Meeting the Bar – Trimeric Poetic Form

Today at d’Verse Poetics, Mary is our pubkeeper. She has introduced us to the Trimeric Poetic form – a lovely and adaptable form. Come visit us to find out more about this form and read the poems submitted. I hope you will be inspired to try your own and link it up!

The Full Moon is the Watchdog
The full moon is the watchdog
Guarding the shadows of night –
muted leaves whisper
Secrets to the listening wind.

Guarding the shadows of night
The moon gazes as the cold wind
ripples fallen leaves on the empty road.

Muted leaves whisper
And are echoed by drowsy crickets
and a family of sleepy owls.

Secrets to the listening breeze
Are murmured by the pewter creek
Sleep walking through silver reeds.

 Andō Hiroshige 1797 – 1858 Full Moon and Reeds

Andō Hiroshige 1797 – 1858 Full Moon and Reeds

d’Verse Poetics – August 18, 1969 – haibun

Today at the d’Verse Poetics Pub, Claudia is hosting. She wants us to write poetry about our country’s National Anthem. Like many Americans, I had not paid much attention to our Anthem or the history behind it. This was the day I heard it in my soul for the first time – atop a VW microbus parked in a sea of mud and garbage – Woodstock.  Come join us at d’Verse Poetics.  And if this doesn’t interest you, starting in September, we will have a new feature:  Haibun Monday.  Please come visit, read, and join us.

August 18, 1969
“And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation.” Woodstock – Joni Mitchell

“Is it tomorrow or just the end of time?”
Purple Haze – Jimi Hendrix

Cousin Billy said, let’s stay. Traffic is horrible. Let’s stay, hang out, groove, listen to the last act. So many had already left, we drove our van closer to the stage and sat on the top of the van. A few people climbed on and joined us. Mellow morning split by image of Hendrix – like a new age archangel making love to his Stratocaster. Across the field the sound soared. High as the birds in the sky I suddenly heard it – The Star Spangled Banner, heard the rockets and bombs exploding; heard the battle for our freedom – rocket’s red glare, bombs bursting in air, our flag was still there.  Billy’s brother had died a month earlier in some ugly muddy melee in Viet Nam. Billy and I held each other and wept as the meaning roared over us, waves and waves of music – raw, primal, real. No sweetly rendered song, no opera singer wailing at a baseball game – No. An African American man bringing it to us in a scream of blood and bone, love and death.

blue summer sky: clouds
finger painted white wisps – birds
wheeling touch the sky.

dVerse Poetics – Meadow Stars

Today at dVerse Poetics, we have a guest host/bartender: Wolfsrosebud aka Patti Wolf. She is asking us to get closer to nature – get on our hands and knees, get a little grubby and take a closer look at the world around us, especially the smaller world.  Come visit us and….go outside and renew your acquaintance with the natural world around us.  Cut off the cell phone, stop answering text messages, stop tweeting and Facebooking – take a few minutes and live life!!

fleabane daisies - copyright kanzensakura

fleabane daisies – copyright kanzensakura

Fleabane daisies bloom
over the meadow floor – do
the local folk, the worms and beetles,
tiny spiders and hoverflies
think the daisies are stars
blooming over their green grass world?
Do they make up names for
the daisy constellations
and stories of how they came to be?
These  meadow stars that bloom brightest
at day and only glow softly at night?
When one fades and falls
do the sister ladybugs
link together their tiny legs
and make a wish?
I need to get closer and see if I can hear
what their wishes would be –
to be more patient and discover
if their wish comes true.




dVerse Poetics (2) 02/02/ 2:00 a.m.

Another poem for dVerse Poetics 2:00 a.m. prompt, offered by Anthony. I am a night owl and write the majority of my poems at night. Many of them are titled with the date and the time of composing.

free image Wikipedia

free image Wikipedia

Black night sky:
I descry through blacker branches
The hazy moon behind clouds.

Flakes of snow falling
Like dust or wet stars.
Each dims out

dVerse Poetics – My Inspiration

T S Eliot photographed by his friend and correspondent Ottoline Morrell. public domain image

T S Eliot photographed by his friend and correspondent Ottoline Morrell. public domain image

“Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.”  T.S.Eliot

Today, I have the happy task of being bartender at dVerse Poetics Pub. This means I get to talk with all the folk in the community who make comments. I also get to choose a prompt. We often speak of someone who inspired us to write. I am asking our community to write about the poet and their poem that inspired them to begin writing. I am also asking them to take the prompt farther and if possible, write the poem in the style of the inspiring poet. My inspiration is T.S. Eliot. I took this poem from one of my few surviving notebooks wherein I wrote my poems years ago. This is from January 1965. It is full of all the angst and alientation of a teenager at odds with the world around her. And it is a bland imitation of several of Eliot’s poems.

January – the dark month
The month of moonless nights
And stars hidden by clouds.

Smoke tasting fog – piles of grey ash
In cans on the sidewalk
And the ash men come –
Reaping what the fire has tasted and left behind –
Ash days
Grey and dry – trees cremated to warm
Those flower folk hidden behind lace curtains
And wide porches sipping tea and eating cakes
Made by those below –
Silent in their movements
And almost as invisible
As the skeleton of an oak leaf –
But visible if the flower people gaze hard enough
But who only sip their tea and eat their cakes
who only look away.

