a poem in my pocket

dust is the quality
of the very good beginning
when God himself knelt down, spit on the dirt
and formed a man with it, shaped in his own image;
it is elemental and breathes, or maybe coughs, immortality.

dust saves what’s leftover from
skin shed and stars reborn, the sparkle of supernovas
and the dead residue of a scratched itch or
the sunburned peelings of summer;
it is ever descending, never condescending.

dust collects furniture, uninvited
it prefers antique malls but will settle for IKEA
if left outdoors, it covers fields and raises crops,
partial neither to vegetables, wheat, nor weeds;
it is ubiquitous and determined, a silent trespasser

dust keeps ancestors hidden
under the bed or put away in the attic, remnants
of old photographs in mouse-nibbled boxes, with
or without lids, unlabeled and unorganized;
it is freedom of no longer being confined to a body.

dust is the stuff of both
our past and future; we will all eventually
return to it which means it both comforts and
frightens us at different moments or maybe simultaneously
it is morbidity and chaos buried in cool, decaying soil.

_______________

Written in the style of “The Quality of Sprawl” by Les Murray and linked to poetics prompt by Kim at dVerse Poets pub.

we humans exhibit many differences

in shades of skin, hair, and eyes

older and younger generations

in experience and education

our languages and cultures

beliefs, opinions, habits

there’s beauty in diversity, don’t let differences divide!

we all run in one human race

we bleed red and die once

everyone needs food and clean water

a place to live and people to love

productive, rewarding, useful work

can we provide for each other?

there’s beauty in diversity, don’t let differences divide!

Spring brings tulips to full bloom in the Netherlands. A rainbow riot of colors paints the landscape. The industrious Dutch ancestors reclaimed the fertile polders from the North Sea and planted flower bulbs. Speculators and a bulb shortage raised the value of certain varieties in the 1630’s. The Dutch traded bulbs like currency.

Amsterdam hosts the annual Tulip Festival which offers a month-long feast for the eyes in the city squares and parks. In late April, the Bloemencorso Bollenstreek, a stunning parade of flowery floats ridden by celebrants, travels from Noordwijk to Haarlem. Anyone visiting Holland must see the Keukenhof in Lisse, one of the world’s most magnificent gardens.

By late spring, the best of the blooms are past so be sure to time your visit carefully. You don’t have to be Dutch to appreciate the unique beauty of tulips!

love blooms in the spring

what is favorite dutch treat

tulips or two lips?

______________

Spring haibuns served at dVerse Poets pub with Linda Lee Lyberg this Monday…join us!

We met Maria on F2F trip and returned home to hear sermon on John 5…comparisons and contrast are striking!

along bank’s river

where snows fall twice

there flows fish ice

beneath the candling sky

of ceiling wax

a waxing seal

barks swimmingly in whalousy,

“’tis otterly ridiculous-ness, yes?”

_______

Join us for word play at dVerse poets!

daddy’s hands would hold mine when i was afraid,

fix my bike chain when it was loosened,

fold together in mealtime prayers, or

show me how to move chess pieces

---

yes, i have my father’s eyes

bluish-green or greenish blue

framed by long lashes and able

to see another’s point of view

---

as a teenager, i’d protest:

“papa, don’t preach!” but

that didn’t slow his sermons on

following everybody off a cliff

---

daddy could swear, i declare,

he swore in dutch at car engine

when i asked what those words meant

he commanded, “go to the house!”

---

no one could tease or make

me laugh as much as dad did;

every grin and guffaw conveyed

message, “your daddy loves you!”

---

A father poem, including song titles, linked to dVerse poets pub.

throughout the day

before my dad died,

i held my father’s hand;

once strong, fleshy

now feeble, bony

but still warm…

and still gripping

(though not for long).

as i left his room that night

with an “i love you”,

he raised his hand up

towards me in a

slow, deliberate wave.

sleigh me with holly-

festooned bouquet of

ruffled-candy carnations

and blood-red roses to

match metal runners…

though pine boughs dry,

love remains evergreen

__________

tempt me with dainty

toffee treats, dipped in

choice milk or dark, dusted

with crushed almonds to

tantalize taste buds…

crisp buttery crunch of

melt-in-your-mouth savor

______________

Full disclosure: toffee was gift from investment company and floral centerpiece from realtor who sold us our new home 🙂

pure and persuasive as spring rains

accumulate and wait for moonrise…

memos from heaven everywhere; next to

my feet…see, i am taking off my shoes.

bare branches as springboards for

flight, riding the breath of God?

onion heart…never getting all the way in

but what cardiologist God, wearing scrubs,

air around him clarified suddenly and

by that i think God means us to be

an inner fountain springing always fresh

to grow in His reflected image!

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An ending poem of 12 lines for the end of the year and the 12th month as prompted by Laura Bloomsbury at dVerse. I chose ending lines from poems in Sea Glass by Luci Shaw, 2016. (In final line I changed pronoun “its” to “his”).