The dark chocolate echoing of dusk
against the Ferris Wheel
overlooking the fairgrounds
That bittersweet evening
Is on my lips
And the errant air
Tastes like apple-crisps
Though cotton-candy conversation parched,
as if by design
Your hands are water
And your lips wine
Photo by Stanislav Ferrao on Unsplash
At DVerse today, the prompt is to write a Quadrille poem consisting of 44 words exactly (not including the title) in response to the challenge. The word today is ‘Fair’ and it must be used in some form within your poem.
That old swing-set
was young when I was young,
its shoulders fresh painted
and its swings not yet deep rust-set.
We made fast friends,
that old swing-set and I,
though he sometimes threw me from his shoulders
knocking my knees and dusting my hands
That swing-set’s hands are splintered
and I visit my old friend with calloused hands
to find his swings gone and his paint chipped
from when I was away those many, many winters.
I climb his side with a book in hand,
as I once did when I was younger,
and I read all afternoon with my old friend
in the shadow of the boy I was – now a man.
At DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem recalling some specific thing or things from the past OR more generally about what evokes a memory or memories in you.
Photo by Tobias Kebernik on Unsplash
Like cigar ash
my memories of you long linger,
tight packed in my heart
and in my head.
When my lungs make room
for new memories,
the ash burns as warm
as your smile,
smelling of cedar
the soft-sweetest spices.
Photo by Lucas Filipe on Unsplash
The prompt on DVerse this evening is to write an ash quadrille – 44 words, including the word ash.
It is human
to gather moss
on things that matter
and on things that do not.
It is human
to settle too soon
to sink into hillsides
that feel like home
to be a stone unrolled
but somehow still happy
Photo by 许 婷婷 on Unsplash
On DVerse today, we are carving a poem out of the word stone, and making it precisely 44 words long, not counting the title.
That quiver at the corners of her lips,
that nervous tick, quickly covered,
that first hint of an expression
only squinting eyes can see,
spends as much time simply being
what its purpose might be.
That uneasy moment once begun,
so quickly undone – but never truly undone –
is enough for me to know that with every word she speaks,
her silences grow,
filling in the sound with silence,
our conversations with ghosts,
our intimate moments so quickly coated in dust and comments unsaid
that it is quickly becoming impossible
to read the parts of us still unread.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
Her lips taste like cigarette smoke
even from a thousand miles away.
Her eyes smolder whistfully in my memory like tobacco ashes,
ashes that her eyelids would flick deftly from her cheeks
to the pavement at random intervals
under both cloudy or clear skies.
Her soul burning slowly down to the filter
until there is nothing left
and whether cloudy or clear
the ash-touched sky
tastes like regret.
Photo by Peri Stojnic on Unsplash
On DVerse the prompt is to write about an emotion or abstract concept. What does it taste like?
The world could not be ever as it began
untouched by the hands of man
once humanity began
long before she bit the apple
the snake had taken up its residence
behind her ribcage
though she did not know it
when the ark was built
counted two of each animal as they passed
gate-keeping the future from the past
The man in the clouds
with the fierce hawk-eyes
saw all of this and more
long before he bent his back to this most recent chore
With sure hands
unshaken by the sands of time
he draws lines across dunes and deserts
and low valleys
over high mountains
and along rivers
and sometimes through them
When his time was done
the world had become many from one
and he gave no thought to what man would see as signs
that these lines were drawn sacred and divine
Photo by Marjan Blan | @marjanblan on Unsplash
I return to the beginning
at the end of it all
before the fires burned
and put themselves out
out of spite
before the sea spit
on the shores in disgust
and swallowed the sun whole
before the future
laughed at me
as though it knew something I didn’t
before the past
sang a sweet lament
for what I would become
before the present
and the whole universe collapsed inward
There is no precipice
no ledge rising up over the darkness
and I do not even remember how I arrived here
at the doorway to world’s end
The doormat reads: Break in case of fire
and the past present and future laugh with me for a moment
Two pale arms reach through the door to greet me
embracing me as their own
at the end of it all
i return to the beginning
Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash
My soul is a sunflower
blossoming yellow petals
and bittersweet seeds
that crackle under the tongue
or the heat of the sun,
its withering leaves brushing together mindlessly,
like lost memories.
My body is a green stem
that holds my sunflower soul
despite the presence of birds and the danger of breezes
that might pull loose some crackly seeds at any moment,
casting them to the dirt below.
maybe to grow
maybe to grow
maybe to rest for a time in my hollow shadows
we may never know
but maybe to grow
Photo by Sean Quillen on Unsplash
This week, Eugi asks us to respond to the following prompt:
‘The soul has words as petals’ – Edmond Jabes
“The swiftest horse cannot overtake a word once spoken”– Chinese Proverb
Be wary what leaves your lips in anger or in passion,
for by fractions those words fashion your reality –
for better or for worse,
for worse or for better.
Not a thing can be unaffected that is touched
by these words once spoken.
Once silence is irreparably broken
it can never be repaired without scars
and you can never unmake words,
Not with the swiftest or surest hand,
Nor the tightest fist,
Nor with the softest kisses
laid across ears that cannot un-hear your words.
The heart heals itself like skin,
suturing along its frayed lines,
each stitch creating new scars
so that even in health there remain traces of brokenness,
stitched together smiles,
a hollow reflection of what was once beautiful
with eyes that will never look at you the same again.
A word once spoken
does not collapse in the desert,
bone tired and sweat drowned,
nor does it cry out,
legs mangled under the weight of racing the universe,
It rises like hot air,
borne from the earth into the clouds
to rain a harsh and toxic rain
over unsuspecting heads
while you sit watching the rain in the distance,
knowing what you have done.
Photo by Volkan Olmez on Unsplash
On DVerse, the prompt today is to write a poem that incorporates a proverb in some way. Make certain you state the proverb.