White Haired Virgos ~~ a Rare Breed

Lillian is hosting Open Link Night in dVerse Poets Pub ~~ 

Anything goes!  [ almost ]

Don't let her sweet smile, white hair fool you

she's perfected the art of looking refined

24 carat .. the real deal!

watch as she whooshes into that packed lot

Fahrvergnügen all the way, baby

no way in hell is she

gonna surrender her space

admit it .. you've always wanted

to witness a maneuver like this

[ one-upping the competition ]

she's betting Virgos are a rare breed tonight

takes a deep breath  

and slides right into that 

VIRGOS PREFERRED slot

[ wouldn't you like to be a Virgo too? ]

My Man Done Me Wrong Blues

Melissa is hosting  dVerse Poetics in the Pub. She asked us to read the lyrics and listen to the song "Folsom Prison Blues" by Johnny cash ~ and write a poem about whatever it evokes for us. 

The poem I share today was written and the video recorded long ago ~ never published. I felt the poem fit Melissa's 'prison' challenge and perhaps it was actually time to post!!

Migrant Mother, Dorothea Lange

My man he gone and left me, done me wrong

my man he gone and left me, done me wrong 

left me with three young'uns 

to raise up good and strong

My mama taught me good, she did

my mama taught me good

taught me everything she could

before she hit that road called "skid"

My mama taught me good, she did

she taught me real good 

i'm just a-wishin' and a-longin'

for them good ole days

I don't need no man to make me whole 

I don't need no man to make me whole

Cause there ain't no man alive

can steal my soul

Smile !!

  dVerse Poets pub  and Quadrille Monday ~ De is hosting, the magic word for today is "SMILE'"

2016 Montecatini Italy

At eighty-four 

I wink at mirrors

pockets filled with mischief

memories and improbable alibis

SMILE YOU'RE ON CANDID CAMERA

if walls talked they'd blush

if diaries escaped they'd jog

I've lived loudly 

laughed harder

and edited strategically

leaving crumbs, winks

and harmless scandal behind

The A B C's of Aging

Time for Meeting the Bar in the dVerse Poets Pub ~  Laura is hosting and challenges us to write an acrostic poem of twenty-six lines, each line beginning with a letter of the alphabet [ in sequential order ] 

Tuscany ~ 2016

Aging teaches us to listen longer / before we speak

Breath becomes a companion / never taken for granted

Creativity no longer proves anything / it simply "is"

Deep introspection feels less like digging / more like remembering

Energy is precious / we learn where it belongs

Forgiveness arrives quietly / on gossamer wings

Generosity widens / not with things but with patience

Humility replaces urgency / we no longer rush the truth

Inner voices soften / we simply stop engaging with them

Judgement loosens its grip / beginning with each individual

Kindness becomes instinct / instead of effort

Loss teaches how fiercely we have loved / have been loved

Meditation opens up space / where angst once lived

Nothing needs to be proven at this altitude / on this journey

Observation deepens / we notice what would have slipped past

Presence becomes the greatest gift we can offer

Quiet moments carry more wisdom than loud opinions

Rest is no longer earned / it is honored

Spirituality stretches beyond belief / becomes lived experience

Time feels less like a threat / more like a teacher

Unlearning becomes as important as learning

Vulnerability reads as strength / not exposure

Wisdom gathers as long as we remain curious

X marks the crossover from striving to arriving

Yielding reinforces grace / it lies within each of us   

Zen arrives not as perfect peace / but as peace allowed

One Year in Our Lives

 Dora is hosting the first Poetics challenge of the New Year .. Inspired by the poetry of Elizabeth Bishop, 1911 - 1979. Dora asks us to incorporate Bishop's unique style  in original poems of our own.

One year 

split cleanly in two, your absence 

marked on our calendar

like a shoreline retreating

each month, a shift ~ erosion the boys and I

stepped around, pretending

 the earth beneath was steady

At home our three sons grew taller, increments

measured on our kitchen door frame

pencil marks rising like tides

I carried our daughter those first six months

her heartbeat like a persistent 

tapping ~ morse code against the war

you were trying to outlive

You sent letters, one each day, 365 in total  

describing tropical heat and humidity

the endless unraveling of bodies

      how much you loved and missed us         

  I read each letter as if it might detonate

as if danger could travel through ink

[ later, we bound them in a pretty blue book ]

Spontaneous Combustion

Rosemary has us thinking "Fireworks" ~~ I'm thinking the Personal Brand of "shooting stars ~~ hearts going Pitter-pat!!!

