Spin the Bottle ~ 1953

 

love vs. indifference ~

a heavyweight bout held in

Marcia's basement ~ between her

record player and a huge bowl of popcorn

the bottle spins ~ a wobbling wizard

five boys, five girls and suddenly

everyone's an expert on 

proper kissing technique

[despite zero field experience]

hearts thump ~ is it love?

brains shrug ~ it is not

stomachs ask ~ is this ok

curiosity whispers hush hush ~ lean in

two seconds of bravery

one clumsy kiss

the universe does not explode 

love wins the point

indifference demands a rematch

but we're twelve ~ so we just giggle

mouths wiped on sleeves

we spin again ~ because curiosity

always has the home advantage

~ And Action!!!

 Tuesday and time for Poetics in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ Melissa is hosting ~ our poetic challenge ~ a focus on human senses. This image was snapped close to our home ~ a tree coated in frozen fog.

Bristled lace along each branch   

thousands of icy needles

its bark, smooth as old scars

holding the cold like a memory ~

if I dared to press it with my palm 

would it flinch ~ or would it welcome me

mostly it is silence ~ but listen

to tiny cracks of frost shifting

to the hush that hums with waiting

this tree does not speak ~

it listens louder than we ever could

Game Time ~

 Dora is hosting Poetics in the Pub ~ 'Similes' on the menu!

Wikipedia

* She walks into the stadium like a cat

wandering into a physics lecture

eyes wide, mouth open, already

wondering where they keep the 'Sports Manuals'

* She clutches her ticket like it's

a Wonka golden pass ~ except she's pretty sure 

the Super Bowl means actual bowls

maybe chili ~ maybe guacamole

she's down for both

* She cheers for the wrong team

like a GPS stuck on 'recalculate'

but her friends don't mind

her enthusiasm is contagious

spreading through the crowd like 

glitter on a kindergarten craft table

* She asks why the man in the striped shirt

 keeps throwing laundry on the field 

the guy next to her laughs so hard

he could become the 'highlight reel'

* She analyzes play like a poet

deciphering tax forms

tilts her head, squints ~ announces

"I think they're doing strategy."

* She stands to cheer at exactly the wrong moment

like a toaster popping up during wedding vows ~

somehow making the moment better

the crowd adores her ~ because

* She is joy wrapped in confusion

a woman at the Super Bowl, like a tourist

stepping onto the moon ~ planting her flag anyway

Transparency

Time for Open Link Night in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ Grace is hosting ~~~~ Anything Goes!! 

I am the poet who risks

what her voice scripts

freeing the storyteller in me.

Who am I when

the performance ends ~

the part of me

that remains hidden ~

the part that dares you

see me fully, slowly

then all at once.

You believe so well

the role I play

I am candid enough to 

name my simplicity

honest enough to admit

what knowing it brings.

If Only ~~~

Sanaa hosts Poetics in the Pub ~ it's all about dreams.

It's always the same

a knock at my door

my father behind the screen

gone sixty-eight years

it's night but the flowers are alive

they reflect a surreal light ..

I think it's him ~ if only 

It's a True Story

 Time to dance the Quadrille in the dVerse Poets Pub ~ the magic word for today is "TRIP" 

1969

cocktail party, she was young and quite prim

among highbrows, professors, jargon and wit

spied a hunk with an ever so handsome grin

sipping a scotch, with pipe in tanned hand

“I just love smoke-pipers”

then tripped on the rest of her wit

Campfire Talkin' [ to be continued ]

Time for "Prosery" in the dVerse Poets Pub ~  Lisa hosts and provides background on performer Alejandro Escovedo, features him singing "Bury Me."  Next, we write a story including this line Lisa gives us from the song lyrics:  ‘Bury me with the lies I told’ 

 

                                    Image ~~ Copilot

"What's the deal? What the docs say?"

"Not much time left, unless I have that heart surgery. No big loss in this town. It's time for me to leave. Bury me with the lies I told. Promise you there ain't no one gonna miss this old coot. Big lies, white lies, you name 'em, I told 'em. There's a plot up yonder, top o' that butte, the one they call Dead Man's Purgatory. That's where I want to go."

"Seriously?! There must be someone in this town who'd be sorry to see you go. I would!! Remember that time the cattle got spooked when we were movin'em one pasture to another? Couldn't have got through that mess without you. I know plenty other folks have stories."

"Dude, time to buck up, let the docs fix you. You ain't goin' nowhere, anytime soon!"  

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 stuffed 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