Low clouds loom, dooming twilight
into gloom, dusk into the blackness of a hidden-moon
nocturnal tomb.
Garish winds grow more incessant,
effervescent, iridescent;
raging, though irrelevant as I
insist on lingering, beneath the skies that ravage me;
notwithstanding tendencies to
gravitate toward calmer seas.
Smudging windows with your nose,
Marring floors with dirty toes,
Shedding on the furniture,
Crud you’ve rolled in cakes your fur.
Snoring, scratching, snorts and whines,
Odors one cannot define,
So many things best left unsaid,
For now, it’s late. Hop in my bed.
“I wonder if I – “
“It wouldn’t work.”
“But what if – “
“You can’t. No training; no expertise.”
“But – “
“Can’t afford it.”
“I’m curious,” I say. “Do you even know
what we’re talking about?”
He glances up from the newspaper.
“Does it matter?”
where have they gone?
why were they here?
when did they leave, or
do they linger near?
what were they seeking,
or did they come to show?
who did they encounter
before they had to go?
I search heavenward, perhaps
some day to know.
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.
Yesterday you hugged the gravel path.
Today you strayed into wildflowers and
withers-high grass,
nose working the air as though
inhaling heaven itself.
Tonight I’ll pull burrs from the
long fur on your legs and bum.
Tomorrow, who knows?
With you, it’s all good.
dVerse poets Quadrille #110: Bumming around.
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.