 New Year's Eve, 1984

Suddenly, the night turned technicolor

I saw you

a fuse lit somewhere deep inside

my world responding with fireworks

every spark in the sky 

like electricity between us 

no time to think ~ only the rush 

that wild certainty something 

rare had just begun 

Years have folded over themselves

you are gone from this world

some loves never fade ~ they echo

like fireworks long after midnight

colors still drifting behind closed eyes

 

CHEERS EVERYONE !!

 Last dVerse Poets Post of 2025! Anything Goes!!

Hey look me over 

white hair and all

livin’ my best years havin’ quite a ball

don’t count me out folks

 don’t pass me by

I figure because I’m still here on this earth 

you’re stuck with me – oh my 

and I’ll be up on my Facebook

Pinterest and more

the  New Year is coming 

don’t know what’s in store

I’m a little bit goofy and full of cheer 

so let me give you some

to the New Year 

here we come !!

Looking Back

 Punam is hosting Poetics in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ she asks us to look back one last time at 2025 ~ write about ways the year impacted us.     

Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes ~~

I measured them in anger sharp enough to taste

politics  pounding at the door of my chest

demanding I choose a side

In despair so vast it crossed oceans

Ukraine's broken mornings 

mothers counting children instead of years

Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes ~~

I measured them in the quick lift of joy 

of laughter surprising me midair

in the warmth of hands I trust

In minutes measured with pride 

the quiet kind, helping others 

without needing applause

Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes ~~

Hide and Seek

Time for a Quadrille in the dVerse Pub ~ Mish has us running for cover, snuggling under down, climbing inside thermal, whatever it takes to keep warm as Old Man Winter strikes much of the Northern Hemisphere. "Hibernate" is the word we must use in our poems ~ or a derivative of the word. 

there is something quietly glorious

about an older woman

alone with thoughts .. giggling

not because something is cute

but because it's true ..

that's not silliness

it's vitality leaking out around the edges

letting light shine through the cracks ..

no hibernating for this lady

Not In Between ~ Apparently!

~  for Poets and Storytellers United  ~

Rosemary suggests our poems reflect the concept of

 "in between"

She asks we write of the in between

that narrow footbridge of becoming

but at eighty-four I've crossed so many bridges

the toll collectors waive me through

I was never between athlete and artist

I cheered from the stands

then picked up my flute

blew my lungs into silver sound

singing well enough to be told

I was "quite good" which carried me a few decades

I skipped between maiden and matron 

leaping straight into motherhood

a baby on one hip, grocery list in hand

learning early that sleep is optional

love is not

I was never in between a career and a calling

I managed travel for others 

while loving the perks of travel 

finding poetry in departure lounges

humanity in missed connections

And now she asks us to stand

in between what was and what will be

in all honesty I am squarely gloriously here ~ now

unfinished  

not fading  

not waiting

Prosery For the Pub

Time for Prosery [not poetry] in the friendly dVerse Poets Pub. Merril is our host and provides us with this line from Nan Shepherd's "The Hill Burns" ~ from 'In The Cairngorms' (Edinburgh: The Moray Press, 1934} 

The granites and schists of my dark and stubborn country 

I notice the shimmer first .. the granites and schists of my dark and stubborn country. A strange glitter appears along the horizon, as though America itself has been polished.

WARNING: schist shines because its minerals have been crushed until they MUST align, forced into place by unimaginable strain.

Leaders, different as bands running through the stone .. one sort pressing downward, tightening laws, dimming truths until people feel themselves flattening .. losing their natural shape.

The other lifting pressure, turning layers gently, allowing old minerals to breathe, the new to grow .. understanding schist's beauty comes not from pressure, but from survival.

Broken things arranging themselves into a new order, never forgetting what came before. The question .. silent, and heavy as stone, whether we become a radiant testament to endurance .. or crack along our deepest layers.

Because schist never lies, it reveals everything.

