mishunderstood

I know it’s there
though I still search
for trill of songbirds
over sun-dappled trails
the lush of green buds
sweet scent of hyacinth
and where are the rainbows?

my thoughts thaw quickly
long for swift rivers
to dilute my delusions
of a flourishing world
where truth is perennial
love grows like ivy
and spring does not hide

It’s Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Share ONE poem of your choice.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

I can breathe here
where ancient tongues whisper
where stillness moves through me

on the mesa, my thoughts plateau
a brief moment before sailing over
endless canyons stretching miles
into infinite time and space
voids of the untouched
the untouchable
how is it that I can hold them?

my eyes travel
over steep cliff walls
where time slips, then vanishes
between mile-deep chasms
sediment stripes of pink
red, and burnt tangerine
layers of yesterdays, lost

desert sun writes in shadows
over beige, blank canvass
warming sandstone to sleep
as Navajo spirits still rise
from the dust of old dreams

echoes of the river’s rush
are long gone
my arms open
to wide gorges of quietude
I am hungry enough
to swallow the silence
or has it swallowed me?

A poem for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub, inspired by Dora’s Poetics, “Embodying a Landscape”.

Photo: M.Beauchamp

under alabaster skies
buff-brown sparrows
battle at the feeder
safflower seeds spilling
like wasted moments

lone querulous crow
forages through piles of
empty peanut shells

two skinny-tailed squirrels
dart, dip and repeat
snow-powdered faces

unsuccessful dives
forgotten treasures

I watch
hungering for words
unspoken

For dVerse Poets Pub. Li(sa) is our host for the Quadrille prompt. Write a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title, containing the word or form of the word, “hunger”.

Image credit: unsplash.com

I am encased in clouds of January
shadowed in doom-scroll grey
watching snow blow sideways
insight feels like a curse

a storm cares less about gravity
truth, tossed like slush
against my windows
logic, swirling in the cold front

ice knocks on doors…and souls
but finches brave the blitz
innocent as freshly fallen flakes
wise to the red tail hawk

I pray for kindling of the sun
to melt masks of this wintertide
uncover lies like dirty footprints
justice flowing like a freestone river

Written for dVerse Poets Pub and my sanity. Dora is our host for Poetics and we are playing with similes.

the stars aligned today
and still my pen is mute
where were you when
Supermoon left me unstirred?
nothing born from the bliss

how dare you leave me as
September dazzled me
with crimson and gold
November’s cryptic clouds
haunted me, then mocked me
over blank pages

where were you
when the curious chickadee
sunk his tiny talons into my scalp
before realizing I was a
living, breathing being
or the crows spoke in code
above me in the maple
and I swore I heard my name?

where were you
when I cried because the
young man working on our house
reminded me of my stepson
or when the evening sun drooled
in fuscia pink before
falling asleep in the lake
and I couldn’t articulate
my own guilt?

where were you
when winter came early
crumbly stryrofoam pellets
bouncing off bewildered begonias
and my thoughts began racing
like the wind to
who will I lose next
and how?

where were you?

find me between the lines
seduce me from these shadows
twist them into words

For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub. Share a poem with us. Lillian is our host and has also offered an optional mini-prompt if your muse needs a nudge.

“The ultimate ignorance is the rejection of something you know nothing about yet refuse to investigate.”— Wayne W. Dyer

I watched a beast
feeding on darkness
and the dense
dressed in naked lies
parading in broad daylight
to the beat of dimwits drumming
mindless strum of the misled
grade school rhetoric

I saw it laugh at the unfortunate
shade hearts, soot black, unrecognizable
it turned over rocks
setting free fellow hellions
to unabashedly hate, berate
brutalize and bully
a ministry of minions followed
picking up pace

Did you see it
between all those fingers
over your face?

For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub, inspired by Punam’s Poetics prompt, “Looking Back“.

