light-n-dark

Advertisements

my mother cannot leave me be

Man and woman standing arm in arm.
My mother cannot leave me be —
she points and clicks repeatedly!
No stage in life is left uncaught,
no quest complete without one pic,
no outing done without one print.
My mother cannot leave me be –
she points and clicks repeatedly!
Each exploit is an o’er-turned stone
of purple shore crab memories
untainted by reality.
My mother cannot leave me be —
She points and clicks repeatedly!
There are no mysteries of time,
each snapshot proof of days gone by
in Kodachrome reality.
My mother cannot leave me be!

a bumblebee protection plan

purple flowers and busy bee gathering nectar

Part I. The Mystery is Introduced
a rusty-patched bumblebee
gone
               in an
                               “ecological poof”

Part II. Our Intrepid Detective Stitches Together the Scene
inside a mating cage
                one queen bee
                and her toadstool
                fungus-fattened drone
                with abdomen frozen
                the learned result?
colonies starve when only males are born

Part III. Balanced on a Tightwire
trace the monetary tale of global decline
unearth one more case
of disease-carrying colonizers
and ask who
will melt
thirty silver pennies
into a savior’s silver bullet to cure this plague?
**********************************************

The poetry blog imaginary garden with real toads presented a weekend focus challenge on insects and bugs. I did a little digging and found an interesting article on the plight of bumblebees, and then took a side trip into poetry forms. The bumblebee article was much too long to create an erasure (blackout poem) like this one, but I’m looking forward to experimenting. Enjoy!

a cliché-a-day is how to pay the piper

chair in front of filled bookshelves
ignorance is free
while truth costs 30 silver pence

April showers bring only sludge
that slowly birth the sun’s defense

winter cooks hibernate
their tarnished snores fill the air

ungreased wheels forget to squeak
while crowbars pry up penny nails

he burrows deep beneath the roots 
and grants the cat his flapping tongue

questions hide from prying eyes
and books come in one color

the milk’s so thick it will not spill
the hotcakes mold and shrivel

with hair piled high, she sits alone
trapped by her fun-house image

as slow as eyes snared by insomnia
find your strength in sameness

you only need a single hand
to make our circle straighten

Day 13’s NaPoWriMo challenge asked us to play with “turning cliché’s on their head.”

Voila . . . hope it works!

NaPoWriMo2018

three seeds

flowering branch in early spring
three seeds form
          one to the pop and sizzle of man-made stars above
          one in perfect intent and hope of family, forever formed
          one by a spur-of-the-moment, well-stewed gamble
three seeds sprout
          one uprooted to granite and sky
          two twined together by fear and devotion
          three hopeful buds, long divided
three seeds flower
          one fears the stigma of pollen’s gift
          one longs for pollen’s security     
          one grafts a new bud and seedlings emerge
three seeds mature
          one clings tightly to past joys and tears
          one scorns the common account of years
          one builds up hope, help for posterity

Day 11 NaPoWriMo's prompt inspired a reflection on seeds. Enjoy!

NaPoWriMo2018

back to ground

bench on path in rain

let me
now
wander
in search
of robin’s
first
song—
in my dreams I sit, send heart and spirit to fly –
the bench
throws
me
back
to
ground

Day 6 NaPoWriMo encouraged us to play adventurously with line breaks. I started with a writing a tanka and then played with line breaks; definitely more art than science.

NaPoWriMo2018

merely average

And . . . we’re off! NaPoWriMo challenged us to write a poem based on a secret shame, or a secret pleasure. So, you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.
I seek the Morning Star delivery
and reverence the King of the Coast;
I snub red and white meat,
for a well-aged substitute
found only under the rind.
Served singly or paired
matters not to me;
the siren song of
my “moreish” delight,
must be answered
and followed 
bite after bite.
Whether with pinot noir 
or between toasted bread,
I skip the roux 
to indulge my al dente. 
Devotee? Mere fan? Enthusiastic addict?
I ruefully ponder how scientists can consider 
35 pounds per year consumed as merely average.

NaPoWriMo2018