mishunderstood

were you tired of the space between?
one hand over the other
clinging tight to a rope of final reflections
white knuckled, daring yourself to let go
begging yourself to hang on?

it was only a sliver of time
the size of a pinhole
to us
“I’m ok”    .     Gone
but to you it must have felt like eternity
thoughts drawn and suspended, mid air
pain pooling, slowly rising in silence
gradually crashing, battering
until the break wall burst

sometimes I see you in desert sunsets
over sleepy canyons, under eagle wings
in restful lake ripples, and in my dreams
whenever clouds whisper your name
I listen

Sharing this for dVerse Poets Pub in response to Merril’s Poetics: August Transitions, which I’m sorry I needed to steal for a title. A therapeutic write as today marks three years from the day we lost my stepson, Brian. If I could share one thing that could possibly help others who have a loved one showing any signs of suicidal thoughts, it would be this – Don’t think it will never happen. The space between can be a blink.

National Suicide Prevention Helpline (Canada) – 1-888-456-4566 or SMS 45645

Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Text 988 (U.S.)

Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Text 988 (Canada – beginning Nov. 2023)

shift a little, my darling
find another angle, alien to you
you have painted me in colours
that only you can see
flat, fixed, formulated
fabricated pieces
so meticulously defined
by your jaded brush

look again, my darling
unveil my violet heart
shade me in ebony, if you must
and I trust that you must, though
I am not afraid of the darkness
moon flowers bloom in the gloom
why deny yourself sweet shadows?
they come from the light

Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Lillian is our lovely host, sharing with us the story of Thorvald Hellesen (1888-1937) and the art of Cubism. We are choosing a painting for poetic inspiration.

Through my oversized front window I wager the weather to be warm. Again I am wrong. The sun is tricky these days, undecided on sending us to the beach or simply spotlighting the neon yellow of finches on my feeders. Crocuses attempt to poke through decayed leaves but the chill has kept them from blooming. A blue jay bounces below the century old maple searching for fallen seeds. He seems overdressed for Spring but then again, he has no choice.

I take in a few moments of stillness, waiting for nature’s next performance. Pine needles on the scotch pine muster up a little jiggle as the slightest breeze blows between them. The blue jay boldly returns with a sudden landing on the top of the feeder. His squawking is far from musical as he contemplates another dramatic manouever. He misses the tray, sending sunflower chips to the doves below. The show has only begun.

early spring still sings
fading slowly in birdsong
summer’s rehearsal

A late response to Linda’s “Late Spring” haibun prompt.

dVerse Poets Pub

are you a gift?      
my little chickadee
wings, pillow soft
flit-flutter beating
be-stilling my heart

touch down
with a pin-prick patter
tiny claws tickle my palm
your feather belly begs
for a gentle stroke

all dressed for dinner
black-capped, black bib
fancy little fellow
you stare at me in wonder
between pecks and nibbles

I stare at you in awe
blessed by your presence
lost in your charm
you are a gift
my little chickadee

For today’s Poetics, Ingrid has shared poems of gratitude and asked us to “write a poem about a special gift you have received at some time in your life.” Feel free to join in with us over at dVerse Poets Pub. Last year on my birthday, I asked my son to take me to a provincial park, to a special spot where visitors can feed the chickadees. For me, it was a most memorable gift of nature.

Today the sun takes our winter weary souls for a drive along the river. The scenery alternates between an eclectic array of waterfront homes and narrow sections where the water laps at the edges of the road. Just before the gravel dock, around the familiar curve, there is a small parking lot. Tall, naked trees stand stoic against the shoreline, their lanky limbs reaching over the banks. Despite the sun-sparkle of rippling waves, the surface of the river is still mosaic. Jagged ice islands gently sway, randomly tapping each other. A few ducks paddle bravely between them. It is January, again.

