The Blue Hole

For Margaret’s Artistic Prompt over at Real Toads. I used to live across the river in Philadelphia, across from the Pine Barrens or the Pinelands or the Pines as this area is known. This is one of several poems written in this mysterious and beautiful setting. There is a Blue Hole hidden in the Barrens – its depths have not yet been fathomed and it is freezing cold all year long. Some call it the Devil’s Puddle, others the Blue Hole, some call it simply The Hole. The Jersey Devil is said to haunt the Barrens and to hunt around the lake. People live in the Barrens, called Pineys.  The creeks that flow through the Barrens are stained rusty brown with the tannin from all the pine tree roots. It is one of the most beautiful and silent places I have ever encountered.

The Blue Hole
The Jersey devil swims here –
In the silence and loneliness of the Pine Barrens.
He drinks from its ever freezing waters
and hunts in the pine trees
that rim the Blue Hole.
He sighs with the trees –
A soft lonely sound.
People approach and he slides
into the surrounding trees
leaving only a branch moving as if with the wind.
The Devil’s Puddle,
The Blue Hole.
The Jersey Devil calls it home –
the only home he has ever known.

Blue Lagoon by O. Bentor (NFS)

Desolation

For posting on Poets United Poetry Pantry and also on Real Toads for the Tuesday Platform.

Desolation
The day dies.
The cool of the day is settling on the land,
the green corn moon casts shadows
on the fields – the dried golden tassels
flutter in the slight breeze.
A stray dog walks down a row
and sits down at the end,
scratching himself. A distant howl –
he pricks up his ears,
then trots on.
The field looks like some alien landscape
in the light of the green corn moon.

New Moon

I have done a Bussokusekika, a Japanese poetic form that follows the rules of tanka, except there are three seven syllable lines that end the poem for a 5-7-5-7-7-7. Bussokusekika is an ancient form of poetry, older than Tanka or haiku. It translates to footprints of Buddha.

New Moon
crescent thin against
the black night – overpowered
by the stars she sings
a faint song of undappled
water and hunting owls – she
is lonely in the darkness

Haikai Challenge #18 Crow

#Haikai Challenge #18 (1/27/18): Raven #haiku #senryu #haibun #tanka #renga #haiga
I.
across the snowy field
the sound of a lone crow floats –
coldness overwhelms

II.
silent neighborhood –
distant crows break the silence –
cold and still today

Monsoon

This is for the Mid-week Motif at Poets United – Flood. It is a poem I have been working on for a couple of years. I think I am finally through with it. http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2017/08/poets-united-midweek-motif-flood.html

Monsoon

“I love storms. Primordial. Every bit of civilization gone. Everything true coming out.” Vanessa Ives, Penny Dreadful

Hot. Smoldering hot.
The sky like molten bronze.
It is amazing the stones of the buildings do not explode in the heat
or melt and run in the gutters.
Rain coming. Soon. Soon.
And then the first breath –
The rain begins and
the skies rip and before I can open my umbrella
I am soaked to the skin –
The rain like cold needles drives into my skin,
stabbing into my heart and emptying it of secrets.
Steam rises from the street,
the buildings
my skin.
In the rising steam and driving rain
people move, barely seen, like wandering ghosts.
I have tried to chase away the memories.
In my mind I hear your voice
like a call that crackles from a bad connection
and disconnects before I can interpret your words.
A man bumps into me and for a moment
I think he looks like you.
But he disappears into the mist and rain
…and I accept I will never see you again.
Every time it rains, it reminds me of you.

public domain Utagawa Hiroshige People Sheltering From the Rain 1857

 

dVerse Poets Pub: Quadrille Monday

Monday at dVerse Poets Pub, the post for Quadrille Monday will go live.  It is the first posting for the new year here at the Pub and we are pleased to have Bjorn hosting it.  He has chosen the word “curl” to include in your 44 word poem (not including the title).  So drop by at dVerse to read these wonderful short poems and to submit your own!  I am submitting two poems containing the word “curl”.

1.
the days have knit themselves
into a pattern of sameness –
an afghan in shades of grey.
like the winter sky and trees.
the elderly woman settles down to sleep.
the younger woman brushes the curls off
her forehead and whispers,
Sleep mama, sleep.

2.
I found out today where Nobody’s Cat
goes after I feed him in the morning.
I looked out the back way and
saw him limping laboriously
over the back lawn
crawling under the potting shed.
Brown leaves curl back onto themselves
not showing his passing.

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.

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