This was written for the current Weekly Scribblings, as well as DVerse MTB for today. I hope this poem is especially sonorous. 🙂 For the Weekly Scribblings prompt, they provided a haiku, and I was inspired especially by the phrase, “an old rosary carved of human bone.”
It’s time for DVerse Quadrille again! These prompts are usually magnetic to ideas, especially today’s. 🙂 I wasn’t going to post this, but I don’t have a better idea. Some people have much more of an influence than they think, even more than you might think. This is also shared with the Writers’ Pantry.
Did you know,
Although it has been twelve years,
The thought of you is magnetic
We are closer in your death
Than in life we ever were.
What if it had been me?
Did you know,
The void continues to call me?
For DVerse Poetics, Sarah is challenging us to use “Three Little Words,” inspired by the site what3words.com. She gave us a list of 3-word combos, but I went to the web site and explored. I found the combination wounds.relay.caring, This is the poem that happened after that. It is also a décima for Ronovan’s prompt, Swing. And it got depressing again.
Up and down, strong emotions swing,
Each day a leg in a relay
Race that lasts too long, life delayed.
How many people are caring?
I understand, but the sharp sting
Of loss has not diminished: What
Is the cost of all of the cuts,
Wounds that must be made? Is it worth
The gain? Or is there a worse dearth?
It seems the door to dreams is shut.
The prompt for DVerse MTB was truly fascinating this week: lists from Google searches. I hope you like this bizarre compilation. It was fun, even if the result doesn’t make much sense. Tell me in the comments what you think it means!
Identity is shaped by
Shaped by fire:
Fire is alive
Fire is a living thing,
Fire is a living — nightmare,
Nightmares every night —
Nightmares are dreams, too.
At DVerse, we are being blanketed with quadrilles today. 🙂
She is a morning person,
Yet she finds occasions often
To sleep in, wanting to snuggle:
Waking up can be a struggle,
When the blanket is warm, inviting
And her dreams seem to be writing
A better story than reality —
Sometimes she’s too sleepy.
Sometimes there is a fierce rivalry between the desire to not waste the best part of the day, and the desire to just ignore the day.
The harvest moon is a little late, arriving Thursday. It will be worth the wait, since Halloween will also have a Hunter moon, joining in the trick-or-treating (or searching for some normalcy). By the light of two full moons, one sees a unique brightness rising.
bookending the month
full moons bind the days’ pages:
This poem is inspired by DVerse Poetics and the image below, which is by Catrin Welz-Stein. I enjoyed writing to one of her beautiful, surreal pieces of art. Her other art can be found here:
He holds a key that’s half his size,
As a giant feathered-thing flies
Away with him, away, as he stays
Looking at the moon. He’s left a piece
Of himself, never to be released
From that beautiful, liminal gloom.
Looking out the front window, I see sun:
The season’s listing toward September,
And the sky’s no longer filled with embers
Sometimes reality crashes
Into my saccharine reveries, frowns
Find my face, but blue is not doleful
Above, in that heavenly place.
For DVerse Poetics today, I have written 2 nonets based on the prompt, “9 Across for a Count Down.” The first line of both nonets is taken from “To the Light of September” by W.S. Merwin.
It seems as though you are still summer,
Though the smoky sky shrouds much sun,
But the flames are retreating —
Soon may our worries sleep —
May seasons cradle
Change : burning
Broken shadows across the cracked ground
Point out the path to October:
Mid-September’s hellish flames
Trick or treat?
Today for DVerse Poetics, Sarah invites us to come and take a selfie. So, this is a self-portrait poem, which I wrote today and which I was and am unsure about sharing but whatever!
I have my father’s eyes.
Blue, which can pass for green
Depending on what I’m wearing —
I have my father’s eyes
In their color, their appearance,
But far from their substance
Because I see beyond the surface:
He is content with the placid sea,
He has fooled himself into thinking
He rules — he drowns reason
In another liquid, functions,
But how well does he think he’s hiding?
He has tried to sweep
It all under the rug — this family keeps
Secrets — don’t tell me I don’t see!
I have my father’s eyes.
Blue — for the sobering insight
Does anyone else sense the tsunami?