Then we see him. Like royalty and in true raptor form, he pumps his wings with slow, powerful beats. Gnarly talons cast ominous shadows below. His pure white head appears angelic but his deadly hooked beak says otherwise. Tiny birds scatter. We watch him scope the ice, laser focused. Patient. Swooping across the river without a passport from one country to another.

mallard ducks under

scavenger knows no boundaries

cross-border trade

A haibun for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Grace is our host. Join us!

https://dversepoets.com/

Today the sky is blah-grey. The epic storm that delayed our Christmas will be easily forgotten. There is a cold front lingering but I am numb to the nip of winter.

We pack away large boxes of decorations and carry the balsam fir tree to the curb. It is still green, still thriving through it all. I pluck the uneaten gumdrops from the candy tree I playfully put together a few days earlier. They feel heavier now, like my heart.

This new year slips in without recognition. Time has barely shuffled past the twenty-seventh. We rearrange the furniture back to its original setting….before Christmas, before the storm. I collect the holiday cards displayed on the window sill, leaving only one, signed with love from my mother-in-law. It will sit here for awhile.

no calendar for death

december takes another breath

angel finds her wings

A haibun for dVerse Poets Pub in response to Kim’s prompt, ‘Fireworks and a Dripping Tap”.

where are you, my winter?

with your warrior winds

whipping on waves

candy coated tree limbs

I remember rosy red cheeks

against bleached white hills

magic carpets spinning sideways

sopping mittens, caked in snow

silence of snowflakes on tongues

screams of glee, toes numb

It’s Quadrille time over at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a poem of any style, exactly 44 words, not including the title. It must contain the word “candy” or a derivative of the word. It ‘s my pleasure to be your host today.

paint me a hazy shade of winter

colour me in winter things

I’ve heard your sunshine

smooth like legato but

more like cold weather blues

heart-bass beating with

tinkling of frozen tears

a muffled melody

trapped under ice

gift me withered roses from snow

tie them up in ribbons of your grief

for me to unravel, like a winter’s tale

I see your pain

waiting

on the other side of sunsets

heavy footprints in the snow

oh honey

…… let it go

Lillian is hosting Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub where we are blending some wintry music titles into our muse. She has given us many to choose from. I chose the following…

A Hazy Shade of Winter (Simon and Garfunkel)
A Winter’s Tale (Queen — and also The Moody Blues)”
Cold Weather Blues (Muddy Waters)
Footprints in the Snow (Bill Monroe)
Let It Go (Idina Menzel)
Roses from Snow (Emmylou Harris)
Trapped Under Ice (Metallica)
Winter Things (Ariana Grande)

He put his coffee down, gazed into her hazel eyes and asked again, “Am I a part of your heart?

“She looked down at her undisturbed croissant, pulling a few flakes from its edges. Without looking up, she said,

“I can’t breathe.”

He reached over the tattered diner table and placed his weathered hands around hers. They felt like silk. As always. He ran his fingers over the promise ring. The sun managed to dazzle the small diamonds through the streaky restaurant window.

“I don’t understand”, he whispered.

She slowly pulled her hands from his. One tear escaped, rolling over freckles to her plate.

“I feel confined between rigid walls of commitment. I don’t live in the black and white, but here… “

She paused, stared emptily at her ring, then into the pain of his eyes.

“Here, in the tender grey, I swim undisturbed.”

Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub.

Lisa has gifted us the line “Here in the tender grey, I swim undisturbed” taken from the poem “In Sullivan County” by Celia Dropkin. “Prosery” consists of prose, no longer than 144 words and must include a given line from a poem. Feel free to join in.

blossoming against the blue

of broody skies

truth will always rise

to find you

so……simply…… b-r-e-a-t-h-e

into sea salt dreams

change is brewing

stranded on the last slice of sea ice

these are the things they don’t tell us

you too will find your way

the sun will rise again

and I will be your trellis

dVerse Poets Pub

Laura has asked us to create a poem using end lines of previous written poems.

