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 – OLN #190

Today is Open Link Night over at the dVerse Poets Pub. Submit one poem of your choice. Come visit and read! http://dversepoets.com/2017/02/23/openlinknight-190/

The Potting Shed
The old potting shed is slowly returning to the earth
settling down on its crumbling stone foundations,
roof slates cracked or missing,
paint fading and flaking.
The fact remains that underneath
Nobody’s Cat burrowed in during the last snow
And died.
Daffodils’ green spears are thick and lush
around the perimeter of the old building.
the flowers stand like mourners
around a grave
as the sun slowly sets
in an explosion of
saffron ginger turmeric curry –

spiced winter day
ends in a flurry of last
waves of goodbye

copyright kanzensakura

copyright kanzensakura

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

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.

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