HALF A PAIR

Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, and we’re
Asked to  explore sensory memories.
Submitted to dVerse
October  28, 2019
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I remember the comfort of being half of a pair.
the security of simply knowing you were there
I remember the smell of your aftershave
your meticulous trimming of your moustache
I remember feeling cherished when 

you laughingly called me “bay-bee”
the sleepy morning kiss as you left for work
the pride of knowing you were a first responder
that final goodbye as you left for the fishing trip
from which you never returned.

For nearly 40 years you’ve been gone
and I’ve soldiered on alone
at times longing to feel your embrace
and calm reassurance that all will be well.
and still you visit in my dreams and
for a brief moment in time
I feel half of a pair once more.

HARVEST

Prosery at dVerse, and Bjorn has
asked us to consider a line from a
Louise Gluck poem …"This is the
barrenness of harvest or pestilence",
….a line to which I find I take
exception...nor do trees give up their
souls, as in the poem. My sympathy to
the poet.
Submitted to dVerse
October 27, 2019

The phrase  “barrenness of harvest”  is an oxymoron.    Harvest is  a golden time of thankfulness and celebration of  earth’s bounty when fields, divested  of their gifts, offer the banquet of remnants of harvest for small creatures and flocks of birds on their way to warmer climes.  Having given the last of their gifts, fields lie fallow awaiting winter’s mantle of moisture and nutrients in preparation for Spring when the miraculous process is repeated.  Harvest is reminiscent of hayrides, wiener roasts, glorious displays of gourds and chrysanthemums,  crisp autumn mornings and falling leaves.   Pestilence, on the other hand,  speaks for devastation resulting from disease or epidemic. Trees do not give up their souls, but divest themselves of their garments and prepare for a  long winter slumber, just as we undress,  go to our bed and pull up the blankets for a good night’s sleep.  I find Mrs. Gluck’s view of harvest to be depressing.

Sunday Muse #78

Sunday Muse #78 with a new
photo inspiration .. this time
flight/space oriented.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
October 27, 2019

They met one sparkling summer day

A most unlikely pairing

People paused to ponder

What they might be sharing

With gentle wave of fragile wing

Adrift on a breath of air

“What do you see”, the monarch asked

“All bottled up in there?”

“Well, I fly high” the astronaut replied

“to gain a broader view

While what you see is limited

To what’s just in front of you”

And so, you might imagine

The two talked quite a lot

Of varying views of God’s handiwork

As seen by a butterfly and an astronaut.

SORROW

Meeting the Bar at dVerse, and
Frank has presented the polyptoton,
to be included in our poetic effort.
I fear I'm in the midst of a dance
macabre this week, thus my poem.
Submitted October 24, 2019

here and there they sit
helped or helpless, wheelchair bound
thoughts skewed and hair askew
vacant eyes, devoid of hope

once alive, now lifeless

the journey a road trip to hell

Tardy Death, you come too late

they have already gone

SOMETHING WICKED

Quadrille #90 at dVerse
And De asks us to feature the
word quiver in our poetic effort,
in exactly 44 words, of course!
Submitted October 21, 2019

deep in the forest at dark o’clock
I came upon a bubbling caldron
unattended

   

the black cat watched, the owl said “Who?”
I quivered, my footsteps
suspended    

grasping an arrow from  ready quiver  
I drew my bow, vowing to shoot before I was
 upended

DISMAY

Sunday Muse #78 - a photo by
Erik Johansson to inspire us.
Submitted to The Sunday Muse
October 18, 2019

he wished to write his 

heart song
but somewhere 

from pen to paper
the music went away
and so he began again

and again  

until
all about him was littered 

with the detritus
of his 

dismay

THE QUILT

Poetics, and we're to choose our poem
of any style we wish.  I chose a very
personal poem I wrote some time ago
about a quilt I treasure.
Submitted to dVerse
October 18, 2019

I’ve a quilt of many colors my mother gave to me
She lovingly caressed it as she told its history.
“These pieces”, she said with quivering voice,
“Are from my grandmother’s dress.
I made it in her memory, after she’d been laid to rest.”

I look at the quilt of colors my mother so carefully made.
Life’s like the quilt, I said to myself,  with pieces painstakingly laid.
Some colors are bright and happy, others are dark and sad
And the way we arrange the pieces reflects the life we’ve had.

I love my quilt of colors and display it with very great pride.
It’s more than a piece of fabric, it makes me feel good inside.
Very aware of my heritage and my place in the scheme of things.
We’re all keepers of memories, whether we’re paupers or kings.

As my mother passed on the memories of her grandmother to me
So I’ll entrust the memories to my daughter too, you see
She, in turn, will pass them on in an endless living chain
And the hopes and dreams of our ancestors
Will live again and again.

As those before, so those to come
Will encounter both joy and strife
And each generation be given the chance
To piece the quilt of life.

SUNDAY MUSE #77

Submitted to the Sunday Muse #77
October 15, 2019

Rebeca Cygnus Photography
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Pluck from the tree of lessons learned
Sip from the pool of sorrow

Know what it is to love and lose
And still believe in tomorrow

Garner the courage to seize the day
And face it with  an open mind

Eagerly explore the road ahead
Don’t dwell on the road behind

SPAMWICHES

dVerse Form For All!  Consider
pop art, a cultural phenomenon or some
such.  My mother used to grind Spam
with some hard boiled eggs, onion,
pickle, celery and mayonnaise for a
gastronomic delight she called
Spamwiches.  Here’s my tribute!
Submitted to dVerse
October 10, 2019
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When did Spam fall from grace
It was once considered handy
Mom served company Spamwiches
They liked them fine and dandy

Today it’s being frowned upon
An object of ridicule
What’s happened to that standard
We once thought was so cool?

MIND SET

Quadrille #89. Our poem is to feature
the word “set” in exactly 44 words.
This one is dedicated to my father.
Daddy’s gone now, but he’ll appreciate this one!
Submitted to dVerse
October 7, 2019
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The photo is of my parents' hands
on their 50th wedding anniversary.
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No need for communication
Clearly her mind was set
Nevertheless he loved his woman
Stubborn as a woman can get
For fifty years he’d hankered
Just once she’d let him be right
As usual, he patted her bottom,
Kissed her, and said “Good night.”

Grandma's Stove

Time for Tuesday Poetics, and Grace
has asked us to feature FOOD in
our writing effort.  My special memories
of food take me directly to the kitchen
of my grandmother and the huge round
table that sat near her magic black
cookstove. Food and family intermingle
in m mind.
Submitted to dVerse
October 1, 2019
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