d’Verse MTB; Hopscotch with anapestic tetrameter

Björn is manning the pub for poets this evening and has challenged us to try our hands and feet at anapestic tetrameter. (Think Dr. Seuss or T’was the Night Before Christmas.) The pub is open. Go by d’Verse to visit and write with a fine bunch of poets.

We have marked hopscotch squares with our feet. Here’s a stone

to be tossed, should you dare, in soft measured manner.

You’ll be lost should your muse skip and leave you alone

on the track. Don’t look back! Tripping feet slip, stammer.

d’Verse MTB; Middles & Turns

Yikes! It’s been almost a month since I’ve been to the Poets’ Pub. On January 28, Peter from Australia had us considering beginnings, opening lines, as we versed. To meet the bar today Peter would have us “look to our middles and see if we can build in dramatic turns, open a new window”. Somehow I ended up wrestling with a started poem from January 2019 when Merril asked us “to consider time and space and what if?” for a Tuesday Poetics. I used the Biolet (a shorter version of the Triolet), a poem of 6 lines, typically of eight syllables each, rhyming ABbaBA and so structured that the first line recurs as the sixth and the second as the fifth. However I switched the rhyme pattern of the middle two lines so this Biolet is ABabBA. Why? In hopes to meet the bar a little better by changing the timing of the turn.

You search, track, it always eludes

slight impressions reveal its path

where it crept, grass swept dry of dew

lightly steps time, beyond your grasp

slight impressions reveal its path;

you search, track. It always eludes.

d’Verse MTB; Opening lines…beginnings

At the dVerse pub for poets Peter from Australia is pulling pints and calling the shots. This week he offers beginnings for our consideration. I don’t know if my first line grabs anyone or not but it came to me and I grabbed on to it. This is my first d’Verse response in a couple months, so I am not letting go. This is my poem for Meeting the Bar, and with “way” in the title and 44 words exactly I am giving a nod to Lisa’s Quadrille #120 prompt from Monday.

Way of the Muse

This one is carved lean by hunger

bone sharp wary, lurks at shadowed edge

uncertain crouch unfolding to a pounce

for it’d rather hunt than beg

this night it laps at moon-milk

senses hunger-hardened, whet

ink-blood tracks on snow-white page

Emptied, it’s sated, fed.

d’Verse MTB;Jisei (Japanese Death Poems)

At the Pub for Poets, d’Verse, Frank J. Tassone is revisiting Jisei, or Japanes Death Poems. How delightful! Just the other day I mentioned a book entitled Japanese Death Poems, compiled by Yoel Hoffman, as an all time favorite book of poetry. Today Frank mentioned a form for the genre I am not familiar with, gembun, which he defined as a one-sentence haibun; a little digging showed me that some restrict it to ten words. I tried it for today’s prompt, and covered bases by having the prose part of my haibun be one American sentence (17 syllables) of ten words. This piece is a might dark for the genre but it’s where the prompt led. Go to d’Verse for more.

Behind the veil, just beyond reach, multitudes of isolated ghosts. 

such a cold embrace;

winter’s unmasking reveals 

spring as long held myth

d’Verse Quadrille#116; Poem Those Possibles

Okay, De Jackson (aka whimsygizmo), I’m in, just for fun. Thank you for the fun prompt at d’Verse Pub for Poets. With the only restriction being the 44 word limit, there are infinite possibilities with this prompt. I just did a little word play, not much of a poem, though it’s possible inspiration will strike later.

BLOPSIES

From a PILE of letters, eight SLIP.

SO BE it, a challenge

I S’POSE, to BuiLd

a port or a portal.

LIBS POSE license

allow BLIPS

so letters I LOP, for

how else

to achieve BLISS?

Asking Y brings solution, possibility—

all is POSSIBLE.

d’Verse Meeting the Bar; Synesthesia

I don’t know if this meets the bar for the prompt at the Pub for Poets, but it’s where the prompt led. Today’s publican, Grace, says:  “Today we will write about color from the perspective of a synesthete. Pick one color or several colors. Create your own Dictionary of Color. All sounds have color. The alphabet has color. Days of the week have color. Each day has a color and a certain shape.” Head over to the d’Verse pub to see more responses to tis prompt.

A Counting

A is for apple, red cheeked ripe

ripping smile at my first truck (red), number one, opening day,

the bloom was on the rose; going places, ay?

B is the bounty of blueness, of twoness, of

my blue-eyed brother and his beloved bride

my  backdoor backwoods brave sister by marriage.

C the last prompt at D’verse— see November

the eleventh month, gray and full of color (cold color)

gray November is 11, strong columned

(At its roots November was ninth

Septem, Octo, Novem—

seven, eight, nine; nine, ten, eleven?— fall has fallen out of line.)

Let’s get back to Nine, number with no time.

9 is the black behind a mirror’s glass

A crooked smile, a question mark— with answers, if you ask.