Notes: Party before truth and humanity has been the most bizarre phenomenon to witness in 2025. Some may wonder why a older Canadian gal would be so concerned about what is happening next door to me. It is impossible not to. Unless you live in Canada, or unless you are Canadian, you may not understand the gently woven relationship that has always been present…until now. It has been heartbreaking, shocking, and extremely hurtful to watch the crumbling of a Constitution, checks and balances thrown aside, initiation of unnecessary tariff wars with allies, not enemies, and the actual demeaning, threatening of our sovereignty….not to mention the safety and justice for all in America and the world. The chaos happens daily and though it has been time consuming to stay up to date, this is history, though the darkest I’ve seen in my lifetime. If you need a good place to start, try Heather Cox Richardson, an excellent resource.

Tourism to the U.S. has fallen by over 30 percent with no signs of slowing. Vacation homes have been sold. Many refuse to purchase American goods or make their usual enjoyable travel across borders to shop, explore or visit family. In some ways, Canada has become stronger for it, but what a sad year this has been to see those ties severed for absolutely no reason. I am thankful for reading so many online comments (literally thousands) from Americans that apologize for the unfair and degrading treatment, though it is not their doing. I am thankful for those who stand firm against injustice and have maintained their critical thinking skills instead of bending themselves into pretzels to fit narratives. I pray for the “sheeples”…. to free themselves from chains of blind loyalty, to actually read and research facts, and use their own brains to finally find their way back to TRUTH. I pray for peace and enlightenment for all in the New Year. I thank God for the gift of writing as a vessel for my thoughts and I thank you for listening.

and so it is
your sacred fabric of nation
sewn from the blood
of heroes, fallen
bound tight by thick
threads of humanity
now lays frayed and vulnerable
to the scissors of insanity

You, the people, must gather
facing the feed dogs, these
saw-toothed, seam rippers
biased, misguided fools
they can dart, but never hide
truth is an almighty light
darn the holes, brave souls

Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub . Lillian has offered us a list of sewing terms to incorporate into our poems.

forty eight, eyes of steely-grey
I held your hand as you fell
into drab of November clouds
leaving me, twenty two, fatherless
nineteen and sixteen, both broken

nineteen at thirty six, a smile
that could win hearts
his, stopping, one beastly squeeze
October’s greedy grip
leaving me, thirty nine
brotherless, hopeless

sixteen at fifty seven
I know. I left you
longing, lonely, laden
like a tulip, withering
petals plummeting into June
leaving me, sixty three
sisterless, four seasons of guilt

eighty seven, wise but worn
beautiful soul, my rock
battered by the storms
each day, your voice, a blessing
where I take cover
as numbers haunt and hover

We are inspired by numbers at dVerse Poets Pub. Join us for Tuesday’s Poetics.

Image: pixabay.com

in the living room, layers, heavy, protective
knick knacks that spoke in ancient tongues
some silent, meanings hushed by memories lost
textured walls painted in light turquoise
and the rug, a colour, unidentifiable
perhaps greenish brown, once ripped up
in joyful liberation after the divorce
Collective Soul blasting in the background

an overabundance of carpet tacks were
pulled up with a butter knife
each one lifted with grit and a smirk
leaving holes, only along the baseboards
exposing the hardwood, scuffed and stained
another layer remained
bearing the brunt of former pets before her time
and her dachshund that christened the Christmas tree
and other places covered up with a shag rug

the kitchen was an anthology
of pain and passion
different authors, different stories, one ending
as cupboard doors finally became unhinged
patterned, vintage vinyl clung reluctantly to the floor
waiting for release, and
to no longer be walked on

a collection of tea kettles, Grandma’s teacups
rested on the warped shelf of a solid oak hutch
a steal from a garage sale
photo albums lay stacked, many lives mingling
framed family photos, precariously perched
between beloved trinkets of nature – painted rocks,
driftwood, one silk wedding rose, candles
scents faded, flames long flickered out
one house plant on the dining table, thriving

layers, safe and suffocating
a cozy calm, despite unmatched furniture
faint echoes of deafening silence
the dust still settling
beneath her couch….beneath her heart

this was her home

For Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.

Jennifer Wagner is guest-hosting and has asked us to use “Ted Kooser’s “So This Is Nebraska” poem for inspiration to write our own “So This Is (fill in the blank)” poem.”

