Wreaking Havoc

like Trump, he surges,

 a wide wake of destruction

everywhere he goes

Written for Haiku Friday (a bit late), hosted by LouCeeL.

Hotter Than...

Fall, you'll have to wait

summer isn't letting go

ninety-five degrees

***

Written for Haiku Friday, hosted by LouCeeL

Crescendo

           The cold silence quivers, swollen with memories,
           Until, with a flash of cymbals and the thunder of drums,
           It shatters, spilling angry notes from the past to
           Rain over me. They cut like ice shards as they hit
           And flood my heart with pain.

***

Written for dVerse Poets Pub where the word of inspiration for a quadrille (a poem of 44 words) is spill.


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Implication

From the moment he took his seat in the classroom, the geeky guy in the third row gazed at me with rapt attention.  Moon eyes. That's what my mother would have labeled the look he was giving me. To be honest, it made me a little nervous. In my years as a trainer, my poetic words about financial software had never inspired that kind of reaction from a seminar participant. Normally, the challenge was keeping them awake.  At the break, he made his way up to the front of the room. Taking my hand, he introduced himself, and my first thought was, "Oh-oh." Grinning mischievously, he said, “You remind me of my wife.  She’s a teacher too.” Relieved, I smiled in acknowledgment.  And then he went on. “It must be the implied whip.”

intoxicating.

 irresisible power,

a whip flick away

***

Submitted to dVerse Poet's Pub Haibun Monday.

Lost

"Touch me / Remind me who I am. 

~ Stanley Kunitz, Touch Me, 1995

                  I'm lost in the mist, seeking your touch.
                  Are you there? Take my hand and lead me.
                  I can’t find my way with nothing to remind
                  me that you’re close, walking beside me.
                  I hear voices in the fog, but don’t know who
                  they are. Is one of them you, my love? I
                  need to know so I’ll know where I am.

***

Written for dVerse Poet's Pub. Today's prompt calls for a poem in a form called "The Golden Shovel."

According to Writer's Digest, these are the rules for the Golden Shovel:

- Take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire.
- Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem.
- Keep the end words in order.
- Give credit to the poet who originally wrote the line (or lines).
- The new poem does not have to be about the same subject as the poem that offers the end words.

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Arroyo Serenade

Our hostess’ little ranch house is surrounded by cactus and the occasional Palo Verde tree. It sits in a fold of parched earth at the edge of an arroyo several miles north of Phoenix. During the monsoon season each June, the arroyo churns with racing waters. But this time of year, it’s dry, serving as a convenient highway for the critters who call the desert home. As we sit around the table on the lantern-lit covered patio at the rear of the house, the desert beyond crashes the party like a noisy dinner guest.

The first tentative note comes from a distance down the arroyo, but is soon answered by another, much closer. Our hostess has just told us that we might be visited by the local javelinas, a wild pig-like animal that frequents the area. Though nearly blind, she says with a laugh, javelinas can smell a grilling sirloin a mile away. But this is no javelina. With each passing minute, another voice is added to the chorus, surrounding us with song. Like a traveling minstrel show, the troop passes through, their music echoing over the desert. I am enchanted.

                       coyote crooners

                       their howls a song of longing

                       filling the darkness

***

Written for dVerse Poet's Pub.

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Pedernal

(Source: New Mexico Museum of Art

                                      He waits, wooing,
                                      Whispering words of
                                      Love and longing.
                                      Paint me, paint me
                                      Purple with passion.
                                      Caress me with
                                      Strokes of seduction.
                                      Make love to me
                                      Again and again, and
                                      I will be yours.


“It’s my private mountain. It belongs to me. God told me if I painted it enough, I could have it.” ~ Georgia O’Keefe

***

Written for dVerse Poet's Pub. The prompt today is "Sentiments of the Southwest." One of my favorite places in the southwest is Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, New Mexico. I am in good company. Georgia O'Keefe fell in love with it too, and settled in Abiquiu after her husband Alfred Stieglitz died. While there, she painted Pedernal over and over until she made it hers. Her ashes are scattered at its base.

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Lady Lucretia's Lapse

(Source: WikiMedia Commons)

Lady Lucretia was a model of decorum.

