the gift of sunset
with opportunities new
wrapped in silhouette
float and drift
artist’s palette blossoming
dVerse – Lillian is hosting at the Pub today and asks us to write poems that include the word “gift”.
A fresh coat of paint and nails hammered into place to secure loose boards won’t mend this broken heart. Curl up and wait for you to come home, soak up sunbeams and hide in shadows of the overhead shade tree. When the wind blows, and sets the old chair to rocking, I think of you there, of us, and the way it used to be and it soothes the ache, however slightly. Little by little, I find comfort in memories.
You left in the Fall
trees caught fire, red and orange
leaves blew in the wind.
dVerse – Haibun Monday and Kintsugi: The Art of Broken Pieces.
The cold seeps into
her limbs – crack and breathe blue ink.
A muse as fickle
as the season snapped crimped grass
overlapping stones unturned.
Her fortune said, “Not likely to happen”.
Challenge accepted she said to herself.
A song in her heart started toes tappin’
Guarded for too long, she slid from the shelf.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he said, laughin’.
Rich beyond measure, his love was her wealth.
The murky bottom of the well is wise:
“someone loves to see the light in your eyes”.
dVerse – Frank is hosting and asks us to write Ottava Rima poems.
*It’s a little dark. Sorry. Kind of in a weird place.
shades of gray
torment the sky
as it heaves a sigh
stinging swells of song
as if it cries
to the gaping hole in the ground
where worms and maggots
dVerse – Paul hosts Poetics and asks us to ‘go underground’.
Cue spring-time dawn
a lull in scars
fireflies in jars
journey through open windows,
melt shadow ghosts
breathe rose-scented giggles
the sound of drizzle and breeze
dance a green shimmer-twist bubble,
spill leaves that curl and skip,
spark balloon clouds,
still a floating whisper-echo.
dVerse – Quadrille Monday (with all the words).
She’s sunshine and spring blossoms
and it’s no wonder
she caused them to find no trace
when she tire(d) of a stilted line
and trips on flimsy lies.
A message will sing if you hear it enough.
She’s done listening so she’ll run
– always three feet toward the sun.