On my weathered and worn patio, I sink into my favourite lawn chair facing the sun. Tilting my head back, I look up to massive trees that tower above me. My thoughts rise to long, lanky branches and I find myself there, nestled in green canopies.

A high-pitched squawking breaks the silence and I follow the flight of two blue-jays. I imagine myself as a bird, bravely soaring from perch to perch. I watch them scuffle in mid-air, a swoop and swirl, still landing with precision, unscathed. Three jet-black squirrels spiral upwards around the trunk of the maple, fighting, playing, or play fighting. I know if one were to lose hold of the gnarly bark, the fall would be fatal.

There is one limb of deadwood, stretched out directly over me. I ponder it’s plan. A turquoise sky peers between branches, another realm for another time. Hundreds of leaves embrace the rhythm of the breeze, dancing precariously. I stay with them, clinging to September.

whispers of autumn
fall, aspirations rise up
nature’s gifts take risks

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub.

It’s a pleasure to be your host. Feel free to join in.

Doors open at 3 p.m. EST

did you slumber through summer?
now autumn haunts you
through the veil
of your green cocoon
will you bail before the bloom?

dream of snow-white petals
succumbing to the light
a short-lived dazzle before
autumn’s breeze nudges you
into the arms of Mother Earth

A quadrille for Lillian’s prompt at dVerse Poets Pub.

She has given us the word “petals” to incorporate into our 44 word poems.

Image: Michelle Beauchamp

I am minuscule of minnows
swimming against currents
parting the pond weed
prayers for clear water

I am rock, obsidian
moonlit at nightfall
resting in shadows
of yesterday’s wounds

I am sun beams, stretching
embracing the night
fishing for clues
in darkness of hearts

It’s quadrille time at dVerse Poets Pub and I am your host today. We are writing 44 word poems that must include the word “fish”. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST.

A journal sits empty on the night stand.  Since he left, she had daily intentions of releasing the deluge. It seemed pointless though, even as a trauma counselor fully aware of  self-reflection, self- expression, self-care, self-blah, blah, blah. She could sure preach it, she thought.

Now, the king-sized bed seemed much colder, the house much quieter, and her auburn curls more unruly. She questioned how much ink would write away the pain. Then she questioned the pain. Did she actually care? After all, she turned down the ring. What did it all mean?

She eyed the journal again, this time running her fingers across the intricate embossing on supple leather.

She opened to the first blank page and wrote…

“If only I would have learnt to love. Black days like bright ones leave imprints on your heart. Both are better than wasted time, wasted space.”

Written for Kim’s Prosery prompt. We are to write a piece of prose or flash fiction with no more than 144 words, including a given line of poetry. I took to the extra challenge of using exactly 144 words. You can join in too at dVerse Poets Pub! (Note: There is still time to submit to our upcoming anthology.)

From inside, light and shadows play as usual on the trunk of the old maple. From here, I am comfortably chilled. A heat wave has settled in and the humidex pushes temperatures into the hundreds.

I watch a crow in my yard, slightly off from his usual stately strut. He looks parched, as he pecks at the grass. The puddles from yesterday’s downpour have dried up. Two young, black squirrels are resting their heads and bellies across the flat top of my wooden fence, their tiny legs dangling. I open the door to the sweltering air and fill a shallow tray with water. Who will come?

summer hides outside
sticking to fur and feathers
some would rather roast

A haibun for Frank’s prompt over at dVerse Poets Pub.

when did truth become an anomaly?

numbing, novacain lies
ignorance, hate, all become
one ravenous beast
devouring history, logic, honesty
spitting out souls
like unwanted seeds

we dangle the keys
road maps to resolve
curl our toes over the precipice
waiting for a push

A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub.

Kim gifted us the word “honest” to include in our 44 word poems.

Image: pixabay.com

Spring brings us fleeting moments and we drive to the river park to capture one. Along the cement path we walk, pausing only once to watch a lone mallard duck making ripples across the peaceful bay. Our destination is two rows of cherry blossom trees on the hill. Others are randomly placed throughout the landscape but these draw the most attention. The perspective provides for glorious photo opportunities. Visitors come and go, but each lingers, posing and smiling in a pink paradise of petals.

