and here we are again
the phone is in his hand

searching

for connections

who knows what he’s thinking
(perhaps hiding)
from lack of words, the

yawning gulf
in the middle of
the lunch table

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Versatile Blogger Award

Yay, received my first award–thanks, Jade! I didn’t even know such things existed, but it seems a good way to interact with a lovely community of writers, so I’m in. 🙂

According to the rules, I’ve got to pass this award on to 10 other bloggers, and they have to have excellent blogs. Nominated bloggers must post seven things about themselves. Hey, if you’re bored, you could even write it in verse, too. 🙂

I like coffee and poetry. Nothing special.
A dark roast, with a dash of milk and silent
music, by a clear sunlit window.

I’d like to say I’m not a hipster,
but I suppose my penchant for this fashion
of things to like automatically
shoves me in that box. Along with
my use of ‘penchant,’ a pretty ornamentation
some may deem useless, but which I will
not have replaced with any other word
because it tinkles, bell-like, in my ears
and glitters, silver and jade, in this crate–

this dark, cluttered crate
through which I wade,
straining for glimpses of myself.

In this crate things real and fake get muddled.
There’s coffee and poetry, as I’ve said,
but also plain rice and pumpkin,
what I had for breakfast and other
mundane things and sin, sin, sin
I could have chosen instead
but I picked these two, coffee and poetry,
because they seemed safe enough,
familiar points on tried, charted territory.

I could have written of love, my love,
my golden and broken heart, but I’m afraid–
it’s probably tarnished, trapped in too much hate.

In my box–
whatever box it is–
there are layers of evil I will not list.
Still, there’s hope. It lies
at the bottom. The end of this abyss.

Face and mask
mask each other,
betray each other,
become each other.

I guess it doesn’t matter.
The crate, anyway, is not secure.
Its shape shifts, it sags, its store

changes constantly, warped
with impurities pouring
in and out of its pores,

its face pockmarked with wormholes,
fault lines and pitfalls of fear,

or tunnels, or clear
sunlit windows,
through which souls

may sleep,
or seep.

Okay, so I kind of got carried away, but there’re about 7 things put together in the above … thing that looks like a poem.

And now I’m going to pass on this award to …

  1. Kat Myrman
  2. Daniel Swearingen
  3. Dees Daily Journal
  4. Merlina Padma
  5. Heather
  6. Sue Vincent
  7. Jane Dougherty
  8. Anthony Wilson
  9. George Szirtes
  10. John Field

I’ve come across some great poetry / poetic prose in these blogs. No obligations to participate if you don’t want to though. 🙂

Anyone else can participate too; I’m always happy to know more people.  🙃

Island

her hand in mine
little fish slipping
into coarse sand of my palm

sun-tanned palms
caught in golden net
sand-cast duet
shored against time

in relentlessly flowing brook
laced leaves
slowly tear. 

This is a response to a dVerse prompt on Impressionism.

Was thinking of my sister, and remembering when we were younger. Kind of miss her.

Ophelia’s Lay

A ballad, re-imagining Ophelia’s story.

by the mossy stream, there, we lay
as the rosy dawn shone its way
over spring-fed fields, green, and gay, and laughing with me
see the sparrows fly by our bourn
hear the sylvan breeze tease the leaves
taste the moon-licked skies, as they rise from silver-grey sea

through your eyes I fell, through flame dark seas
with starry shores where dreams soar, to lay
pulsing pearls of hope, in hearts that burst with lush wet green leaves
stretching wide their shade, you carved their way
high to pick the stars, sun-bright flames borne
of shining sky and sea, that speak their love, and your love for me.

could we live that dream? no. not me.
your eyes cut clear through me – there’s naught to see –
mad as Selene, storm-cold, cruel moon, where wild thoughts are borne!
was it all a play? a trap, to lay
for a murderer? or perhaps the way
to your sure success, your throne in stone of history’s leaves?

as the autumn’s gold, rust-crusted leaves
shed on forest floor, and pour on me
all the wealth of fall, i walk, alone, down by that old way
where we used to soar, above the sea;
now to the nunnery you’d have me borne
then a laughing stream, now a dream that to rest I lay.

in my father’s lap, my mouth I lay
shards of love received, unseen, too brief
wringing words of fate, white lies, to thwart your black bourne –
that jewel-crusted crown that’d win you me.
your phantom’s an excuse, which none can see
you’d kill your kin for lust; for greed, you’d seed my love’s soul away!

by my lying tongue, they made you pay;
in the sighing winds, hear you my lay?
scatter rosemary; for thoughts, pray take these pansies …
remember you my song, it shan’t deceive
i’ve downed the leaves of rue, please live, for me
for you I’ll give my crown – but hide – i hear the king’s horn –

the trailing willow weeps. i drift, bereaved.
they’ve sent you so far, to the stars’ cold bourn.
wait awhile my love, I’ll come, you’ll see

me

in the silent sea.