dVerse — MTB — Insomnia (after A Psalm of Life by Longfellow)

“Insomnia,” by Alicia Audi Sheep long a-snore, numbersacross hour hand crawls. Ah, to dream,recall, perhaps as far back as slumbersin the days of my infancy, it seems. When days were long, labor earnest,sleep was but by-product not goal,a seamless shift of wake-sleep. Returnestme please to exhaustion. Refresh this soul! Oh, dark-shadowed eyes’ sorrowof midnight’s stare,…

dVerse — Chipmunk Home Sweet Home

under the bird feeder.  date on picture is 11/15/18.  please notice that hole near the critter. image found at this blog Chipping brown-furred critters love to dig showy Holes to dependent tunnels in angles and depths, Intentional architecture branches to utilitarian Pretty dirt condo: runway, pantries, drainage, and Mondo leaf-cushioned sleep and nesting pod for…

dVerse — Q175 — dawn arise

shadow topography disorients, deceptive black map suspends us with starlight along dark paths. stumbles fall in dream- less sleep to dawn. arise now blank slate upon which to draw dawn’s sunlight topography, earth’s dirty receptivity. in rainbow geometry, kernels germinate to blossom-scented reign. top image:  Hourglass- The short Eternity by Italia-Ruotolo-Art Whimsygizmo aka (De Jackson)…

dVerse — Poetics — Songs of My Parents

“The Art of Music,” by Adam Santana I am my father’s daughter as I walk through tall grass that whispers melodies in every season. River songs pause in winter to catch breath for spring’s gurgles. I see him there, sun in his eyes, his white t-shirt and faded overalls. I am my mother’s daughter, polar…

dVerse — Quadrille 174 — Count Me Out

image link In rhythm with vinyl platter spinning33 1/3 revolutions per minute, tappingfeet to Fab4’s beat — until we, the cats and I, jump to rat-a-tat. Neighbor’s AK practice, aimed not at imagined upper crud, but brothers —are things going to be alright? The title and last line are part of the lyrics from The…

dVerse — Prosery — Playing to Win

image link The seed of a poem lay dormant in my heart. by Valsa George, from “Winged Words“ Trauma rattles like bingo balls in a metal cage, trapped, praying for caller’s graced hand to reach in and release them in correct alignment. It’s almost six. Players shuffle in. Most sit horseshoed with their charms and…