to see matterclouds calltrees drawfind gentle voices, sigh;myself, reflectionkind to leavethrough fairy-land come with mebegin to seeit does matterclouds calltrees draw nearfind out why hear it all Original lyrics:Tuesday afternoon.I’m just beginning to see,Now I’m on my way.It doesn’t matter to me,Chasing the clouds away.Something calls to me.The trees are drawing me near,I’ve got to…
Category: poetry
dVerse Poetics — Grandmother Moon
I carry Spring in my heart as I gaze up at my Grandmother Moon. There is too much to write about my grandmother. It is like writing about the moon. I created the collage to celebrate the Chinese Lunar New Year of the Rabbit and decided to use it for my American Sentence about…
Tanka Tuesday Ekphrastic — Winter Farewell
Boughton, George Henry; The Lady of the Snows; Walker Art Gallery Wander along beach in winter to where I promised to forget. Because a murmur hummed, I danced in wonder’s song and broke my vow. Another me, one calm and wise, wanders along beach in winter. A lady wrapped in finery; defenses for ghosts lingered…
dVerse — Q168 — Winter Tears
Red plume finery cannot deflect; Angel pink dips cannot stem; White sheet bark cannot turn, nor wood smoke drift to gone, today’s cursed canvas of gloom. Its stench cannot be washed off. Ice crystal tears weep in dismay. Until sun sword slices to blue. Mish is today’s host of dVerse’ Quadrille Monday. Mish says: Write…
Tanka Tuesday 303 — Sage Senryu Series
Sage way of being:textured, muted color, one’ssubtle flavor smiles. Sage rests in the sunyet open to being plucked —time has no meaning. Sage, pleasing contrastto grounded, mud origins,rises to the sky. Sage: plucked, dried, and cut,swims in warm spaghetti seas;inhaled, then consumed. Colleen Chesebro is the host of Tanka Tuesday. Colleen says:This week’s challenge…
dVerse Poetics — In January
Crimson wings cast weak shadows on russet fluffs still standing from once-sunny goldenrod; they clump, the mangy fur of a hungry coyote lost from its pack. Limp, muted green mats of still grass fill the spaces, where deer lie, hide to hide, in their warm rests until Venus nightly beckons from her speckled black bowl….
dVerse — Prosery — Stitched
Everything I do is stitched with its color. – W.S. Merwin, from “Separation” Epithets were part of my family’s lexicon. My paternal side used gentler terms; the maternal side hurled vicious ones with glee. How my family, who lived in shacks, toiled in non-unionized factories, and were blessed to have a rabbit for dinner; and…
