The Mermaid

A bit of seafoam For Hedge’s 55

 

Edmund duLac – Mermaid

The Mermaid
She was lying on the seaglass
absently picking among the greens
blues, whites –
and was drenched from
her head down to her……tail.
her hair was snagged with seaweed,
her tail the colors of the ocean.
Then she saw me –
she smiled, lifted herself
and rode a wave home
leaving behind a pile of seaglass and shells

shutterstock

The Abandoned House in Winter

For Real Toads – Today while driving through the country, I spied an abandoned house. The snow is almost gone but still, it froze the blood in my veins. http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2017/12/micro-poetry-fire-and-ice. I am also posting this on Poets United, Poetry Pantry.

The Abandoned House in Winter
The white sky –
The unbroken snow on the ground –
The sepia trees behind the abandoned house
outlined in dark brown like a drawing by a child –
I have never seen such a cold looking place –
So desolate –
Bare black trees in the foreground –
Windows defeated and blank –
So cold so cold –
The fire on the hearth went out years ago

dVerse Poetics: The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me

Kim is charge of the pub today.  She is asking us to write poems about being an animal.  A simple and lovely prompt.

Mr. Cat
Nobody’s home,
Just me.
I walk around and explore.
I jump on the furniture
the kitchen cabinet,
the dresser,
the toilet….
I nap and graze on the nibbles in my bowl.
I take naps and look outside the windows.
Today there are lots of birds at the feeders
Who laugh at me and fly on the sill to tease me.
When you get home,
I ignore you of course.
Until you pick me up
and fold me into your arms
and ask,
Did you have a good day?
Of course I did but…
It is better now you are home.
I settle into your lap
as you nibble on treats
and watch the birds outside the window.
And we both nap.

SamCat the Ripper: RIP 10/15

Real Toads Tuesday Platform: Country Burial

This is posted for Real Toads Tuesday Platform.

Country Burial
A Cairn –
Placing a few rocks one on top of the other,
dug from the hard red clay.
My mother’s ashes reside here,
in the country cemetery
nestled in her mother’s grave.
I drove the several hours down to Bahama
(buh-hay-muh)
to the Mount Moriah Church –
where most of our ancestors lay.
The first one laid to rest was my
great-times-many grandmother –
buried with her infant son on her breast.
Since 1790. A long time.
My mother is the most recent.
I dug the hole,
wrestling with the drought hard ground
rusty red…the blood of the soil
makes good tomatoes, my great-grandfather said.
I poured her ashes into the hole
and filled it back with the chunks of dirt.
then all the rocks that I dug out
I placed in a pile.
I left my mother’s ashes there.
But I brought some of the soil back with me –
in a shoebox along with some rocks.
And the tomatoes grown in that red soil!
So tangy they jump off the plate and slap you
across the face before you can stick a fork in ‘em –
no passive sweet tomatoes grown in this dirt.
Mama would be pleased.

Poets United Midweek Motif: Silence

For Poets United Midweek Motif – Silence

Afterwards
The silence after the argument between us was devastating –
like the silence after an F-5 tornado –
trailers were coming to that last roll,
electrical wires were still buzzing and popping.
We sat on opposite sides of the fireplace –
burning its warmest friendliest best
but we were not to be lured into its trap.
We were imprisoned inside my house by the snow –
I wanted you gone and you wanted to be gone.
All civility between us was shattered.
I made myself a cup of hot chocolate –
with a bit of bourbon and offered you none.
The snow fell silently
and steadily outside.
I sipped from my mug.
At last the cats came out of hiding.

dVerse Poetics – Kudzu

Today Kim is prompting us at dVerse: http://dversepoets.com/2017/07/25/poetics-flexing-your-verbs/ “The challenge is to write a poem, of any length or form, not about an animal or bird, but about a landscape, using verbs in unexpected contexts. I don’t want to see any nouns or adjectives turned into verbs, but verbs doing their job, flexing their muscles, moving your poems across your chosen landscapes.” I am also posting this for the Open Poem Format at Real Toads hosted by Marian – http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/

kudzu
kudzu roars down the mountain
like an avalanche – obliterating everything
in its path –
a tsunami of green that devours houses
trees fences boulders cars
in a snarl of leaves and vines.
it begins on a night when the moon
is asleep –
a tiny tendril silently explodes
out of the rocky soil
and by the next sundown
it has marched steadily forward –
it covers consumes chomps away
and before you know it
the Japanese green dragon has
gorged itself and eaten well –
the mountain has disappeared
under a tattered veil of jade.

