History

This is inspired by FOWC: Pizzazz and also Wednesday’s Weekly Scribblings but because it is so late, I am linking it to the Writers’ Pantry also.


History will certainly have pizzazz,

Yes? With truth stranger than fiction

(If anyone can even find it),

Allusions to the Apocalypse rampant,

Conflict in the plot of life outpacing

Many people’s ability to deal.

Is this a stream of consciousness for

The universe (which I wish we could

Go back and edit, reverse)? When will

This nightmare be consigned to history?

More??

For SoCS: More


More and more I think these days
Of life go quickly, in a haze,
But at the same time I can see
The days parading too slowly,
In somber and macabre ways:
But soon enough we’ll celebrate,
The end of the year 2020.

close up photo of yearly planner beside a pen
Photo by Jess Bailey Designs on Pexels.com

Remembering Easter

Today’s MTB at DVerse is about haiku sequences. I know haiku are usually about nature, but my sequence is about St. Mary Magdalene, whose feast day was a few days ago, on July 22.


The sun was rising
When Mary Magdalene came
To visit the tomb.

The sun was rising
To start a mournful morning:
Was the Lord stolen?

Mary Magdalene
Stayed and waited when she came,
‘Til Jesus found her.

To visit the tomb
Then able to tell good news –
The Belovèd lives!

This Will Be a Disaster

A haibun for Writing Wednesday. Join in here!


The news today is that President Trump is suggesting to delay the presidential election until in-person voting is safe. Though absentee mail-in voting is good, he says, to make it universal could lead to massive fraud.

People on the opposite side of the aisle are framing this as the president clinging to his spot in the Oval Office. I don’t think so. Say what you want about Trump; he is right that the potential for voter fraud is higher, and with the way his opponents have hounded him for the past 4 years, he is right to be worried.

I think no matter which way the election swings, it’s bound to be a disaster.

thunder and lightning
shouts of four horsemen ready
skies already gray

Flight

For DVerse Poetics “Flights of Fancy” and inspired by something I saw in my family’s garden yesterday.


The finch perches
On the back of a sunflower,
As she awaits her turn
At the filled feeder:
She finds her chance
And when she flies
The flower dances springily back,
In true sunflower fashion;
The finch uses the free
Surplus of birdseed
To fuel more of her
Flight and avian dreams.

Demeter and Persephone

This is for paint-chip poetry #29. I decided to try a short retelling of a myth.

She cursed those three pomegranate seeds.
Now caught in dark winter, she wonders
Whose bright idea was it
To let her daughter eat them?
Demeter’s mood is tropical storm, far from warm,
And she feels her precious baby’s
Breath become a frigid frost again.

To a Sunflower

Shared with the Writers’ Pantry this week. Magaly talks about keeping a sense of hope, and I wrote this even before reading that.


You are slowly opening:
Hope in nature’s bloom,
Showing what it is to wait,
And to give growth room.
Yellow petals reaching out,
Pretty little flower,
Like a set of open hands
With surprising power.
Captivating littleness,
Sowing seeds of your greatness.

IMG_20200716_092038456
photo taken by me a few days ago

Mystical Changes

Linda Kruschke has another paint-chip poetry prompt this week. It is a bit different this time:

I’m not sure if I like how this turned out, but here is my (first) attempt.


Isn’t gratitude something mystical?
It turns key limes into a pie,
It creates a banana split
From one humble fruit —
Tenderly-watered seeds
Bloom into Grandma’s hydrangeas:
Not every flower is showy
Yet they make a beautiful whole,
Isn’t gratitude something mystical
Running in the family of hope?

Bauernhortensie Wochenmarkt.jpg
By 3268zauber – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5074918

I Need A Hug

I wish you’d hold me closely,

Do not begrudge me a hug

I live, exist so lonely.

Is everyone suspect, risky?

When it is deemed to be safe

We’ll need to undo conditioning,

And that’s maybe most dangerous:

Isolation. Deprivation. Silent chorus.


Maybe this poem makes me sound pathetic, but gosh all I want is a hug. I don’t live by myself but am still so isolated, especially emotionally. Thanks to Fandango for the prompt word, and I am also sharing with the Writers’ Pantry. Will post this before I change my mind.