A little dog trots on the sidewalk –
He alone has someplace to go.

Two men in black coats walk
Towards him and he shies away from them.
He jumps on the steps leading up
The grey walk to the big house
And whines as the men pass by.
Black hats black coats
Twins of darkness on this empty street
The flower folks entombed behind
Long panes of glass.

In a country graveyard by a long deserted church
With dirt as red as blood
I saw neglected graves and on one was set in a stone
A photograph behind smashed glass.
I assume it was the person buried in the blood red dirt.

Buried behind a pane of glass
In the blood red dirt of January
I sit by a dead fire and sip tea and eat cake.


dVerse Poetics

Today at dVerse Poetics, Mary has given us the wonderful prompt to write about “where we are from”. Not the geographical where, but the poetic, spiritual, life where. It is a wonderful prompt. I have written a poem longer than normal but the words just flowed. I dedicate this with love to my amazing family, so much a part of where I am from.

family pics2

I am from Denmark, Ireland, England Germany
I am from Celia and Luther, Josie and George, Celia and Robert
I am from family I’ll never know who landed
on the North Carolina coast three hundred years ago

Sleeping on a pallet on the sleeping porch on a hot southern night
scented by magnolia gardenia roses newly mown lawn
ceiling fans operated by long cords pulled down to the floor
going whump whump whump slow and lazy then faster as the cords
move closer to the ceiling.

I am from a family of eccentrics, strong women
tender hearted men, the builder of the house
who made damn sure the front room was the largest and
filled floor to ceiling with books bought or rescued
and all dusted and read with love and respect.

I am from a childhood of watching my grandmother
make biscuits with no recipe, watching my father
fry chicken, watching my mother make banana pud’n.
Of peach cobblers and homemade vanilla ice cream,
bowls of potato salad and devilled eggs on an ancient
fragile egg plate decorated with a drift of paprika.
Family reunions, picnics, fish fries, church dinners.

I am from Christmases with huge trees, colored lights
a mountain of packages a table loaded with food
people excited when that special gift they bought is
opened and exclaimed over or laughing in glee
when they are the one to open that gift.
I am from Christmases of erector sets and microscopes
and a beautiful yellow crinoline with pink ribbon rosebuds.

I am from summers with endless gardens of red sassy
tomatoes, sweet corn, silky butterbeans and crisp
snap beans- sitting on the backporch rocking
rocking and helping to snap snap beans and shell
butterbeans and shuck and silk corn.
And bowls and platters of those vegetables
planted and picked by us.

I am from playtimes with the family cats and dogs
and dressing them in doll clothes, loading them
into my red wagon and taking them around the neighborhood
to visit Miss Goldie, Mrs. Keranakis, Mr. Bujold
and Jamie Pollard who taught me how to write haiku
He thought being six years old was the perfect age
for me to learn.

I am from evenings of my family sitting around
and reading aloud poems from the Brownings, Yeats,
Keats, Wordsworth, Frost and Shakespeare’s sonnets.

I am from my own world of T.S. Eliot, Ginsberg, Snyder,
Kerouac, Simon and Garfunkel, Lennon and McCartney.
I am from my own world of secretly writing poetry
and feeling too odd – too odd even for my Southern
Style Addams Family family.
Keeping the fire inside secret. Hiding my notebooks
full of words written in Peacock Blue.
Sneaking out to poetry readings of Duke students
and then standing and reading mine
and feeling….not so very odd.
From bargaining with my mother:
I’ll do the cotillion if I get the next
two summers free.
Of being escorted by my sweet redhaired
cousin who committed suicide the next
summer because his father couldn’t abide
having a queer for a son.
Summers of love, moon landings, Woodstock.
I am from tears, forgiveness, pride, love,
Loss and gain, war and peace.
I am from being told to just be me.
And being loved when I was.

copyright kanzensakura

copyright kanzensakura

dVerse Poets Pub: Galloping Groundhog

Today at dVerse Poetics, it is Open Link Night. We do not write poetry to a prompt but instead share a poetic offering. Come join us! Enough creativity to go around and share. I wrote about an unusual happening today.

Driving home from errands today,
Running full tilt through the high grass
On the shoulder of the road,
Was a woodchuck.

Like a hamster on steroids,
Galloping. Only word for it.
I slowed down and he
Passed me in.a.blur.

I wondered, where was he headed
In such a rush?
Was he hurrying to get back
To his family?
Did he have an appointment
And was late?

One doesn’t usually see woodchucks,
Groundhogs, whistle pigs, ground squirrels
Running by the side of the road.
One usually sees them on TV
Amidst a flurry of photographers
And people, all waiting for Phil
To foretell the weather –
How much longer would winter last?
Tell us Phil.
Let us take your picture Phil.
Let us roust you out of your warm, dark
Burrow and thrust you up in the air
For the crowds to see and scream
And flash lights in your confused eyes.
This year, you bit the wretched mayor
For doing that to you.
Personally, I applauded you and
Wished you had done it sooner.

But this whistle pig running
Down the side of the road…
Did he know about horses?
Was he having a fantasy
Of being a tall wild stallion
running free
Through long prairie grass?

I don’t know.
I just know it was an odd occurrence
And it made me smile…hugely.

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: