Ensightenedwhen twenty twenty digits waneto blurredtwixt near and far, from crisp to furred,insane,unless one enjoys being blind,to stayin state of being, earthworm wayunspined.may feeble vision be restoredpost hastenow that decision has been madeso far from two struggling wobblesto nowclear corrections of wordless wowbogglesfour eyes of line-free bifocalssublimesporty lightweight frames fit just rightoglefar to near, both…
Category: poetry
dVerse Prosery Monday — In the Valley
The hills so dry,so dense the underbrush,that where I pushed my way the giant hush was changedto soft explosion.–Yvor Winters, from the poem, “On a View of Pasadena from the Hills.” In the Valley When would I learn to keep my mouth shut, especially when trapped by persons, places, and/or things? For instance, in a…
dVerse Tuesday Poetics — Metaphysical Mirrors
Edward Burne-Jones, The Wedding of Psyche, 1895, Royal Museum of Fine Arts Antwerp, Antwerp, Belgium. Something old, something newSomething borrowed, something blueAnd a sixpence in her shoe.–a Victorian rhyme i.Something oldGranite boulder sitsat delta’s mouth through seasonsa silent witnesswho compiles earth’s historiesin its slow return to dust.ii.Something newDeath makes way for lifeone’s exhale other’s first breathdo…
dVerse Q249 — Living History
Living HistoryRemember whenyou put the hornto your ear;attached to a cordthat attached toa cabinet?Remember crankinga handle to reachan operator;where you talkedthrough a tubein the front?If you remember,you may consideryourself vintage also. I am today’s host for dVerse’ Quadrille Monday, where I ask you to write a 44-word poem using the word horn or some derivation…
dVerse OLN 406 — Blue Purpled Woman
Gerard Sekoto, Woman With Downcast Eyes (1955) Blue Purpled WomanStepping away from sunshinesetting over open-air market,blue face lost in contemplation.Wishing to turn right, not left,away from grandeur’s large-knuckled fists, plate-sizedpalms that visit carefully-hidbits of now purpled flesh. Onlyhawk eyes notice my wincelifting bushels of persimmons.His lips smack at the Snoek*, distracted. Greasy fingersignore napkins, rubbing cleanon my…
dVerse Poetics — Where Does Love Go When It Goes?
Matisse Where Does Love Go When It Goes? One would hope it stings and stings and stingsand then fades as its way. In a merciful realmthis would be. We’d hide only pockets of sweets,crinkled with red opaque cellophane. Chewingon reveried, sunny days, their wrappers overour eyes, calorie-free nums that don’t rot your teeth.Those chewy…
Tao-Talk 