Image: pixabay.com

October sits between dying days of summer and winter’s icy breath. The maple tree in the front yard was busy last night, carpeting the lawn in retro shades of green, gold, orange and red. It reminds me of my childhood home in the 70’s where life was good. I walk across the leaves to hear the crunch and fill the bird feeder. The sun slips between tree shadows, dazzling where it can. I scan the herb garden for soup ingredients. The painted rock still sits a few feet away. “Every Child Matters”. I think about the “mush” that was served in residential schools and rationed rotten vegetables passed off as meals. I pick the last of my basil.

On the stove, scents of rosemary, thyme and oregano mingle and begin to fill the kitchen. I add the basil, give it a stir, poking gently at fresh carrots, zucchini and roma tomatoes. Contemplating whimsical additions, I open the fridge to find wilting spinach. It will do.

stolen in September

hearts descend in shades of dreams

truth will always rise

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub.

The theme is soup and I am your host.

How is one September different from the others?   Rebellious red maple leaves glow between the green….as usual for these early days of fall. A familiar sky hovers in cornflower blue. A monarch flitter- flutters over black eyed suzies, gathering nectar for the epic flight. I take in his beauty but he is no stranger. As rehearsed, the potted purple petunias, bow gracefully out of summer. Like every year, I pinch off shriveled blooms as if there is hope for more. Three sisters soup simmers in the crock pot once again. The sun still flaunts like June.

But on this day, the fifteenth day of September, a handsome young man with eyes like mine, takes a beautiful young woman, places his hands in hers and says, “I do”. I think the birds sang a little sweeter. Perhaps the breeze was scented in sweet alyssum, tousling her golden curls. I am certain a slivered piece of moon peeked from light years away.

september elopes

from autumn algorithms

love, keeper of seeds

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. We have a guest host, Xenia Tran and she has asked us to “create a haibun about September and a special moment you experienced during this month or are looking forward to.”

it was all vanilla
no Tuscan sunsets oozing
over edges of Krakow nights or
glimmers of ginger and lemongrass

she prayed to garam masala gods
begging for murals of flavors
to touch her tongue
to touch her heart

days gnawed at her so gently
she let them feast
as she slumbered deep
into sea salt dreams

For Poetics: Spicing it Up.

Merril is our host and has given us some spicy words to play with!

My playground was a nearby field – dirt trails, apple orchards, small hills, tall grasses. Caterpillars, beetles, grasshoppers and ladybugs were my playmates. I’d catch them, cup them gently between my hands, observe every detail before releasing them. I remember monarchs, the sun catching their wings, landing unpredictably on plumes of blinding yellow goldenrod. I remember warmth of summer on my arms, my fair skin turning blissful brown and counting freckles on my nose. Most of all, I remember the milkweed. I was fascinated with plucking one, peeling open the neon green pod to feel the silk of seeds. Beyond fascination….perhaps an obsession.

I want to plant milkweed and memories into protective soils, bring back the monarchs, save them from their demise. I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace. I want to feed the butterflies and my soul.

Prosery for Sanaa’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up to or exactly 144 words. It must include the given line from a selected poem. Sanaa has chosen the line “I’d like, too, to plant the sweet alyssum that smells like honey and peace” from “What I would like to grow in my Garden” by Katherine Reigel.

Photo taken yesterday on a walk through a local conservation area.

you are wind-driven
all trumped-up
on erroneous energies
captured only to collide

truth stands still as rock
no need to move or prove

I watch the white caps
curl, gaining strength and
wonder when your fallacies
will shatter like the waves

Sarah is hosting Poetics:

The four elements

dVerse Poets Pub

Photo: yesterday evening at the beach

grief screams, then hides, in hearts it creeps
we wait for silent buds to speak
secrets that should never be
lay deep beneath canopies
angel blossoms restless, stir
think of you the way you were
grief screams, then hides in hearts it creeps
we wait for silent buds to speak

Grace is hosting MTB at dVerse Poets Pub, bringing us the “Octelle”, created by Emily Romano.

squandered moments of July
slip subito through my fingers,
time personifies, gets hungry
and I am its prey
its always been this way

blight has taken the tomatoes
again, spring dreams deadened
and withering herbs will get
more than their wish
tonight, torrential style

“dark and foreboding”, he says
as he gambles on grilling
under gun metal skies
and here I lie, glaring at August
daring me into the fall

should I be moved by hues of gold
embrace the turn of nature’s path?
I resist, holding fast, for
Autumn’s shifty ways have
pulled me off the edge of summer

It’s Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub (3 p.m. EST)

Join us to learn more about the Lunar Codex.….and link up a poem!

