Across the Morning

Across the morning of another day

she walked in silence, not because of thought

but so that she could hear the birds at play

and for a time unlearn what she'd been taught.

'Duty can go to hell,' she said 

inside her mind. 'Responsibility

be damned. Those birds know

what matters: to fly and sing.'

A moment only. Common sense resumes.

The deeper self, the rebel self — will she

in hiding grow to wake and re-emerge

across the morning of another day?

Form: Dorsimbra

Description: This form was created by people associated with Sol’s Magazine. 

The form is a set of three quatrains:

A Sicilian quatrain (four lines iambic pentameter rhymed abab),
A quatrain of “short and snappy” free verse, and
A quatrain of blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter).
The twelfth line is the same as the first.

Attributed to: Eve Braden, Frieda Dorris and Robert Simonton

Submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight #72

Towards Dusk

Day moves towards dusk.

The wind surges up

with a sound like waves.

It's good to remember you

not as you were in recent days 

but earlier, younger, full

of energy surges like that

and passionate joy.

I don't remember 

who I was then

but I do remember you

and my blood surges up like waves

like the rushing of wind in the trees,

as I move towards dusk but slowly;

still here although alone,

still sensual, still engaged.

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #132

Time Goes By

They herd even more now

(their nature)

coming wherever I am

to lie near.

They are mostly silent,

seldom purr.

It's ten weeks since he died;

thirteen

since they saw him here—

more than twice

that time I spent away,

which seemed long.

I think they start to know

for certain 

that he will never come

back to us —

back here, back home ... slowly

losing hope.


Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #128

Fibonacci Experiments

Family

He 

phones 

tonight,

my birthday;

we talk a long time.

He's my friend as well as my son.

(His father is dead and his brother is lost to us.)

We 

talk 

tablets,

mobile phones —

and his new girlfriend.

At Easter they'll come to visit.

(Small core of family left, we're glad of each other.)

Wet City

My 

love's

drowning:

Venice is

flooded and under

water — that city of water —

of sparkling, of singing water.

Now too much water

washes her:

Venice

my

love.

Continuing

We entered the dark of the moon.

Roses were growing

unseen but

their scent

waft-

ed

fill-

ing

the night

with silent

messages of life

continuing to spend itself.

Fibonacci poems (aka fibs) are syllabic, based on the fibonacci numerical sequence in which each number is added to the preceding to make the next. Zero is understood at the beginning, so the syllables then go: 

1 

(1=0=) 1

(1+1=) 2

(1+2=) 3

(2+3=) 5

(3+5=) 8

(5+8=) 13

Theoretically one could keep going, but in a poem that would get more and more unwieldy. It's usual to stop at 8, but not uncommon to continue to 13. And then, as you see, one can vary the form by doubling, reversing, etc.

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #124

Just Underneath the Day-to-Day

Just underneath the day-to-day

is the sob that takes me unawares,

rushes upon me from nowhere,

takes me over. I never knew 

my mouth could stretch so wide —

a perfect O.

November PAD Chapbook Challenge 2012, Day 4. Prompt: 'Just Beneath —' and fill in the blank. (I remembered it as 'underneath', which I prefer for this poem).

If He Was here

1

If he was here

a bleak day like this

would be for snuggling.

If he was here

what's for dinner

would matter.

If he was here

he'd have some great idea

for me to implement.

If he was here

I'd be constantly

doing washing.

If he was here

there would be

kissing.

2

If he was here

the cats 

wouldn't cry in their sleep.

If he was here

I'd never have known

cats could cry in their sleep.

If he was here

I'd be hiding matches and lighters

just in case.

If he was here

I'd be watching every minute

for random falls and spills.

If he was here

I wouldn't be learning to say

'my' instead of 'our'.

3

If he was here

I'd never sneeze

without a 'Bless you!'

If he was here

I'd keep my tears at his pain

for shedding later.

If he was here 

we'd greet the full moon 

together.

4

If he was here

the words, 'I love you'

would not feel stark.


Submitted for Poetry Pantry #122 at Poets United