Quadrille Monday #32

At dVerse Poets Pub, De is hosting our quadrille. A quadrille is a poem of 44 words exactly, not including the title and usually includes a prompt word. Today the word is “echo”. this is my last post for awhile as my mother is not doing well and I am taking a hiatus away from dVerse Poets Pub. Blessings on all of you. I will be seeing you all again next month. http://dversepoets.com/2017/05/08/quadrille-32/

Room 214
the elderly woman sits in her wheelchair
looking out the window at the birds
on the birdfeeder.
her mind is filled with echoes and shadows
of years, times, and people past.
her daughter brushes her hair.
voices echo from other rooms.
she drifts asleep.

dVerse Poets Pub – Open Link Night

It is Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. You can submit any one poem of your choice on subject and form. Come join us!

I hope
night falls gently in mid-May –
the sun fades but it is still bright
yet muted. birds sing their night songs
and the cardinal on the wire
serenades his territory –
Thweeeeee purty purty purty!
honeysuckle drifts on the gentle breeze.
the world is preparing for sleep.
I hope it is a restful night for all
I hope it is a night with sweet dreams
and full stomachs and hearts full of love.
but I hope. I hope.

Haibun Monday #2 The Rest of the Story

I rarely post more than one poem.  But today calls for a rest of the story post!

The Rest of the Story
Years went past. Even though I survived, it seemed just when I was moving on, some slurpy teary love song would come on the radio and I would begin to cry. The biggest offender was Same Old Lang Syne by Dan Fogelberg. I’d turn off the radio and then flip it back on and…cry. One day while at a Tai Kwan Do exhibition, I met this man: short, balding, beautiful blue eyes and a wicked one on the sparring floor. Somehow we began to talk and before I knew it, he had charmed me into going out for coffee with him. He was a true Southern boy – soft voice, those eyes, lovely mouth, and like a cat on stainless steel ball bearings on the sparring floor. I remember when he got his black belt. We had been dating awhile and truth be told, I was smitten. But I held back. One day in February – Valentine’s Day to be exact he asked me to come with him to his parents’ home to check on it as they were out of town for a couple of months. He sat me down in the family room and ran upstairs. When he returned, he told me he had something to say to me. I went cold inside. This was the breakup. He went over to the piano and began to chord and to sing. Heaven only knows how long it took him to learn to do this!
“We’re no strangers to love.
You know the rules and so do I…
(chord chord chord).

Heavens! It was Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up. I loved that song! And then he asked me to marry him. It was the first song we danced to at our wedding. I still love that song,  Seventeen years later and I still love him.

icy winds blow – sleet
falls – warmth of fireplace and love
inside the home.

dVerse Poets Pub: Open Link Night #194

Today is Open Link Night at the Pub. You can submit one poem of your choice of format and subject. I picked crows. There are apparently several prompts out there today regarding crows but I am not linking to any of them. Come visit us at dVerse! PS I also have other names for groups of crows hidden in my poem. http://dversepoets.com/2017/04/20/openlinknight-194/

The Crows are telling Stories
The crows are telling stories –
sitting on the wire
flying down to take a look-see
hovering over a parcel of worms
and pulling up a worm or two
mustering the troops to attack a hawk

The crows are telling stories –
squawking barking cackling
whistling squabbling cawing
their outlaw eyes weighing their options
their rivals their lovers
their nestlings

The crows are telling stories
arguing that it will rain
will remain dry
lifting their heavy wings
and swatting at the wind
and each other

The crows are telling stories.

dVerse Poetics: Wish you were here

Today De is hosting our prompt. We are to write “post card poetry” – think: micro poetry. to and from poetry, postcards from the (l)edge (thanks De!). Being the purist I am I decided to use some postcard sized index cards on to write my poetry to ensure it would actually fit on a postcard. Come by and visit! We wish you were with us! http://dversepoets.com/2017/04/18/tuesday-poetics-wish-you-were-here/ thank you De for this amazing prompt and exercise in brevity.

I.
the summer moon bursts
from behind the clouds – startled
an owl takes flight

II.
heavy blossoms pull down the branches
of trees by the river.
higher blossoms weep down their petals
upon the surface of the river
in which the submerged blossoms drown.
dead leaves cover the earth
beneath the trees.
Sharp winds blow
removing the corpses of winter.

III.
The heavens dazzle on
this warm spring night –
At the edge of the yard
an errant flicker of white on black.
A whisper of breeze touches my face.
Ghost of Nobody’s Cat
halts then moves on

Haibun Monday – the only thing we have to fear…

Today I am hosting the Haibun Monday prompt. It is on fear – fear of things, fear of being out of control, fear of losing loved ones, fear – primal and raw. Come join us today.

My Mother’s Daughter
Several years ago my mother began displaying erratic and irresponsible behavior. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Since then it has been a downhill road – she has forgotten how to walk, often forgets she has not eaten, has become incontinent. It is heartbreaking. Especially as my mother varies between paranoid, hostile towards me, and loving mother. My husband and I have no children. We did not get married until I was 49 and he was 39. It is just us and his mother who is starting to go somewhat erratic herself.

I am afraid when I look at my mother that one day, I will be sitting in a wheelchair, in her place. I will have no one to know or to care about me except maybe a nursing home. I kept her at home as long as I could but then one day, it became evident I could no longer care for my mother. Then I was afraid of the nursing home in which to place her. But praise God, she was sent from being in the hospital to a small nursing home with only 90 beds and ten minutes from our home. I can visit her often and have formed, during her stay there since January, friendships among the staff and caring relationships with some of the residents. But I am still afraid. My past fears of clowns, losing loved ones, spiders – pales in comparison to this new fear of Alzheimers. Alzheimer’s – one of the scariest words in the human vocabulary.

spring sky turns black – storm
begins and wind blows strong – hawk
flies against the wind

dVerse Poetics: Oldies But Goodies

Before Lillian starts her cruise, she is again hosting Poetics over at dVerse. She is asking us to pick a song from the year we were born and to write about it. You’re going to have to look up the song to find out the year I was born! Pub opens Tuesday at 3:00 pm EST.  https://dversepoets.com/2017/04/11/oldies-but-goodies-no-matter-the-age/

How High the Moon
The young woman sat in the porch swing, pushing herself to and fro with her foot.  The full flower moon glinted off her wireframe glasses and in the darkness, her curly hair was coal black.  Inside the bedroom window facing onto the porch she had placed the radio so she could listen to music as she drifted in her thoughts.  The screen door opened and a young man came outside and joined her in the swing.  He looked at her with trouble in his eyes.  “What’s wrong?  You ate nothing at dinner and I cooked your favorites tonight”, he said softly.  The woman glanced at him, swallowed, then licked her lips.  Something was bothering her.  After a few minutes she whispered, “I’m pregnant”.  “What?,, what?”  She hung her head.  The young man gathered her into his arms.  “This is wonderful news, wonderful.  When?”  “November, mid or late.”  She snuggled in his arms and they began swinging again, gazing at the full moon.  On the radio began “How High the Moon” by Les Paul and Mary Ford.

full pink moon shines bright –
drifts of clouds across the moon –
kisses in the shadows

 

My sweet mama aged 16. copyright kanzensakura

 

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