debate is great, duel is cruel

Merril hosts dVerse poetics and (remembering the infamous headless horseman) encourages each of us to “hold on to your head!”

______________

when you strongly disagree
with either them (or maybe me)
…hold on to your head

when politics don’t seem to go
the way you think that they should flow
…hold on to your head

when the news sounds awfully bad
or reported stories make you sad
…hold on to your head

when nuance colors point of view
you recognize both sides are true
let common ground be found anew

whenever you are criticized
or favorite group is stigmatized
control yourself, be civilized

hear outrageous words you said—
you truly wish “those” people dead?
please…hold on to your head!

________________

negative white space

margin is not
a blizzard of words
obfuscating page’s landscape
with directionally-challenged winds

margin is not
some narcissistic lover
manipulating poor gas-lit partner
into unconditional surrender

margin is not
an adrenaline addict
over-crowding calendar squares
with meaningless engagements

margin is not
an anxious mind
fretting over fearful rhetoric
contrary to obvious truth

margin is not
a malnourished soul
scrolling electronic junkfood
with no appetite for beauty


        margin  is  spacious  living  and  gracious  loving  .

miss bibli ophelia

Linking to dVerse poetics and feeling nostalgic with Lillian this evening…

in comfortable chair with eager arms
she opens book to uncover its charms
from pages living letters, words escape
in visions of an author’s storyscape;
such rich imaginations fill her head
with true ideals, aspiring soul is fed.
her heart in chest does real affection swell
how many pleasant hours she’ll not tell;
another’s point of view now understood
to grow inside with character proves good.
she wanders on from scene to shining scene
and wonders what a metaphor might mean.
reader will thrill at unexpected plot;
whether one owns a signed copy or not.

woman with a book by artist, Catrin Welz-Stein

confessions of a spuddler

_____________________

“spuddle” (17th century): To work ineffectively; to be extremely busy
whilst achieving absolutely nothing.

incendiary language

angry
fire
burns
from
careless
spark of
offense
which
touches off
flammable
pride’s fuel
and
emotionally
charred
words are
stirred
until
warmest
relationship
is reduced
to ashes

why
not
hold
love’s
only
extinguisher
(forgiveness
under
pressure)
and douse
arson’s
conflagration
before
it’s
too
late?


Sarah’s chosen theme for quadrille Monday at dVerse Poets is “ashes to ashes”… check out the link!

soliloquy

 

my uncertainty

“so-lill-oh-qwee”

has a solo feel

vulnerably real…

if i publish a book

will anyone look?

read my haiku and

sneeze, hah-choo!

it would be a gift

i think, to kids and

grandkids  <wink>

or just for myself

to set on a shelf?

oh my, i sigh at the

cost, the expense

of time and money

task seems immense

my words must play

will write blog today

 

 


Talking to myself and linking to dVerse Poets where Frank suggests we write a soliloquy…

birth of a poem

Linking to dVerse poets pub for Amaya’s challenge to “labor”…


 

as the product of

conception, a poem

begins with flicker

of flirty idea

which sparks a

burning desire that,

with heart unprotected,

climaxes in passion for

words, that are strung

together like double

helix into phrases

which multiply and

di-verse-i-fy,

connected by

rhythm and rhyme;

hid in warm darkness

until fully developed

and ready to be

edited, contracted,

squeezed through

narrow passage

’til finally, its

author, depleted

and relieved,

delivers another

helpless poem

into wide world

and, whether

birthed online

or hard copy,

whimpering

or wailing,

it comes

hoping to be

caught gently

by readers.

sterling elocution

 

A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver. 

Like Solomon, who wrote these words, I find soul satisfaction in beautiful speech.  As a writer, I search for delicious words to be framed in serendipitous syntax.  I hope to pick ripe thoughts, artfully arrange them in woven-word baskets and serve a taste of lingual delights.  I admire skilled poets and appreciate how different poetic brushstrokes reveal textured perspectives; unique angles on life’s truth.  Flighty images of the mind settle to roost in solid words. Sentinel ideas on signposts outline silent spaces for contemplation.  Hand-in-hand, we meander world with senses alert to the wild call of hurricane winds or the fresh whisper of gentle breezes, then collectively record richly scripted delicacies for our hungry souls to feast on.

*Proverbs 25:11, BRG

img_3192

photo by lynn – Galveston beach

word set in stone

Response to tan renga feature at Carpe Diem Haiku Kai here…


 

ancient walls

covered in parables 

speak to those who see

© Janice ‘Petra Domina’ Adcock

ancient words of the Teacher

written on disciples’ hearts

(c) lynn__

IMG_6482

photo at Masada by lynn

when words fail

 

Words can speak life

into a person’s soul

but sometimes words

are only silent syllables,

empty vowels mouthed

between lame consonants

not knowing where to spit.

 

In raw personal disaster,

how can anyone find words

that won’t do more damage

to an already fragile psyche?

Shame, blame, trite phrases

prove how small irretrievable

words only multiply misery.

 

Words elude both tongue

and pen when faced with a

child’s death by miscarriage,

accident, suicide;  Language

languishes in presence of

slow painful suffering  by

cancer, AIDS, dementia.

 

Who has an answer when words fail?

Image

 

driftwood

–dedicated to my brother, Dale, who is a safe harbor

 

“i am an island!” he declared,

staking his flag in the sand;

she shook her head laughing,

“how so?” but she already

understood his answers.

 

other shores beckoned her

yet he seemed content to

stay, digging in soft sands;

she paddled to a far harbor

uncertain when she’d return.

 

aren’t we all little islands?

“i mean, you’re there and i’m

here with an ocean of words

between us”…not to mention

thoughts, plans and dreams.

 

always creating ripples in

concentric circles, our ever-

widening waves roll outward

to crash in foamy surf upon

others’ glistening shores.

 

“why not leave your island?”

she urged but he insisted that

he liked his own beach view;

so we keep paddling rowboats

to reach each other’s worlds.

 

in space between, we send sea gulls and

glass bottles carrying messages of love.

 

 

______________

Thanks to Claudia at d’Verse for challenging us to use conversation…