                                                                                            

Abundance

 Open Link in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ Bjorn hosts ~ 

Image ~ Ghost of Christmas Present ~ A Christmas Carol ~ Charles Dickens 

I sit quietly at my desk

morning light spills across a bowl

brimming with fresh fruit ~

a small, ordinary abundance

Somewhere a child wakes 

to the scrape of an empty bowl

the echo of last night's hunger

still clinging to his ribs

I try to imagine that morning ~

how the world narrows

to the simple ache of 'not enough'

while mine expands into choices I hardly notice

How strange ~ this planet 

that grows enough food to feed every mouth

yet lets food disappear 

into the hollow places

I do what I can ~ small offerings

thin threads of hope ~ and I wonder

if threads woven together might

become a net strong enough

to catch every child 

before hunger lays claim

The Prince and The Pauper

 Time for a Quadrille in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ Melissa is hosting ~ the magic word is 'ZERO'

Harry's a prince with great wealth to spare

our grandson's pockets ~ light as thin air

often at zero ~ blessing his heart 

handsome enough to play the Prince part

status does differ ~ of course that is true

but in looks we think he beats Harry too

Thankfulness

 Rommy shares this quote from Joana Walsh's essay "My Life As A Goddard Movie"  as inspiration for our poems ~~

“The most expensive garment you’ll ever own is your own flesh.”

Thanksgiving arrives the way it always does

the clatter of dishes, stories we tell

our first born carves the turkey

steam rises in praise, laughter shakes loose

we pass plates and memories with the quiet understanding

being here is never guaranteed

The soft ache in my bones reminds me

how long I've lived in this skin

paid for with every stumble, scar

every winter settled in my marrow

every determined spring pulling me up

Costly as my flesh has been

it has carried me all the way

to this warm room, this crowded table

this moment where love exists 

in the simplest ways, passed hand to hand

like bread

Dancing With My Grandson Charlie

Open Link Night at the dVerse Poets Pub ~ Sanaa is our host and as she reminds us ~ Anything Goes!!  

This is a poem I first published in March, 2021

  

My hand rests in his

we twirl together

his smile a melody

I have known forever

I follow, as always I have 

As always I will

someday my feet will falter

someday I will let go

but not tonight

tonight we dance

to the melody of a wish

I hold deep in my bones

that life is kind to him

that love finds him whole

that his road is long, never lonely

as music swells, his eyes shine

I gather myself into the moment

knowing he will carry this dance

long after I am gone

Perchance to Dream

 Lisa is hosting the Quadrille challenge in dVerse Poets Pub ~ she chose the word "Coax" or a form of it ~ to use in our poems.

I dreamed a poem last night

this morning ~ coaxing bits and pieces

to coalesce, materialize, return to me

stubborn devils ~ pesky details!

must I nap to dream? 

[ I don't ordinarily unless I'm ill ]

seems a waste of valuable time

looking for an encore tonight

Generations

  Time for Meeting the Bar in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ Laura's challenge is the Chaucerian Roundel ~

Three generations sketched, frozen in time

each of us different, like yang and like yin

each shaped by childhood, defined from within

Decades together, memories sublime

cooking and laughter, the yarns we would spin

Three generations sketched, frozen in time

each of us different, like yang and like yin

Three sisters left, the female paradigm

would we pass muster? I ask with a grin

how to say thank you, where would I begin

three generations sketched, frozen in time

each of us different, like yang and like yin

each shaped by childhood, defined from within  

 

Long Ago & Far Away

Time for Prosery ~ Not Poetry in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ Kim hosts and presents us with the challenge of using this line "not yesterday I learned to know the love of bare November days before the coming of the snow" from Robert Frost's poem My November Guest.

Not today, not yesterday, I learned to know the love of bare November days before the coming of the snow, as a child growing up in small town USA. We were three sisters in a modest home, rich in all but money. Four seasons shaped our world, snow forts and sleds, willow swings, barefoot summers, crisp leaves and laughter, lilac breezes in spring. 

Nearby, grandparents' hands worked the land. Rows of corn, jars of ruby jam, hams cured in their smokehouse. Our mother sewed dresses from feed sacks, her needle singing love into every stitch. We knew joy without knowing want.

Now as November settles soft and gray around me, I walk memory's lane, each season, each face, each echo of laughter still warm against the chill. I give thanks for the wealth of simple, boundless love.

The Dark You Do Not See

 

For Poets and Storytellers

Appreciate the shimmer ~ the artful face

coiling into charm ~ a smile that almost means it

beneath the lacquered calm her pulse keeps time

to older music ~ wild, unruly, half-forbidden

she knows the rules ~ how to break them softly

she walks in light ~ keeps a piece of night

tucked under her tongue ~ a secret flavor

she will not spit out

she's a bright one ~ YES

also one who burns her own edges

curious to see what survives the flame