909-1939 (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1938)
What Rhymes with Stanza? 