Category: Poetic Bloomings
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Poetic Bloomings: 4 July
“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.” — John Steinbeck White Summers and Black Winters Age has taken the heat out of us. Petals detach, day on day. Aimless as steamboats. Once adrift, we were the sun, bright, a chase of white summer heat. Our…
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Poetic Bloomings: 3 July
“The course of true love never did run smooth” ~ Lysander in Midsummer Night’s Dream I. To Melt There was a time I’d melt. An ice cube In a steam room. A puddle For his broom. For his smile. But I’ve also had lengthy Conversations with trees. II. The Cricket Daddy always said…
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Poetic Bloomings: 2 July
Just a Bit I’d be standing at the kitchen sink. Maybe looking out the window at the blue pots at the rubied-red geraniums, and he’d come up behind me. Like a breeze. Surprise me like a gust of wind. And I’d smile. Just a bit. To myself. written for Poetic Bloomings July prompts
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Poetic Bloomings: 1 July
A July Smile The curtains feel fine playing a tune. Days blowing through the screen, and across the floor. See July smile, a little light shines. Feel her arms, my summer breeze. written for Poetic Bloomings 1 July: Summer Breeze. The text of this poem is “found and remixed” from the song lyrics…
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Singing for Poetic Bloomings
Édith Piaf When she sang it was raindrops. Falling diamonds. A firestarter with those drizzling tones. Édith, my Édith, a beacon for angels, who made the saints weep. I know her every song — they were like medicine, cured my heart. Words to stop my furrowing rot. I’d become old — dry wood, but my…
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✔️ Poem Form: “Pathya Vat”
Thunder’s Middle Voice Those black crow clouds Just keep rolling, Building, boiling, Then pouring scorn. Our summer storms Are whiskey warm, Like peppercorns’ Heat wakening. We wait, listen, For the lightning, Thunder’s frightening Torn middle voice. For Poetic Bloomings In-Form Poetic form: “Pathya Vat” is a Cambodian verse form, consisting of four lines…
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Pressed Between Estop and Ethiopia
Pressed Between Estop and Ethiopia I’ve never heard a cuckoo sing. I lost that moment of spring to the big city, to its noise, and roar and smoke and feet, which might explain why I press flowers and leaves between unabridged dictionary pages, (usually between estop and Ethiopia) in weighty books and scrapped paper, and…
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Collins Sestet for Poetic Bloomings
A Tale Without Title I’m held by the call of doves. Do they know the risks of love? Oh the stories doves could tell, the loss, the sorrow that befell a tender heart, a stoney fit, but that’s the nature of it. Cool-hearted, crystal kiss, love fell into dusk from skies above, his arms entwined…
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A Weekful of Haiku
I. Sun-bleached on the line Sheets fly like a sparrow’s wing We sleep deep tonight II. The day is restless A pace gripping at both legs Puffing steam and smoke III. Young love and young flesh I watch them growing older My eyes, rimmed with soot IV. Workers. Soldiers. Ants. Wasps and bees in hollowed…
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Miz Quickly Has a Few Words
A Town Like Ours This town’s worthy of hate, its valley cloud-soaked, flowed with rain and smoke, and dingy as old grey sheets, a bed unloved, a corner where the sun never shines bright enough, where bells plead and peal plain expectation off-key, off the back of war that emptied our town of hope but…
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