But that summer’s eve the minstrel arrived,

Her dignity skipped merrily away,

With prudence and pride at its side.

With petticoats aflounce and feet aflight,

Showing more pantaloon than propriety,

Her ladyship was no lady that night.

***

Written for dVerse Poet's Pub, where Toni serves up "skip" as the prompt for Quadrille Monday. In case you are like me and don't know what a quadrille poem is, it has exactly 44 words.

Balance?

(Graphic Source: Open Clipart)

***

Created for dVerse Poet's Pub, where Victoria asks us to think about how we bring balance to our busy lives. While thinking about the ways I've tried to do that, I kept coming back to wondering if it was worth it. Might it not be better to just let some things go? Do we really have to do it all?

The Stand-In

(Artist: Rafael Barradas; Source: WikiMedia Commons)

50 years. You’d think I’d be over it. You’d be wrong.

Oh, sure, I know it’s not my fault. I blame myself nonetheless. Silly? Self-indulgent even? Yes. And yes. But there it is.

We argued. Ironically, I don’t remember why. I do remember screaming, “I hate you,” and slamming into my bedroom.

Those were the last words I ever spoke to her.

How could a 33-year-old woman drop dead of a massive coronary? Daddy said, “Her heart was just broken, honey.” But I knew that. I broke it.

 I’ve been living her life ever since. It’s my job, after all.

***

Thanks to Tara of Thin Spiral Notebook for hosting the 100 Word Challenge.

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Apocalyse

(Artist: Mauricio García Vega; Source: WikiMedia Commons)

Noisy images, 

           crowding,
                    shoving,
                             splashing
                                     life script
                                             onto the page...

Scenes of cities never visited,
        memories of days more real than those lived,
                 screeching, blaring, thumping street songs
                          filling the mind, spilling words by the hundreds,
                                   day after day, never pausing,
                                            until, one day, they do.

The end?

***

Abhra at dVerse Poet's Pub asks us to 'fess up to being a secret admirer of a poet who inspires us.

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Renaissance

The announcement reads, “Friends and family are invited to a celebration of Dave’s life.” His was a life worth celebrating. It is his early death that they mourn.

Echoes of his laughter are caught like dust motes in the kaleidoscope of winter sunbeams slanting through stained glass windows and warming those crowded into the little chapel. One by one, they step to the altar, cast off their wrappings of grief, and share the memories of his escapades they carry within. When the last laugh fades, his son and his family stand and move to the large marble font at the rear of the nave. The minister annoints his grandchild, and Dave’s spirit is reborn.

petals drop, decay

fertilizing future life

winter unto spring

***

Photographer Susan Judd is sharing some of her lovely photographs at dVerse Poets Pub as inspiration for Haibun Monday: Beauty in Decay. For those of you (like me) unfamiliar with haibun, it is a Japanese form of poetry that combines prose with haiku.

Faerie Four Step

(Artist :William Blake.c.1786)

In her dream, they hold their ball 

Answering the night minstrel’s call 

Gossamer gowns glitter, all a-twirl 

Faeries emerge to play. 

 ‘Round her pillow they come to meet 

Tripping lightly, fleet of feet 

Swinging and swaying to the beat 

They twist the night away.

***

It's been a long time since I paid a visit to dVerse Poets Pub. Stopping by last night, I was greeted by Grace with a challenge: write a Quadrille using the word "twist" somewhere within its 44 words. I don't know a Quadrille from a Texas Two Step, but it caught my fancy, so...

The One

Tara of Thin Spiral Notebook issued a challenge: write a 100-word story without using the letter A. How could I resist?

The One

The first time I see her, no voice inside me shouts, “Right there! Her! She's the one.” She isn't very pretty. She isn't even  cute. Still, something pulls me to her. 

She sits in the corner by herself, eyes down, oblivious to everything. My gut wrenches. The poor thing, she looks so forlorn, forgotten. 

I go to her. “Hi.” 

She lifts her eyes, those icy eyes! But despite their Nordic frostiness, I see joy fill them when she sees me there.  She is the one. I'm in love. 

I sign on the dotted line. 

 “Come on, gorgeous. Let’s go home.”

(Source: WikiMedia Commons
Photographer: Tim Dawson)