Confusing is the path one ought to take,
So full of twists and turns it’s hard to stand:
Stand by; and soon enough the path will make
More sense, next steps elucidated, and
Courage nearby to take the trembling hand.
One step ahead is all that might be shown,
But difficulties won’t be faced alone.
We may have had all summer to enjoy the sun, and now night and day are even. Yet as autumn begins to descend, I can’t help feeling it’s not a fair fight. I keep waiting for the last leaf to fall — for the other shoe to drop.
Flaming, leaves are red —
In a world that’s upside-down
Somewhere it is Spring
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?
I am sharing this poem with today’s Writers’ Pantry. It’s a shadorma that I wrote this morning. I intended to post something else but honestly think this is the best poem I’ve written recently that hasn’t already been posted.
cast in mist,
the future’s blurry
past is missed,
must be content with distance,
masks and Lysol spray
For today’s Weekly Scribblings, we are considering our foundations. I am also sharing this with FOWC: Nothing. Special thanks to Sarah for her beautiful and life-filled poem Walking at the Edge. Although the topic is much different, I read her poem earlier today and was inspired by the life in her poem, and I felt like her poem contained a “ferocious optimism,” hence the title and inspiration for this poem.
Every breath means she
Is not drowned underneath
New, bad news arriving daily.
Every step means she
Has not allowed depression
To render her inert, bedridden.
Every trembling of the Earth she
Wonders if this is the “Big One;”
Somehow there’s still a foundation.
Every morning means she
Breathes, steps, and wonders anew
That nothing has beaten her too blue.
For DVerse Poetics today, we are to write inspired by wheat. At first, I was completely at a loss for any inspiration, but tonight I wrote this Chaucerian stanza.
Unless a grain of wheat shall fall upon
The fertile ground and die, a sacrifice,
It remains a single grain; but once gone
It returns, and is now worth well past twice:
Potential on which you can’t put a price.
Does wheat feel trepidation ere the fall?
Is falling in the field falling at all?