Snow

For Real Toads https://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/07/fireblossom-friday-bang-youre-dead.html Fireblossom Friday: Bang! You’re dead. Writing from beyond the grave….mwahahaaaaaaaa

Snow
drifting off
falling asleep
dreaming
opening the window
and gliding out into the snow
no footprints
no steamy breath
no weight no pain no sadness
walking into a dream
of slow falling snow
using the snowflakes
like stepping stones
walking up to the sky
walking on the tops of trees
of roofs of streetlights
covered with snow
slow falling snow
slow
falling…

Silent Thunder Moon

For Real toads Tuesday platform: http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-tuesday-platform_11.html  NOTE: in North America, the full moons are given various names by the Native American tribes, according to their geography within the US. The “thunder” moon is from the Lakota Sioux.

Silent Thunder Moon
silver night –
the full thunder moon paints
my yard in argent tones.
silent night –
the full thunder moon sits
and watches the world below.
silver night
silent night –
hot steamy air
sweat runs down my skin under my tee shirt.
i take off my glasses
and the world resolves
into night camo shades.
silent – painted with silver
and drenched with dew
I sit.
the thunder moon is
silent – insects sleep deeply –
lone mockingbird sings

Memories

This is written for Magaly’s prompt at Real Toads.  The first picture and phrase “fragile things” brought to mind my mother who recently died from complications relating to Alzheimer’s.  We are to use one of the pictures with a phrase for the picture and to write a poem with three stanzas.  http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/2017/07/fragile-natural-wild-with-magaly.html

Memories
Where do memories go?
When a wife looks at her husband of fifty years
And sees only a stranger…
Memories are such fragile things.

Do memories go on walkabout?
Do they leave and go to places unknown
And then return – a different memory.
Memories are such fragile things.

Why do some memories stay and others leave?
A pet from childhood is remembered but
A daughter from today is forgotten.
Memories are such fragile things.

by Robert Draves@draves.robert

Dreaming Corn

for Michael at Read Toads.  http://withrealtoads.blogspot.se/2017/07/get-listed-july.html    I am doing my first prompt for Real Toads using some of the words listed.

Dreaming Corn
rows of corn dream under
the peach ice cream moon.
crickets drone and birds sleep.
the sun begins to rise in shades
of raspberryorangelemon sherbet
and already at 6:00 a.m. it is 90 degrees
worth of heat. Birds begin to
sing, talking to one another
as they fling themselves to the blue sky
and back to the corn.
the stalks of corn form a cathedral
built of tall green towers
and music of rustling leaves.
birds tell each other of ants on this stalk,
crickets hiding under a fallen stalk
and flying bugs buzzing about.
ripening ears listen to the gossip.
the heat is a sweat of moist green.
until at dusk the birds discuss sleep
and slowly grow silent.
rows of corn dream under
the peach ice cream moon.

dVerse Poets Pub – OLN

Welcome to dVerse’s Open Link Night where there are no prompts – you can post one poem of your choice. Come over to the pub and enjoy cool quaffs of good poetry. http://dversepoets.com/2017/06/29/open-link-199-and-summer-break/

cool dry day – blue skies
drift overhead – hawks gliding
hunting – sparrows hide

dVerse Poets Pub – Haibun Monday #40

I was not going to write to this prompt as I am taking a leave away from dVerse temporarily.  This is a lovely prompt – summer.

Gardenia Memories

Summer. Not my favorite season but still, I eagerly await its arrival and give a huge hurrah when it has changed into autumn. But still…I enjoy sitting on my back steps or porch at night. I love the summer nights, even when they are hotter than the inside of a cow. The rich aromas that perfume the night. Right now I am being inundated with magnolia, honeysuckle, and the honey sweet of the gardenia at the end of the house. The smell of gardenia on the night air always takes me back to my childhood and young womanhood. I was an iffy sleeper and still am. When I was a child, teen, and young woman, I would often sit at my bedroom window inhaling the smells and reading by starlight. We had gardenia bushes all around the house and one in particular was right below my bedroom window. We always had bowls of them around the house – fragile cream colored blooms floating in water.

Last night I was doing my usual step sitting when my husband came out to join me. He had my violin in his hands. “Here. You haven’t played in awhile.” “And looking after my mother, when have I had the time?” I told him testily. “Well, you have time now.” He set it down beside me and went back into the house. After a bit, I picked it up and began to play. I played a song for the stars, the gardenias, the bunnies grazing in the clover a few feet away from me, and I played for my mother. I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt my chin getting slippery. I put the violin down and put my head on my knees, wrapping my arms around myself. My mother died a week ago; she died in her sleep. I wept until I could weep no more. I stood and inhaled one last deep breath of the gardenias and then went into the house.

gardenias perfume
the night air – faded blooms
fall to the ground

free public art

Open Link Night #198 The Smell of Green

Tonight is Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. You can submit one poem of your choice as it is no-prompt night. Come join us for some elclectic reading! http://dversepoets.com/2017/06/15/openlinknight-198/

The Smell of Green
As I sat on my back steps
I pondered the smell of green.
I was looking up at the mini moon,
the strawberry moon.
It’s a mini moon because it is farther away
from the earth on the apogee of its orbit.
The moon hasn’t changed sizes though.
and still I ponder the smell of green.
A moist southern evening –
It had rained an hour earlier and
the air was redolent with the smell of green –
freshly mown grass, the herbs in my garden,
The smell of the bushes, vines, and trees –
In my kitchen this night I had made a gremolata –
full of freshly chopped parsley, chives, rosemary, lime zest –
To spread on the chicken breasts I had baked.
Green – romaine lettuce, arugula, a salad of green
dressed with good green California olive oil –
it smelled so green I felt my fingertips tingle.
And then later,
I stuck my nose into the bag of pot I had bought –
The tightly dried buds smelled of pine and Thai basil.
I breathed in the smell of green as I sat on the back steps
and pondered the smell of green,
Smiling at the mini moon.
I had placed mama into hospice –
I was letting go.

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