Quadrille Monday (second submission)

I am hosting the Quadrille prompt for today at dVerse.  A poem of exactly 44 words, not counting the title using the word “skip”.  Come join us!  Short poems won’t take long to read.  Have some fun and don’t skip this opportunity for fun.  This is my second submission for this prompt.   https://dversepoets.com/2016/05/02/quadrille-8/

Perfect Stone
Stevie Stevenson – cutest guy in first grade.
Class trip, picnic by the pond.
He skipped stones across the pond.
He picked up the perfect stone for me.
Snuck into my pocket, kept it.
Looking at it made my heart
Skip a beat all summer.

free wikipedia image

free Wikipedia image

Quadrille Monday

Today is Quadrille Monday at dVerse and I am prompting.  The word for today is “skip” and the variants of “skip”.  Come visit us and don’t skip reading the poems.  Poems must use the prompt word and not counting the title, be exactly 44 words in length, no more, no less.    https://dversepoets.com/2016/05/02/quadrille-8/

Skipping Hearts
You took me in your hand –
Felt the edges of me,
Weighed me in your hand
then looking at the horizon,
Pulled back your arm and threw me
Across the ocean of your heart –
skipped me
until I sunk in the depths


Kyūketsuki – vampire

I am linking this to dVerse’s Open Link Night. This is a non-prompted poetry event where you can link a poem of your choice. My mother has Alzheimer’s. I am grieving.

Kyūketsuki – Vampire
the vampire is a day walker a night stalker –
I go to my mother’s room and there
he is – wrapped tightly around her
forehead against her white hair –
a look of nightmarish orgasm on his face.
Get away from my mother I shout
But he just smiles –
I don’t care who she is.
I don’t care who you are.
I don’t care about any of you except that you are my food.
I feed off your hopes, dreams, tears….memories.
I will feed until you are dead or worse than dead….
I pull my sword and as I pull it free from its shi
I see it is a plastic sword – A parody of child’s toy.
See? Nothing you can do.
I go to my mother and put my arms around her
Holding her close, trying to break his hold on her.
Her soft pansy brown eyes are blank and yet unbearably sad.
The vampire chuckles –
That was a nice juicy bit – the first time your father kissed her.
It is mine now.
But with lazy grace he decides to leave.
Next time you feel that bit of warmth on your neck remember:
It is not a spring breeze or the sun,
It is my breath as I follow you, close behind.
Now my mother’s eyes are clear and she is tired, wants a nap.
I ease her back onto her pillow and kiss her forehead, her cheeks,
Her frail hands. Be at peace mama. I’m here.
She smiles and closes her eyes.
So no one will hear, I go into the bathroom and bury my face
Into my large towel.
I sit on the toilet and howl and rock with pain
Until I can go out the door with a smile plastered on my face
And calm in my voice.
I look into the mirror and see my mother’s eyes looking back at me.
I feel the warmth on my neck and I shiver.

nosferatu public domain files

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday

Today for Haibun Monday, Bjorn is giving us the prompt – Beauty in Decay. Assisting him with this is a wonderful photographer, Susan Judd. We are to choose one of her photos and write the haibun around it and the prompt. You can see more of her work and more about her at http://suejudd.com/ Come join us for Haibun Monday – that wonderful Japanese form that is a combination of poetic prose with a haiku at the end.

Decay Transformed
Dried daffodils always make me think of my father. He was a loving and gentle man who enjoyed growing things – flowers, kitchen garden, puppies, kittens, and lively little girls. Before I left home to live in Philadelphia, he had a series of heart attacks and finally, a multiple bypass surgery. The doctors told him if he ever had another attack, that would be it and that he had an expectation of at most, five years added to his life. Being my father, after he had healed physically, he went back to his life with no bitterness or fear. He lived every day like the miracle it was. One of his projects was to plant in the fall, several hundred additional assorted daffodils on the grounds of our home.

Early one morning in late February, my mother called me. My father had been taken to the hospital with a heart attack. I booked a flight to go home immediately. Our neighbor met me at the airport and took me home and waited for a few minutes while I through down my baggage and then took me to the hospital. My father died within a couple of days. When we returned home after funeral arrangements were made, I noticed for the first time, hundreds of daffodils in containers – everywhere. My mother said they had bloomed early and that a heavy frost had been forecast. My father was such, that he could not bear even flowers to suffer and so he had pulled every bloom and brought them into the house. Later, he was taken to the hospital.