Across the railroad tracks, a local artist stands, brush in hand, interpreting the scene onto a canvass. He owns his moment but becomes part of ours, part of Sakura. I soak in the stunning array of blushing blossoms briefly catching a subtle scent of vanilla. Today the sun showcases chosen branches and paints petal shadows on the ground. The sky offers a backdrop of brilliant blue. One stubborn tree holds onto alternating limbs of green.  I gently run my finger along a silky flower to feel its fragility but it remains attached.

short, mingled moments
shades of pink surrender to
confetti showers

Images: Michelle Beauchamp

These photos were taken a few days ago in a local park. The trees were planted between 2002 and 2006 as part of “Sakura Project”, a gift to communities in Ontario as a symbol of friendship between Canada and Japan.

A haibun written in response to Frank’s Haibun prompt this week over at

dVerse Poets Pub.

and some fool called him “kind”
truth, lie?
does it matter?
he was surprised, intrigued
called it an “old- fashioned word”
felons can be kind
truth, lie?
feels irrelevant
but perhaps a smidgen
of decency slipped through
to the heart
he does have a heart
correct?
truth, lie?
no proof whatsoever

he’s the King, you know
of the whole world
a kind king
he likes to golf… a lot
only shovels bullshit,
threatens countries
in his spare time

Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Melissa is our host and has asked us to write a poem with a ratio of 60 / 40 truth vs. lies or vice verse . I think I may have landed at 85% /15%. Oopsy.

can you see her from afar?
wrapped in metallic gold
satin gown, sapphire sequins
embellishments ablaze
as they catch the sun

her eyes, mystical silver
windows to the truth
her hands, still luminous
have worked miracles
over the most muddled, misled
her hair, softly tousled by the wind
sunflower strands, sparkling
desperately reaching for you
do you dare? look into her light?

she waves at you from dark valleys
whispers revelations in your ear
but you are deafened by the noise

sometimes she walks beside you
but your eyes are clouds
shrouding the most palpable

will she wait for you
much longer?

Join us for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. We are personifying the abstract. It is my pleasure to be your host today.

Image: pixabay.com

around the table
dark minds meld, weld
primitive pieces of apartheid
electrodes sparked by
archaic currents
scraps of fallacies
Frankensteined

shackles break
some will wake, but
when they finally give a hoot
tongue-tied and owl-eyed
it will be too late
hate is a monster

For De’s quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets Pub, We are writing 44 word poems, including the word “hoot“.

Image: pixabay.com

oh Luna
content in your quilt of clouds
do you know broken?
I see your scars, your skin cratered
pitted without warning
I trace your molten tears hardened 
a gentle poke - you remain stoic
suspended there in heaven's hush
camouflaged in dapples of pewter
shifting shades of seclusion
nestled deep in night-light stars
you too, have cried

do you know our broken?
this world, so worn and whittled
(ass)teroids flailing, (me)teroids amiss
gaining speed without theory
fading fragments of logic, floating
aimlessly to the exosphere
losing control, spiraling to....
Oh Luna, can you catch them?
could you be so kind?
let them steep awhile
in your ebony pools, sun-sodden
heal them in halcyon tides
caressing the grey
of rocks, the grey of life

Written for The Polaris Trilogy, scheduled to land on the moon on March 2, 2025., part of the Lunar Codex. Sharing with dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night. It is my pleasure to be your host.

when will they eat crow?
will the heavens open first to save us
or will we watch them choke
on blood and black feathers?

I wish them no harm
but I thought I would die
surrounded by love,
chirping of chick-a-dees
and indigo skies



A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub. Lillian has given us the word "indigo".

The movie, “Groundhog Day” fills my screen. My mind multi-tasks between repetitive comical scenes and the harsh reality of retrogression. Through frosty glass, I watch the first of February’s snow, free falling onto yesterday’s crusty surface. The ground is dulled and beaten by the filth of old footprints. It welcomes the sparkle of each new layer. I turn back to the movie. Bill Murray walks off the curb, stepping into the same icy pothole.

snowflakes float backwards
archaic repetition
greet grey clouds again

A haibun for dVerse Poets Pub.

