The fog does not come
on little cat-feet here.
It flows down
the leeward side.
The foothills are lenient,
letting the fog rise,
summit, and then descend.
They do not struggle
with each other,
nor is it a dance.
If there is resistance,
it is natural.
No human word
does it justice.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to the prompt from Three Word Wednesday using fog, lenient, and struggle.
in the distance
sunset
a view of his domain
gated chateau
jasmine vining
on copper trellises
he stands at the window
smoking a cigar
drinking twenty-five year old
Glenlivet in a lead crystal glass
which he sets down
on a marble-top table
he is trapped
looking out
the maid slides
scraps from the china
then retrieves
the whistling tea kettle
from the stove
begins brewing jasmine tea
which she brings to her Mrs.
sitting in the library
her ample frame
held by a leather reading chair
she adds another book
to her marble-top table
she is trapped
looking in
they both are flawed
and cannot see
each other’s flaws
their demons see to that
/ / /
This poem was written in response to Wordle 62 at The Sunday Whirl.
Make your lines straight
But slope and
Trope them with images
That reveal slowly
Slant the truth
If you must
Or give us just a taste
Of all the truth
Circle round the truth
Follow the tangents
Because the direct approach
Is (yawn) and cliche
Put the truth
On the periphery
For the readers’ vision
To see without looking
/ / /
This is another poem written in response to the prompt to write a straight line poem at Poetic Asides.
Sleeping in
or not
Lunch at 11:43
or right at noon
Making Lego vehicles
sprawled on the carpet
or playing Lego Batman
on the Wii
Splashing in the water
So many pictures
Trying new recipes
and old favorites too
Balela
and chana masala
Weekday pancakes
Too many snacks
New songs for the playlist
lots of old New Wave
Not having to drive
to work
Walking more
Instagram flowers
/ / /
This poem was written to the prompt to write a summer poem at Margo Roby’s Tuesday Tryouts.
I liked the challenge of not writing about the things I put on my list of things that first came to my mind about summer. “Splashing in the water” is a bit of a cheat, but I still didn’t use anything from my list: swimming, beach, pool. It forced me to dig a bit deeper, and made me just focus on things I’ve done in the past two weeks.
Some wisdom
is to show the way—
now walk it
/ / /
This poem was written in response to the wisdom prompt at Haiku Heights.
You could draw a triangle,
any size, any kind
(go ahead, I’ll wait)
Cut it out, and then tear
off the angles
Put the vertices
on the same point
the sides of your angles
touching each other
and your three angles
make a straight line
Your kids probably did this
in math class
The three angles of triangles
will always add up to 180 degrees
A straight line may also be
measured as 180 degrees
That’s why your angles
made a straight line
A straight angle
classic Euclidean geometry
But, did you know
the sum of angles
of hyperbolic triangles
are less than a straight angle?
And did you know
that an ideal hyperbolic triangle
has a measure
of zero degrees?
Somewhat less
than a straight line
Your kids did not
make one of those in math class
To be honest
it doesn’t make sense to me either
/ / /
This poem was written in response to the prompt to write a straight line poem at Poetic Asides.
He came to me in a dream,
pushing back the darkness,
a coal flickering in a fennel-stalk.
The fennel-scent surrounded me,
like entering a house where food
has simmered the whole day.
Suddenly, the flame was mine,
and I was roasting vegetables,
basting them with olive oil.
Those scents surrounded me,
as he stepped forward, touching
my hands and then my forehead.
Then the fire was within me,
and I found myself at a desk,
writing poems based on myths.
Before he could turn away,
I touched my forehead and
opened my palms to him.
I bowed in gratitude
for his gifts, the many flames,
and he nodded in reply.
As he walked from my dream,
the darkness tried to return,
but I held it back with my fire.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to prompt #60, burning passion, at Poetic Bloomings.
It is my first attempt at a triversen, a form I learned about from Brenda Warren at her blog, undercaws, with her poem, “Exiting Nests”. She pointed me to dVerse, which had an article on the triversen form.
Renzo liked being a button man.
He didn’t have to worry about blending in.
He was above that. If he made a racket
in the street, no one would say anything.
He didn’t have to refrain himself
from his wants. Or his temper.
He made a little extra dealing crank
and crack, but only to the mulignons.
Not in his neighborhood.
His heart beat in his chest with pride.
He offered them his protection,
but they had to pay on time.
He was going to have to do something
about Oriana. She had latched on to him,
but she was just his cumare.
He wasn’t stringing her along.
She was supposed to know her place,
and be happy with his spare time.
His capo asked, and Renzo answered.
A strike mucking up business?
Consider it busted. Some current fashions?
Look what fell off the truck.
A “draft” for a contract? Consider it written.
And no trace of the pen afterwards.
/ / /
This poem was inspired by the many hours of The Sopranos that I have been watching of late, using words from Wordle 61 at The Sunday Whirl.
waste management business: euphemism for organized crime
button man: a made man, a wiseguy, a goodfella
mulignons: a derogatory term for Blacks, pronounced “mool in yon”
cumare: girlfriend/mistress, pronounced “coo mahd” or “goo mahd”
capo: mob boss
contract: a murder assignment
Fog clings to foothills—
unwilling to descend
into the valley
Wisps of fog—
I’m taken with how
they disappear
The fog murmurs—
before it’s invisible
listen to it
/ / /
These haiku/senyru were written in response to an idea about looking at the sky. I incorporated words from Three Word Wednesday: cling, murmur, and taken. They are also an unintentional response to the water, water everywhere prompt from Poetic Bloomings.
Sadly Waiting for Recess 