When I returned to Philadelphia, I took a huge bouquet of daffodils with me. I watched them wither in their vase. I could not bear to throw them away. I watched as they dried and became a different type of beauty – fragile, ethereal. I kept those dried daffodils until they finally turned to dust. My father transformed everything he touched into beauty. He gave his love to everything he touched. Today, in memory of my father, every time I bring daffodils into my home, I let them dry – to go the full cycle with love and joy, as he lived his life.

dried daffodil blooms
beauty transformed – light shines through
In spite of dried death.

used by permission, copyright Sue Judd

used by permission, copyright Sue Judd

Quadrille #6

Today at dVerse Pub is Quadrille Monday. We are to write a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title from the prompt word Grace gave us today: “twist”.  Come visit us today.  The poems are short but can be intense.  Come visit and read!  https://dversepoets.com/2016/04/18/quadrille-7/

Reality Served Shaken

At the Life Bar
Perched on a high stool
staring into the mirror
behind the bar,
I can’t see me at all.
All I can see is my mother
disappearing into the
Dementia Mists – I didn’t order but was
served bitters with a twist.

Open Link Night #170 – Hazasakura

This is posted for Open Link Night at dVerse.  Come visit to read a variety of poems by some talented writers!

public domain image

public domain image


so long we wait for the blooms –
through the long winter watching the
tiny bits of reddish brown bud grow larger –
through snow, dark days, moonless nights
the buds grow larger and one day
they burst into bloom.
Too brief their time of beauty.
By the end of the day blossoms fade
and blow away in the wind or drift
to the ground in sakura snow.
A hard rain this morning.
Petals washed down and ground into the mud
by the relentless raindrop armies
churned into oblivion.
A walk down the lane to the creek this afternoon –
fresh smell of pine needles and cedar
from the surrounding woods –
the usually clear water muddy from the rain.
I try to see my image but only see shadowy
reflections from the trees.
I return home already missing the cherry blossoms.
I stuff my hands in my pockets
having to accept the truth of cherry blossoms:
the blossoms have to die so the green leaves can live.
It’s a long wait until next Hanami.

cherry blossoms

*hazasakura – term for green cherry trees after the blossoms have fallen.

dVerse Poetics: Fantasia!

Today at the dVerse Poets Pub, Lillian is our guest pubtender and prompter. She has used a poem from Carl Sandburg to spur us on, to help us to delve inside our fantasies and write. In fact, we are to use the word phantasy, fantasy, etc. in our poems. Come visit us on this fantastic journey! http://dversepoets.com/2016/04/12/poetics-fantasia/

public domain image

public domain image

Fantasia in Green and Sun
I shuffle the packets through my fingers like magical cards. The pictures tease me, lure me. Fantasies of green project from my mind onto the patch of loamy brown soil. Looking at the almanac to chart the moon phases in the coming weeks The next week, full moon, will be for planting those things that grow above ground – tomatoes, green peas, yellow squash, cucumbers, snap beans, zucchini, okra, peppers, greens. The end of April, in the dark of the moon, those things that grow beneath the surface in the dark of the earth: potatoes, carrots, radishes, beets, turnips. Old fashioned flowers and clover around the border.  An old fashioned girl, I plant by the moon and the size of oak leaves. I honor the earth with compost of carefully recycled scraps and soil gathered with care and thanksgiving from beneath forest leaves raked aside and then carefully raked back to cover the spot.  Soil trundled to the site and distributed from end to end, worked in with hoe.

Sitting on my back steps in the cold of early spring, watching the fire of dawn split the black horizon, wrapped in my grandmother’s quilt sipping coffee and having converse with and listening to the morning birds. The mellow temple chime of the cardinals proudly proclaiming, “Here! Over here, over here!”. The trilling of the wrens and the glass chime tinkle of the finches and from my old friends whom I have named Peat and Repeat – the mockingbird and the brown thrasher – all the sounds of the other birds and magically, the opening notes of the theme from the Xfiles, carefully and patiently taught, joyfully poured forth without stint.

I look at the patch of bare earth and fantasies play like a wonderful movie behind my eyes – a fantasy of tender green shoots and tendrils, then exotic blooms of squash and peas, beans and tomatoes; various sizes and shapes of bright yellow. Little suns that drop to earth and leave behind the beginnings of meals, pickles, relishes – all the be shared or hoarded during drab winter. My herbs have been uncovered and in a bit, the sun will warm and send their blessed incense to me. Dreams of summer and autumn days and the joys of the seasons. All there, in that patch of soil. My land of dreams and fairies, butterflies and bees, night grazing bunnies. Fantastic beasts and flowers, secret garden of the soul.

from cool brown earth
visions of summer arise –
fantasies are born.


copyright kanzensakura

copyright kanzensakura

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