Frank is hosting and the theme he has offered is Ground Hog Day.

yesterday
I played in the margins
doodling flowers
each one similar, two pointed leaves
four, maybe five rounded petals
my initials, in bloated letters
bolding them over and over
with deep blue ball-point pen
never crossing the red line

now
three ring paper lies empty
yellowed and dusty in the drawer
nothing grows in the margins
nothing much lingers between the lines
all words take flight
whether black or white
or grey

For Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. Dora has a wonderful prompt, having us ponder the many kinds of margins.

just like you
to keep your secrets by the sea
tucked deep in the tundra
under dappled feathers
muted and masked
onyx and ivory
codes written in calico
left to decipher

and just like you
to leave no stone unturned
whisking up waveless waters
fishing for inklings
ironicly subtle in safety orange
you forage hard, shattering shells
poking for the prize
searching in my eyes
for answers I have not

Written for Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub.

Our host today is Melissa and she has shared the photography of Michael Sammut as inspiration. Join us!

what?

who chose
tyranny, bigotry
forty thousand falsities
obscenities, hostility
indignity, indemnity
mockery, secrecy
vulgarity, vanity
criminality, immunity
thirty four felonies
illiteracy, naivety
autocracy, hypocrisy
instability, immaturity
immorality, inhumanity
partiality, dishonesty
indisputable misogyny!
incivility, inequality
monocracy, conspiracy
archaic anomaly
danger to democracy?

say what?

Written for dVerse Poets Pub quadrille prompt.

“Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.” ~ Aldous Huxley

I never was a high heel girl
preferred my feet closer
to the ground
in comfy three-stripe sneakers
I grew up building forts
in grassy meadows, wild bull rushes
riding trails on my Honda 70
dirt-splattered, sun-battered
we chopped off old jeans
for shorts in the summer
not the bell-bottoms
with Canadian flag inserts
those were too cool to cut

I remember crocheted ponchos
corduroy was king, everything
from jumpers, skirts and overalls
a peasant dress to a prom
so wrong?!
earth shoes to leather clogs
red-laced hiking boots, mine were blue
slouchy ankle boots with
navy pin-striped painter pants
purple bows in pig-tailed hair
pixie cuts and flipped out flair
to an over-bleached “Sun-In”
Rosanna Dana special
a pixie somewhere in between

I mean, I did don a dress or two
but I never was a high heel girl

For Merril’s Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub. “Simply write a poem using fashion as your theme or take inspiration from one of the poems or images above.” (included in her prompt). I stumbled back in time for this one.

Now is the season of feuille morte
In a dark corner I sit amongst dying yarrow
The bruises to my psyche sear and scourge
And when the embers fade to dust
Conflicting thoughts smoulder still
Inside I hide those unpretentious dreams
Only to pop them one by one

Perhaps now we can turn to love
A persistent glint on the horizon
Take me in your arms, I am yours
When pain bandages my mouth dumb
Gift me beauty of words
Set in free verse

We stare into darkness for light we have lost
But what I feel is that
My light springs from yours, as sun illumines moon

For dVerse Poets Pub. Melissa is our host and has given us 2 options to approach Poetics today. One is to write a “cento” taking lines from a selection of dVersian poetry from the month of April. Note: “A cento is a poem formed from lines of poems written by other poets. Latin for ‘patchwork,’ the cento is composed like a collage or quilt, and honors others’ poems while presenting a unique work.” (www.poetryfoundation.org). I mistakenly ventured off the selected prompt list but all are from April.

In order, here are the lines I borrowed to create my cento.

