Along life’s path
we cobble together experiences,
lessons learned, loves lost
Some leave no stone unturned
in their search for meaning.
Others piece their stones together
along an uneven trail,
and do not mind when
moss gathers to fill in the gaps.
dVerse Quadrille #58 – Cobble us a Poem
The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge will be ending as of this month, so for the final wrap up I am sharing some of my favorite photos that I have taken over the years. Some you may have seen on this blog before, some not. I hope you enjoy them.
The Daily Post weekly photo challenge: All-Time Favorites
From the dVerse blog for Tuesday Poetics: May 29, 2018: “Here’s what I want you to use tonight as inspiration for your poem. I’ve listed some street names for you, and I want you to imagine what the street is like…or who might live there…or how the name came about.”
The street name I selected from the list is Buttgarden Street.
We pass this way most every day,
my faithful dog and I,
and on this street a man we meet,
his mutt heeled at his side.
We greet as neighbors tend to do
a nod and friendly hi.
Our dogs sniff at their private parts;
we turn a modest eye.
A garden for the neighborhood
some volunteers commenced,
fronts this street for several feet
behind a cyclone fence.
“I wish they’d put this somewhere else,”
my neighbor groused aloud.
“This used to be a quiet street.
Now every day’s a crowd.”
True, many gardeners come each day
to tend their tidy beds.
With backs bent low, they weed and sow,
as blood runs to their heads.
Perhaps someday we’ll see green stalks
of veggies grown with care.
But until then there’s just a crop
of butts up in the air.
I should have taken the I-5 freeway, I tell myself even as I commit to the onramp of I-84 East. Traffic is at a crawl as drivers jockey to merge into the three eastbound lanes. I choose the center lane. A red Volvo in front of me switches to the left lane even though it, too, is at a near standstill. My line begins to move and I pull past the Volvo. I bet they’re sorry they changed lanes. I smile smugly. A mile later, my lane slows, and cars are passing on both sides. The Volvo, now in the right lane, zooms past me. That’s okay. It’s not a race. I stay in the middle lane. Dance with the one that brung ya, right?
drivers on their marks
finish lines are self-described
bring your own trophy
For the next six miles, traffic ebbs and flows. Compulsively, I check my progress against cars on either side of me. No, it’s not a race, but there’s that nagging need to prove that I chose the best lane. I reach my exit and check my rear view mirror as I ease over to the off ramp. The red Volvo is right behind me. Ha! For all its lane changing, I still came out in front. Had it been a race – which of course it wasn’t – I would have won. Yep… dance with the one that brung ya. Fidelity always pays off. Until it doesn’t.
crows raise strident voice
choruses of morning birds
solos every one
Haibun Monday: Silent Sounds
Sometimes I see that you are
I don’t know what to say,
other than, “I’m sorry.”
You say, “It’s okay.
It’s not your fault.”
lick your wounds
We both know that it’s not.
Not my fault – at least not this time –
and not okay.
What is it that keeps us unseen.
from being okay with life
not being okay?
What is it that keeps us Unseen,
from allowing one another to
be with us in our sorrows?
I am with you when you are down. I bear your pain
I am with you when it’s not okay.
I am with you when it’s not my fault… and remain
even when it is my fault.
If you do not wish to be with me,
or just aren’t ready right now,
Or maybe it’s not.
But I will be with you in my heart, in silence.
even if not in yours.
In response to dVerse Meeting the Bar, May 24, 2018, where it is explained that, “Contrapuntal music is composed of multiple melodies that are relatively independent that are sounded together. In the poetic world, contrapuntal poems are poems that intertwine two (or more) separate poems into a single composition.”
Come outside, it’s raining!
Damp tree scents tickle our noses;
delicious, earthy chills.
Raindrops splash in puddles.
Watch them dance; taste the freshness.
Hear the rain trickle through
moss-furred branches overhead.
Feel the wet soaking in.
Then back inside to shake it all off.
dVerse Quadrille: Don’t rain on my parade!
The Daily Post weekly photo challenge: Liquid