public domain photo

Real Toads – Buildings

Kim is hosting the weekend challenge on Real Toads – http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/ Kim says: “What I like about it (Philip Larkin’s poem The Building) is the way in which the poem conveys the physical appearance and atmosphere of a hospital without once using the term ‘hospital’, through the use of certain words and connotations.
Today’s challenge is to write about a building. It could be a specific building with a name that we would all know without directly naming it. It could be a church, a school or a building in which you have lived. It could be a department store, a government building or a concert hall. It is up to the reader to work out what the building is. Your She wants us to write about buildings without naming the building specifically or using the term of building.”

The Flowerbox
it’s a yellow flowerbox –
floralled with fresh and fast fading blooms.
it’s a yellow flowerbox
buzzed by bees butterflies ladybugs –
it’s a yellow flowerbox
watered and fed well –
it’s a yellow flowerbox
plucked and weeded –
it’s a yellow flowerbox
neglected and forgotten –
filled with fast fading blooms

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

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.

dVerse Poets Pub: Meet the Bar with Expressionism

Bjorn is hosting the Pub today and prompting us to write poems based upon Expressionism.  Whew.  I hope this one comes close.  Come join us at:  Meet the Bar with Expressionism

Cuts like a Knife
The sky is so blue overhead
And the clouds so white.
Yet the wind cuts through you like…
a hot knife through warm butter
scissors through paper
a katana through silk…

And you. You.
You go through me like a
hot knife through cream cheese or…
like a katana through that thin branch
On my cherry tree –
you slash and slice and
and the blossoms fall
to the ground.
the birds peck now among them
finding the worms that burrow
underneath.

a lone crow circles overhead
in that blue winter sky.
he cuts through the sky
like a katana slices through fog.

still from Last Samurai

dVerse Poets Pub: OLN #189

Today, I am linking up for Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub. http://dversepoets.com/2017/02/09/openlinknight-189/ Come join us for some fine poetry writin’…

Laphroaig Night
It is February 8th.
February. 8th.
It is 75 degrees farenheit.
The last time the temperature was this high was 1925.
I’m standing on my back porch
Breathing in the night,
Sipping a good single malt
and listening to the peepers singing
down by the creek.
They are crawling tgrough the wet leaves
And doing their mating thang.
The high pitched bells of their tiny throats
each proclaiming:
In the midst of death we are in life.
In spite of myself I smile.
Politics, religion, wars, arguments,
Fights, battles, hunger, grief, sickness, anger –
All are silenced by their voices.
I finish my scotch.
I smile.
In the midst of death we are in life.

MTB: Make Music of Those Words

It’s Thursday at the dVerse Poets Pub and this Thurday, it is Meeting the Bar, which means we all write to a specific word, theme, form – given out by the dVerse Prompter. Today it is Victoria; a true lady, amazing poet, lover of her husband and their dogs, good friend, and most excellent prompter of forms or themese. Today she is asking us to write musically – to use musical terms, or a theme, or a concept – to turn our poetry, lives, experiences into music. Come join us!

New Music
today starts with the music of a
low tuned cello – slow, hesitant, dolorous.
No more lively forays into the forest
to play my violin,
to let my music dance through the trees
giving the birds something different to
listen to or sing along to –
now my days are filled with lonely hours.
No one calls,
no one visits,
no one emails.
My husband is at work.
I bake cinnamon rolls.
Now it is only my mother and myself
going through the same routine.
Routine is good for her and
doesn’t disrupt her memories.
Every day is a slow waltz –
it does get lonely.
but there is sweetness in the days as well.
a swirl of dolce de leche
in the bitter coffee of the day.
I watch my mother – calando.
The sun fades.