1. Acting My Age In Autumn- Laura Bloomsbury
2. Lonely (a quadrille) – Punam
3. Her Page – Melissa Lemay
4. Hot as Blazes – Judy Dykstra Brown
5. Composure for, : Folly in Innocence – David Bogomolny
6. My Box – Colleen Cheesebro
7. A Poem and it’s Palenode- Lillian
8. Perhaps Now – Paul Vincent Cann
9. Mareel – Kim M. Russell
10. Pantoum of the Tango– Helen
11. Poetry is a Thousand Psalms, Not One – Dorahak
12. Prayer to the Muse – Michelle Beauchamp (me)
13. The Unboxing – Jane Swanson
14. Finding our way back – Bjorn Rudberg
15. How beauty is perceived- Sanaa Rizvi
16. Your Faithful Hound – Li/Lisa

Image by Mystic Art Design from Pixabay

gift me beauty of words
rose-petal soft
keen-edged as thorns
rivers of phrases, flowing
to reservoirs of indigo
give me some, scented
like Monday morning
dew-drops and daisy-fresh
others, shameless, saucy
stiff drink on a Friday
I’ll place a few between
to hold space

For De’s Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets Pub. We are writing 44 word poems including the word “place”.

Image by ThankYouFantasyPictures from Pixabay

I fell in love with silence
under the hush of snowfall
and you
under the blaze of desert skies
traded green for earth-tones
turquoise lakes for turquoise stones
we’ve sailed in waters, unruffled
and tumbled in the dust bowl
still
you are my oasis

For the Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets Pub, I have chosen the word “blaze” to warm up your 44 word poems. Doors open at 3 p.m. EST and the prompt is open all week. You are welcome to join in!

what a dramatic conclusion
winter bursting into tears
like some last minute production
bewildered red-bellied woodpecker
ponders your intention
I ponder your intention
shamelessly rubbing shoulders
with spring
your cocky grin
sharpened at one corner
I don’t trust you
always been a flakey one

For De’s quadrille prompt. The given word is “sharp” or a form of the word.

dversepoets

finally, you have arrived
broken, depleted, defeated
one by one you have come
full circle, enlightened

first, run your fingers
over these blood-stained walls
faded only by the sun

understand that
cemented tears will not run
beyond this gate of wisdom
for this place
you enter wide-eyed
with only a child’s heart
this space
is where love begins

Dora is our host at dVerse Poets Pub for Poetics this week.

This poem is inspired by her prompt titled “It’s Written in Stone”

Image: pixabay.com

this dance we do
between time and space
not an orderly cosmos
rhythm – one, two….lost!
I’m tapping on stars
as you tango to Mars
I extend towards Luna
you reach for Soleil
I align, but you sway
I’m popping, you’re locking
rarely in sync
I glide, you dart
but somehow
each time
you waltz your way
back into my heart

For Poetics today, we are playing with the topic of dance.

You are welcome to join in. It’s a pleasure to be your host.

dVerse Poets Pub

Image credit: unsplash.com

We set out for the drive to my hometown. I place my purse on the floor and sigh. We are always a bit stressed to arrive on time. Just over an hour away, my mother of eighty five years waits at the other end.

Her small dining table will be set for us, perhaps the night before, complete with seasonal napkins. There will be a lasagna or chicken casserole in the oven, a fresh salad and bread from the bakery. There will be homemade dessert like fresh carrot cake or iced brownies. On an end table, a thoughtful plate will offer a little snack first such as cheese, crackers and grapes. The apartment will be clean and organized, despite her fatigue and arthritic pain.

I take a sudden, deep inhale as I contemplate endings. The scenery blurs by in familiar fashion but I notice recent rainfall and snowmelt have flooded some farmers’ fields. Trees still stand stoic as water rises around their roots. In the corner of my eye, a hawk catches the updraft to glide over the highway. I exhale slowly.

winter breathes, steady
spring is always a given
but we hold our breath

A haibun for Frank’s Haibun Monday prompt over at dVerse Poets Pub.

Image: pixabay.com

these darker days
I lay my thoughts
where tree shadows sprawl
boldly across the snow
they rest in the glisten
while I listen to my heart
beating to the rhythm of
the red bird’s wings
I take flight, unfettered
from the pinch of winter

A quadrille for dVerse Poets Pub. De has given us the word “pinch” to include in our 44 word poems. Doors open at 3 p.m.