Beautiful blooming bluefields bounce, bob, bow.
Balmy breezes brush by,
blowing… bending.
Blue blossoms balance
atop tall, slender green stalks.
Buzzing, boisterous bees; bumbling busy bugs
bombard bevies of burgeoning blue bouquets.
Bad-ass bayoneted bottoms belie
beneficial blending
of pollen dust on golden legs.
I was a kept woman:
kept from wanting, kept from having;
kept at home, kept at arm’s length;
kept alive, kept from living.
I kept my head down,
kept my opinions to myself.
I couldn’t keep up.
I gave up.
Now,
I’m a giver.
I was set;
had the flyer marked,
which events and where,
all within walking distance once parked.
I’d set my alarm,
then canceled one minute early,
overwhelmed by baseless fears
I thought I’d set aside.
Setting my sights on next year,
fifth year running.
dVerse Quadrille #89 – Are you set? The challenge: write a poem of exactly 44 words, and use the word “set” within the poem.
I arose when the sun rose.
As the temperature rose,
my rose blossoms opened.
My expectations rose
about winning a blue ribbon at the county fair.
Perhaps I would only win a rose-colored ribbon.
That would get a rise out of me for sure.
Furry troll with curious eyes
watched as dinner his table imposed.
“The password, please, else meet your demise.”
Troll drooled and lifted his nose.
Ominous threats no one believes,
beautiful puppy mine.
The password, please, you silly tease.
On table scraps you shall dine.
On the sideline, I sip warm cocoa.
On field, giants grapple.
Sweat and curses fly.
Shoulder pads crunch.
Whistles blow.
The players lumber toward benches,
spitting mouth guards and blood.
Halftime.
My turn.
Likewise an athlete,
I heft my tuba and sprint on field.
Spring came early.
Daffodils sent up blunt shoots.
Yellow buds perched atop short stalks.
Pushing right through autumn’s detritus,
spring defied winter’s chilly winds.
But winter sent a heavy-handed greeting:
a caress of snow, an icy kiss of welcome
and – most likely –
of goodbye.
“Cheers, everyone!”
Glasses raise in salute.
“Clink glasses!” a child calls.
Same granddaughter who clapped and “yay”ed
following a somber hymn at my dad’s funeral.
That’s how her performances are received.
I smile and bend down
toward her happy face.
“Cheers, little one.”
Always.
Your conspiratorial wink
seeks my complicit nod.
A pact, an inside joke
among us privileged.
What’s the punch line today?
Racism? Xenophobia? Homophobia?
Today the tacit agreement ends.
I will look you in the eye – unflinchingly –
and say, “No more!”
Straight. Into. The. Mirror.
“You’re early!” she complains.
“Better early than late, right?” I smile.
“Better early than never, I suppose.”
I’m not so sure.
Too late for never, though.
“I’ll go,” I say.
She scowls. “And come back when?”
Never say never, I’m reminded.
“Soon,” I lie.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 