This one was inspired by Tuesday’s Poetics with Sanaa Rizvi.

Supermoon sent us scrambling to the nearest park for open ground. Cameras in hand, we had visions of something extraordinary. The awe came when I did not focus on or with my camera but stood with mind silenced, tracing her perfection. I imagined some funky God of Geometry with a giant compass and extremely steady hands, carving our cosmic muse into carbon paper skies. He didn’t know her beauty until the asteroids and meteorites chiseled her barren cheeks and the sun dazzled her silly.

We heard the unmistakable howl of a coyote in the nearby woods. Believing in the myth added to the ambience.  I became lost in the mystery of moon tides and the depths of craters. I wondered where I stood with her in astrological terms, being born on the first day of the whole zodiac. I am clearly a beginning…to something.  Her porcelain face revealed no secrets. With fuzzy photos, we turned to go home. She followed,  her golden light gushing over darkened streets.  I drank her energy, let her sparkle my spirit one more time, just in case I would not see her Supermoon magic again.

sun in Scorpio

stars of Aries kiss Luna

November clouds drift

Sharing an old but appropriate one

for Open Link Night -LIVE

at dVerse Poets Pub (3 p.m. EST)

We are “moon trippin” after an announcement that our 2017 Anthology – Chiaroscuro, Darkness and Light has been chosen to be included in the Polaris Collection, a time capsule of art, music and writings scheduled to be sent to the moon in 2024!!

You can read all about the project here. Click on BOOKS, then POETRY COLLECTIONS and scroll to find us.

https://www.lunarcodex.com

“Another”. A good word if you’re talking about cookies. Another time, another place, another day. But don’t let it slide too easily off your tongue and numb your heart. Its a good word if you realize its potential for change as much as its ability to disengage, desensitize, and distract.

It has a way of erasing things. Precious things.

Another crop killing flood? Sure. You can’t just take Mother Nature by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.

“Another”school shooting? No. Not acceptable. Go ahead. Give me another excuse. Cry me another river about your selfish “rights”. Push me down another path of pansy-ass petals to the land of positivity. Toss another meme upon the media canvass to justify your lack of action.

Why do they trade scruples for shrapnel? Logic for innocent lives?

These are the things they don’t tell us.

Prosery for dVerse Poets Pub.

Lisa is hosting and has shared a riveting poem, “Notes on Ulvade”

Girl du Jour (author unknown)

The given line is the last line in my prose.

Image: unsplash.com

time?

well she thought it was good

night swallowing her day

time vamping to night

light dripping like honey….

dew drop diamonds at dawn

she yawns at the sun

burns her finger on a freshly lit cigarette

hot! dog at her feet, never under

estimates her pain precisely

she kisses his curly ear

aching for one more life

time

Having fun with compound words. Lillian is our super-host.

Come join us at dVerse Poets Pub.

Image: pixabay.com

my country

smorgasbord of diversity, democracy

pride without pompousness

but now?

horns blast in choruses of “me”

some take a nibble of the pie

boorish banquet begins

gorging, throwing away the bones of logic

don’t they know?

hatred will eat your heart for breakfast

It’s Quadrille time at dVerse Poets Pub! Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

Write a poem of 44 words, not including the title that includes the word, “nibble” in some form. It is my pleasure to be your host!

Not the prettiest of poems, but neither are the current events in Ottawa.

https://www.ctvnews.ca/canada/ottawa-in-state-of-emergency-as-downtown-residents-seek-court-injunction-to-stop-protest-noise-1.5770774

image: pixabay.com