Sun glides low across the sky;
Despite late rising, soon to set.
Scant light filters through the gloom
Diluted ‘til there’s no warmth left.
Still, give credit for the effort.
Kindle carefully the spark.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better, and
I’ll rise higher from the dark.
In response to
Cut boards apart, then reassemble. Drill holes, then fill them in. Brush on stain, then wipe it off. Break stained glass, then tack together. Melt solder lines so they will harden. Build a window to block the view. Artisans are fine crafters of contradictions.
We likely all know the trope of whether a half-filled glass of water is half full or half empty. In truth, the glass is completely full: half water and half air. Both are vital to our survival.
Like the cycles of the moon, our lives are said to wax and wane. Coming into my seventh decade, I am by force of nature inarguably waning, and yet my life is full to overflowing. As the cycle continues, I am quite curious as to where I will find myself at my own next new moon.
whole moon half-hidden
wax and wane like hide and seek
steadfast in the sky
“You’re such a witch!”
As if that’s a bad thing?
I stifle a laugh,
plot with which potion
your coffee to taint.
Insult me at will, I’ve been called much worse.
My cauldron erupts effervescently.
“You’re such a witch!”
I nod my agreement.
And you are a toad.
Just stating a fact;
I’m not calling names.
Croak your rebuttal, alas to no end.
Gaze into yon pond, your true self to see.
dVerse Poetics — Halloweeny Humans.
Today’s dVerse challenge, as hosted by Lisa, is to write a Halloween-themed poem that speaks to a human attribute that we find particularly irritating. For me, it is name-calling. The poem form, for extra credit, is called a duodora, which you can read about on the dVerse site.
The morning is spent, and me with it.
Hours of pulling weeds, spreading wood chips,
planning which shrubs to transplant where…
Some call it gardening.
It’s blatant manipulation, really;
rearranging earth’s flora to satisfy human aesthetic.
From my chair on the porch, I look skyward.
“Ah,” muse has joined me. “The sky is yours to ponder.”
I ponder muse instead. “The sky is mine?”
A scrub jay has been eavesdropping.
REE REE REALLY!?! his strident call inquires.
He flits away, a blue blur among green leaves.
WHO WHOOO WHO, questions a collared dove
from a tree further distant.
Who says the sky is yours?
I glare at muse. “See what you started?”
A lone grey pigeon cuts expanding circles above.
Owning the sky, eh, muse?
Usually, the homing pigeons fly in multiples.
Raised by a neighbor, I am told,
who lets them out regularly for exercise.
Are they his, I wonder? Or does he – in reality –
manipulate earth’s fauna for human enjoyment?
In the course of fifteen minutes three jets have passed overhead,
marring the bright blue sky with jagged white contrails.
Two big crows eye me from a nearby fence.
“No,” I sigh. “The sky is not ours.”
We just pollute earth’s elements for human convenience.
I’ve pondered enough. I’m going inside.
“The sky is mine,” I scoff, shaking my head.
“– to ponder… I said ‘to ponder’,” muse mutters.
“It was just a thought that struck me, like — out of the blue.”
“Tell that to the birds,” I say.
wheat from chaff
gold flakes from silt
truth from lies
me from you
dVerse poets poetics: Wheat
He smelled of pipe tobacco,
Prince Albert to be precise.
His soft jaw with a half day’s stubble looked scratchy,
but I never ventured to touch it and find out.
A dark amber bottle – Blitz beer — perpetually clamped in one hand,
his pipe in the other. Sometimes lit, sometimes not
(both he and his pipe),
He didn’t talk a lot. At times it seemed
he wasn’t listening much either,
but then his face would suddenly brighten, and –
with eyes sparkling — he’d begin recounting a story or a joke.
Mom would shush him. “Not in front of the kids.”
Dad would chuckle as if he knew the ending anyway,
and Grandpa Clyde would sit back and take a swig of his beer,
satisfied at getting a rise out of my mother, even if
he never got to finish his story.
I imagined he had a lot of stories to tell.
I imagined him as some kind of O. Henry character,
cloaked in enigmatic layer upon layer
that never quite unfolded in daylight.
Despite his presence at Sunday dinners for most of my childhood,
I never felt I knew him; never heard the punch lines that made him laugh;
never learned the O. Henry-esque twist endings to his stories.
If someday we meet in the “great beyond”
(per my mother’s portrayal of him, it likely won’t be in heaven),
we can sit by the fires, Prince Albert mingling with sulfurous air,
beer bottles sweating in our warm hands.
He can tell his stories. Or not.
I can touch the stubble on his cheeks. Or not.
Regardless, there’ll likely be mischief in his eyes, and – likely —
I’ll leave still not having cracked the mystery
of my grandfather.
dVerse Poetics: On Profiles and Portraits. The Challenge: write/create a profile/portrait in your verse.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 