dVerse — Haibun Monday — Samhain’s Repast

How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,–from, “Storm Fear” by Robert Frost The fire roared as we raised our glasses and toasted to delicious food and good company at this, our first Samhain gathering in two years. As all had been vaccinated and the room was of fair size, no masks were…

dVerse — Poetics — Flighty Bird

Like a belled cat, you can hear me, tags tinkling, long before I’m seen.You can marvel as I walk with flashing colors and words.Behold my magic rainbow memory. Blue butterfly has the best route home.Red cardinal has my favorite restaurants.Purple ‘potamus holds my number, phone.Orange giraffe has zip – simply to taunt. Fox is silver…

dVerse — Quadrille Monday 2nd entry — Mother’s Gift

Mother’s birthday gift,a planted sapling you, the front yard ash, grewold with me. A weathered,tuckered man, limbs drooping, I was laid to restbeside you underyour open arms. Now we share rollingseasons in silent comfort,as fond companions do.   Ash tree image link Sarah is today’s host for dVerse’ Quadrille Monday.  Today’s word is “ash” and…

dVerse — Quadrille Monday — One Blessed Night

Hunter Moon, stark orb in silent stage,lights a way lost by day, to folly’s repose.Stone wiggled loose, a puff of dust,candle bright as shadows sway. Intoned promises, from ashes you spark to life.Dark price paid for this one blessed night.   Image was taken last year at Felt Mansion. Sarah is today’s host of dVerse’…

dVerse — OLN Live — Silken Threads Hold

Silken threads holdtight, sticky lies, promisedforevers, extremesdesigned to die, sigh.Round seeds, sharp edgesTextured mirage, hybridized bait beckons,“plant me!” (wrong zone) “plant me!” (no germ, no growth.) Silken threads holdseasoned seeds of promise;to stay, hibernate,safe in winter dreams —or fly with zephyrstraverse oceans, deserts, to parts unknown.To alight, be consumed, dispersed — to grow. What the…

dVerse — Poetics — Carnivale

Curled in her warm arms, rocking as James Darren* sings on the radio. At bedtime, she tells me stories of faeries and ogres while rubbing my aching legs. I’m dropped at another stranger’s tent. Ignored, uneasy sleep in an empty corner until her midnight voice returns, slurs, “Let’s go.” Dad will never know. Carnies’ front…

dVerse — Prosery — Morning Muse

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?— by T.S. Eliot, from The Waste Land   Morning Muse She lay in a heap at the bottom of the back steps. Cold from the October morning’s hard-packed dirt crept into the arm, her right, that crumpled askew under her large…