Sevenling: This Amazing Man

A sevenling for Frank’s prompt – write a poem of seven lines.  I wrote a Sevenling poem.  A Sevenling poem form is simple – yet complicated. Lines one to three should contain three connected or contrasting statements, or a list of three details, names or possibilities. This can take up all of the three lines or be contained anywhere within them. Lines four to six should similarly have three elements (statements, details, names, or possibilities) connected directly or indirectly or not at all. The seventh line should act as a narrative summary or punchline or an unusual juxtaposition.

 

Sevenling:  This Amazing Man
“God gave us memory that we might have roses in December.” – J. M. Barrie

He disliked three things:
People who were cruel to children and animals,
People who were wealthy and did not share it to feed the hungry,
and people with no sense of humor.

He loved hybrid tea roses,
his stinky basset hound Chester,
and the smell of rain on newly cut grass.

This amazing man asked me to marry him and I said yes.

 

 

 

 

Not Closed

For De’s Quadrille Prompt over at dVerse Poets Pub and for Positive Prompted Poetry.  The word for today is “closed”.

 

Not Closed
“The first blooms of spring always make my heart sing.” — S. Brown

small business and restaurants
are closed – as is schools
government offices.
I walk around the neighborhood
and smile.
Not closed is the blue sky over head
and the dogwood trees,
the birds singing,
small yellow butterflies
hovering over dandelions.
lilacs bloom –
Spring is open!

Outside

For Carrie’s 100th Sunday Muse BlogSpot. whoo hoo! 100! I am having trouble with my ancient computer and so I cannot post the pic of a teal door.  I ended the poem with an American sentence.  Congrats Carrie and thank you so much for the prompts!  Here’s to 100 more.

Outside
“Everyone is battling something emotional behind closed doors – that’s life.” Caroline Flack

Behind the door I spend my days alone.
I fix meals for one,
sleep alone,
don’t talk to anyone.
I have become the ultimate introvert.
Outside my door –
spring arrives.
the lawn is full of tiny blue
forget-me-nots,
dainty blue Johnny jump ups,
countless purple muscari hyacinths.
green flushes the branches of trees
and the blue sky covers all.
I don’t feel alone when I am outside.
I walk around and remember.
then I go back inside.
The alone starts again.

Spring returns with a canopy of blue overhead – the vernal sky.

Tears in Frames

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse BlogSpot.  Artwork is: “Eyes Without a Face” by Digital Collage Artist Robin Isely A short one today. I have been immersing myself in Japanese classic haiku and am starting back on my quest to be succinct.

Tears in Frames
“One by one, drops fell from her eyes like they were on an assembly line – gather, fall, slide…gather, fall, slide…each one commemorating something she had lost.” ― Lisi Harrison, Monster High

Tears came before I could stop them,
what was the point in wiping them off?
I have imprisoned myself in my grief –
observers wander the halls
in the museum of my grief –
as lost as I

Your Song

For Carrie’s wonderful picture prompt at the Sunday Muse Blogspot.

Your Song
“I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is while you’re in the world.” Your Song by Elton John

I am the moon in the cold black sky
shining through the lace of
your curtains,
reflecting your face in the shining wood
of your piano.
You are contemplating an piece by Chopin –
the Minute Waltz?
Poloniase in C Sharp Major?
Piano Sonata No. 3?
Maybe something modern –
Maybe – Your Song?
I wait in the blackness
listening for your first note.
I am up here alone –
staring down at the cold earth below me –
frost forming on the grass and cars.
Shadows from the lace of the curtains
forming on your back.
You play the opening riff to Your Song.
The dark earth sleeps beneath me.

Peeling Fruit

For dVerse Poets Pub.  Today is Quadrille Monday.

 

Peeling Fruit

“What can we expect from an empty shell Where many hearts of pearl once beat to dwell, Waves fail to break hard layer’s bond of love, Wailing shore sends memoir to the sky above” ― Munia Khan

The knife plunges into the blood orange
and the chef pulls back the peel
and rips it from the orange.
the blood orange seeps red liquid.
I feel just like that orange.
the orange bleeds juice –
the human bleeds tears.
the knife keeps ripping.

Voice of the Wolf

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse BlogSpot. I managed to fix my puter.  Yayyyyy!

 

Photography by Sarolta Ban
View website HERE

 

Voice of the Wolf
“Our lives are richer when we listen to what wolves have to teach us.” Jim and Jamie Dutcher

She approached the old woman slowly,
head down in a gesture of peace.
We are all wolves howling to the same moon,
she said.
the old woman put down her paper.
she pondered what the wolf said.
We are all wolves howling to the same moon,
the wolf said again.
This time,
the old woman rose from the bench
and followed as the wolf led her to the woods
and to the full moon.

 

 

 

Cold Stars

For Amaya’s prompt at dVerse which has some strange rules. I hope I fulfilled them all. If not, oh well.

Cold Stars
“You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.” ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

I look at the impersonal stars in
the cold night sky
and I wonder –
do they know you died and left my sky?
do they care?
they shine all the time you know.
you just can only see them at night.
How can I care about the end of civilization
when my life changed so drastically?
Is that why you stars shine on in the cold darkness?
Not caring?
You stars suffered an unfathomable loss
eons ago?
And still burn with the pain of it?

The Songs of Birds

A quadrille for Dverse Poets Pub. It is quadrille Monday and De is hosting. She has gifted us the word “fill” or a variant of the word.

The Songs of Birds
“You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.” ― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

It is cold and rainy but the trees
are speaking with the voices of birds.
Their songs fill the air –
they must have known I was lonely and
needed a friendly chirp or two.
I wander around this empty house
like a ghost – weeping.

Melting Ice

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse BlogSpot #94.  Published also for Earthweal and https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/

Melting Ice
“We need to save the Arctic not because of the polar bears, and not because it is the most beautiful place in the world, but because our very survival depends upon it.” Lewis Gordon

It was the full Snow Moon Friday night.
It was bitterly cold but the moon
shone bright and clear in the night sky.
I checked on the feral cats to make sure
sure they were fed and had a warm place to sleep.
I thought of all the animals in extreme weather –
either cold or hot
and hungry or burned to death
or clinging to the last bit of ice.
I need to have hope.
I want to have hope.
So much of my sun has vanished from my universe.
I lay here on my last bit of ice
and wonder,
how long before it melts and I sink into the sea.

Sorrow is Shit

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse BlogSpot.

Sorrow is Shit
“People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can’t rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.” ― James O’Barr, The Crow

the crows were once my friends.
then a great sorrow overtook me
and I exploded in anger and then finally,
deep harsh tears.
the crows left me.
I am alone lying here,
the crow drops a key into the empty
cavity that is now my chest –
sans husband, sans heart, sans friends, sans love.
I wish the crow would replace my friends.
sorrow is shit without friends.

Secrets

For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub.

Secrets
“And stare through the wet branches of an oak
In winter, & realize I am looking at the stars
Again.” Winter Stars by Larry Levis

the stars in winter hold secrets
close to their hearts.
their silence tells of sleeping bees
and bare trees and falling flakes of snow.
they hold these secrets close to their hearts –
telling no one except the night sky.
they wait for pink spring
and the waking of the bees.

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