A number both cheery and serious, a colorful character— though

Ten always said Nine was lacking something, some One—

Oh, Ten; smug yet soft, a nectarine, a yellow plum

Over the shoulder afraid to be undone

by Nine, tight-skinned aubergine

-shaded square who speaks in threes

Honestly, frankly; smoothly and slick

under clear glass, rich colors shine

brought to light by the dark magic of Nine

Offers no landmark, no handhold in roiling brine

But surges and surfs, expectantly shines mile marked songs

of the journey, blacked and blued; colored, cresting the climb.

d’Verse Poetics; November

At d’Verse, the pub for poets, Sanaarizvi’s prompt is to write about November and to explain ourselves. I have always loved November in New England, even though I recently heard it referred to as Stick season, a let down for many after Leaf season. For everything there is a season and for leafless trees it’s all about roots and inner space. These three poems I had written some time ago but they never had any place to go– until now.


 November Skies
  
 First day of November 
  dawned kettle gray, scoured clean.
 Blue jays scrabbled by.
  Curled leaves clung, faded green
 but mostly burnt shades 
   orange, red, yellow 
  bristling against the canvas sky.
  
 Gray November skies,
  impassive and impartial 
 to the desperate brush; 
  orange! red! yellow! have no hold 
 on the marbled gray
  that reins the wind 
 that might send them flying
  that leashes the rain 
 that might wash them away.
  
 November is a wise month
  of endings and of beginnings
 destructive, creative, first and last at once.
  Last leaves, first cold
 crisp days expressed 
  between lengthening nights
 November’s gray casts a special light.
  In just a while all will be all right. 
                   ***
  
 Mid November
  
 November gray dawned then calmly went along
  with gifts of days blue skied, days of warmth and sun
 November also gave the wind its head, loosened the reins and let it run
  stretched galloping; through nights and days it reared and plunged
  and cavorted with the leaping lashing rain unleashed 
  
 On those days leaves were wiped from their berths
  were spun and whipped and thrown down
 Color now mumbles subdued at the feet 
  of trees where, still grumbling, finally turn brown
  
 Wind and rain are brought to heel again
  to November’s commands obedient
 As much a Janus as another, yet ego-less and wise
 November emanates omniscience and is content 
  with the palette of its steely skies.
  
 Some power was shown, not all, not all
  brought to heel again, it’s not too late 
   to resurrect your fall. 
  
  
 November’s End
  
 November wanes, 
  no wind, no rain
    Cold sparkles in night’s dark.
  Lean land revealed, kneeled 
in prayer bold braced, skeletal bare,
   Clean spare trees exposed like spars;
  the bones of November support the stars.
 November has a deep abiding strength, so equably borne
  Strong and beautiful, elegantly unadorned. 

d’Verse Quadrille #114; Poetical Magnetism

De Jackson, aka WhimsyGizmo, is tending bar at the renown pub for poets. For today’s Quadrille she wants us to “get out your poetical science kit and play with magnets”. I have a playful poem but my real achievement is that I am experimenting with the new block editor with this post, something I have resisted up to now.

Needled

Tested metal—  this man was tin!

Unaligned, no lodestone within

No choice, no either ore

alloy, ally, I needed more

What’s the point, of what worth

if unable to find true north?

Lost my bearings with that man

steeled myself, gave him the can.


Moon Dreams; #d’Verse, Prosery Monday

From the Deep  by D. Avery

They were here before the beginning. They were the giants that walked the world before the world was. They were the world.

But the world as it came to be known had to be created to be known.

The gods did that. They did that in the way that gods do; bored and lonely, they started thinking up things.

Where did these gods come from?

Maybe the giants had been bored too. Maybe they weren’t careful and thought of gods, letting them escape from themselves like farts.

But the gods were afraid and jealous of the giants so they slew them and used their parts to give form to their thoughts, thus creating the world.

The giants just want to be remembered, but the gods remain hostile. The patient giants live deep under the primeval seas. In their dreams they sleep with the moon.

dverselogoMerril from d’Verse Pub for Poets would have us write 144 words or less of prose but include a line from Mary Oliver’s “Death at Wind River”, “In their dreams they sleep with the moon.” Perhaps you can tell that I have been reading Marie-Louise Von Franz’s book, Creation Myths. This is not any particular creation story but includes motifs common to many.

Take a Hike #d’Verse; Haibun Monday

dverselogo

It’s Haibun Monday at d’Verse Pub for Poets and today Frank J. Tassone has invited us to take a hike. What a great prompt to return to after an afternoon hike.                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Old Friends

This last day of August is a first. It’s the first day of school for teachers and the first time in a long time that I wasn’t there for it. That might make this my first day of retirement, but that’s somebody else’s word; it doesn’t fit. But what is a fitting way to spend this First?

Every summer I think I’m going to hike that mountain that’s in my backyard, that mountain who’s view I cherish, that’s reflected in the lake; but somehow I always run out of summer, have to return just as fall begins to brush the leaves. Now, for the first time in a long time, I get to enjoy this season.

Today I took a hike, walked up and up and up; I took a hike to see the familiar again, up close, to see the trees amongst the forest. I touched the sky then looked around.

Such a wondrous path!

bringing me to where I am

autumn leaves spring forth.