November threatens forgetfulness of summer’s desire, the yearn, the yawn, the yes! of existence, with no! of “no shine, no butterflies, no bees”
with creak of knees, lines of face silver hair and brittle nails and yes! wintry death of all desire but for the joy in plenitude
carpe diem of eternity summering in You.
“Thus the snow loses its imprint in the sun.” (Dante, Paradiso)
For Cee's FOTD (Flower of the Day), a dahlia;
"No! Vember," d'verse's Poetics prompt, pays tribute to "No!" by Thomas Hood and asks that we take "a line from this poem and use it as springboard for a new poem." I chose "No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees."
“It’s just a tire shop, Dad! This can’t be where we’re meeting the rainbow-smuggler!” Inside, a cheerful woman in a colorful sari stood out of the rain, waiting. “I’d like a rainbow,” Retnam said from her wheelchair. “Where are they?” “They’re hiding in plain sight, my dear!” the rainbow-smuggler said, shrugging. “Just reach into a tire.” Retnam did, pulling out a huge rainbow-colored taffy. She laughed, then frowned. “But it’s not REAL!” she cried. “Look up, Retnam!” the woman said, pointing to the rain-cleared sky. “There will always be a rainbow over your head, even when you can’t see it.”
I remember taking our kids to Halloween parties hosted by people we knew, but only once or twice taking them trick or treating in our neighborhood, always hovering in the background, half-trepidatiously (is that a word?).
Along the rolling hills I hear your mournful singing haunting clear yet windblown.
Under the moon’s vapid eye how can I, elf, to you deny your windsongs?
I’ll keep you under lock and key lest you flee and escape from me as windstorm.
The elvish king shall have you back when he returns the one I lack now windbound.
On Hallow’s Eve we’ll make a swap my child returned, you with your harp, — home windward.
Grace at dVerse challenges us today to write a Compound Word Verse, an unfamiliar form to most ous I daresay. She writes: "The Compound Word Verse is a poetry form invented by Margaret R. Smith that consists of five 3-line stanzas, for a total of 15 lines. The last line of each stanza ends in a compound word and these compound words share a common stem word which is taken from the title. (In the first example below the stem word is “moon” from the title “Moonlighting”; the compound words related to the title are moondust, moonbeams, moonsongs, etc.)
The Compound Word Verse (3 lines) has a set rhyme scheme and meter as follows:
Rhyme Scheme: a,a,b
Syllable/Meter: 8, 8, 3
Click on Mr. Linky to read more and join in!
Honey Humberg had waited for this day all her life.
She’d worked and saved to build the “Humberg Bus” from scratch, designing, commissioning and assembling it, part by part. She painted it in homage to the DIY hippies that were her inspiration, free thinkers and dreamers all. She would tour Europe showcasing her singing talent and the world would fall at her feet.
In the square, the crowd cheered when the Humberg Bus arrived.
They left when she began singing.
“How much you want for the bus?” a man asked.
“One billion pounds,” she said bitterly, turning away.
Warning: Sensitive topic broached.
Björn at dVerse: MTB asks us to write a cadralor, which poetic form consists of "5, unrelated, numbered stanzaic images, each of which can stand alone as a poem, is fewer than 10 lines, and ideally constrains all stanzas to the same number of lines. Imagery is crucial to cadralore: each stanza should be a whole, imagist poem, almost like a scene from a film, or a photograph. The fifth stanza acts as the crucible, alchemically pulling the unrelated stanzas together into a love poem. By “love poem,” we mean that your fifth stanza illuminates a gleaming thread that runs obliquely through the unrelated stanzas and answers the compelling question: 'For what do you yearn?'" Click on Mr. Linky to join us.
A bird cries over the tele- phone wire, is it you? is it done? over black shrouded head
Shiny pruning shears in her gloved hands, methodically apply to de- locate dead heads, snip, snip
There once was a small torso in a womb severally dislodged by forceps into medical waste
If death comes in slippered feet, will they curl at the ends or just your lips? Mother?
All the ghosts have left, barren in winter, the autumn leaves twist the sea breezes rustle in her mind.
Sanaa at dVerse's Poetics asks that we "dip our toes"
into a panegyric: "Plainly speaking, the term “Panegyric,”
refers to a poem of effusive praise.
The genre being Greek in origin is closely related to
both eulogy and ode. Click on Mr. Linky and join in!