Posts Tagged ‘dverse’

Grace, at dVerse, challenges us to write a poem about bread, whether real or as a metaphor for something equally important and delectable.  I offer you my paean to a simple substance that has sustained humans for many delicious years.


In a world of carb-avoiders and bread-deniers,
I remain staunchly one who,
   when a loaf or roll is ready for the knife,
   cannot contain myself until the topping
   (butter, jam, honey)
   is ready before diving in
   to that first glorious bite!

Sometimes I crave bread 
   the way an addict craves drugs,
   needing it,
   dreaming of it,
   salivating for it.
No sugarplums dance through my head
   but crusty loaves,
   the aroma surpassing that of the costliest perfume.

Years ago,
   when our girls were young,
   we bought a bread machine,
   that first loaf, 
   by my husband’s reckoning,
   a costly one at $250 plus ingredients,
   the next, half that price.
And so it halved
   until a crusty French bread,
   not taken out and shaped to a baguette
   but tasting just the same,
   simple water, flour, salt, sugar, and yeast turned into edible paradise,
   tallied a mere twenty cents or so.

Ingredients placed into the machine the night before,
   we wakened to that blissful scent for months,
   until that dark day when our senses
   (now accustomed to the smell)
   no longer registered its fragrance 
   and we were left, beggered, with mere taste.

Victoria for dVerse sets this challenge:

“For today’s prompt, I invite you to pen a poem that uses something related to an art technique as a metaphor to deliver your message. And I double-dog dare-you to include a photo of your own work in whatever medium you play with.”

Here’s my response.

Making of each day
Imagine, cut, heat, bend, solder
Colors of your life


I took a class in stained glass many years ago and came away with this one creation.  These days my art is in photography and words, but this one piece still makes me happy.


Above us…for dVerse

Posted: November 5, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,

Grace at dVerse challenges us “to write from the perspective of the dead man (or woman).” Here’s my poem. My photo is, I admit, from WWII, but it’s closely related and WWII figures into my poem, albeit obliquely.


Above us

“In Flanders field the poppies blow…”

And grow, too
            (as well they should
            given our bones and flesh and blood 
gone to fertilizer)

gone to grow
          not peace 
          but yet more war
another layer of human fertilizer
    above us

When will they ever learn?

No doubt 
“Man” being what he is

But there are things worth fighting for
and so we gave our all
      (and cheered those left behind
       to live and grow 
   above us)

Seeing With My Heart (for dVerse)

Posted: October 30, 2014 in Poetry
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Seeing with My Heart

Driving away
eyes return compulsively 
    to the rear view mirror
        where mountains grow
    smaller and smaller,
          sucked into the black hole of the flatland
while the hole in my heart grows exponentially.

They disappear.
No need to check again
    except for traffic.

Day of return
    the endless road 
           seems to      s   t   r   e   c   h     forever
    until the horizon swells
        into the peaks that fill 
             that hole once more,
the puzzle pieces of my life in place.    

Bill suggested re-posting this poem which was my first entry for Friday Fictioneers, where each week authors post a 100-word story based on a photo prompt.  This prompt showed a ruined house in the middle of nowhere.  This was what I wrote over two years ago.


He looks out…
sees space,
sees opportunity;
feels freedom.

She looks out…
sees space,
sees emptiness;
feels loneliness.

He looks down…
sees crops,
sees growth;
feels anticipation.

She looks down…
sees dryness,
sees obstacles;
feels discouragement.

He looks inward…
sees challenge,
sees work;
feels tall.

She looks inward…
sees questions,
sees work;
feels uncertain.

He looks toward her…
sees beauty
sees courage;
feels tenderness.

She looks toward him…
sees caring,
sees fortitude;
feels  resolution.

They look outward…
see opportunity,
see hardship;
feel purpose.

They look together…
see the sunrise,
see each other;
feel love.



Signal to Travel…for dVerse

Posted: September 16, 2014 in Poetry, Travel
Tags: , , ,
Traffic signal clicks:,
     No other traffic in that cool dawn 
     to pay heed,
     just the four of us 
     in our Ford station wagon,
     heading for adventure.

My brother said we saw a lot 
     but not for long.
Dad had mileage planned and where we’d stop each night,
     (no thanks then to MapQuest/Garmin,
     just an accountant’s brain and urge for order.)

Sometimes Dad drove all night,
     Mom asleep on a cot until her turn,
     the two of us crossways,
     feet under the cot,
     sleeping soundly despite the lack of seat belts,
     still alive now to tell the stories and view the slides
          that were the photos of the day.

Living in Nebraska placed us 
     equidistant from all destinations,
     so we drove throughout the
     contiguous United States:

red rock in fantastic formations,
oceans’ (both) crashing waves,
(more destinations beyond those horizons),
yawning canyons and peaks that tore the sky,
plains where there was once only grass,
deserts where cacti were the grass.

Still today, the silently changing traffic light beckons, 
sending seductive subliminal messages
    from places yet unseen.

Lilacs…a haibun for dVerse

Posted: May 30, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , ,

This is one of my first attempts at haibun, although I’ve done a number of haiku before.  I welcome constructive criticism but please be kind.  🙂

(A note for the other haibun writers: I’ll be out of town until Tuesday, so I won’t have much time to read and comment.  But I’ll get to your posts as soon as I can and look forward to it.)


photo 2(59)


Clothes-drying racks
stand before open windows,
the robust breezes of Illinois spring
rolling endless waves of lilac-perfumed air through the house.

Will I wonder one day soon
whose lilac scent was too near my husband
during his day at work,
when the subtle scent twitches my nose
as my hug welcomes him home?

How can a fragrance from a hundred blooms
be more delicate yet pervasive
than the tsunami of perfume
that numbs my senses
when an overly-bedaubed women
prances past my shrinking olfactory passages?

Nature’s sweet perfume
Beauty in the form of scent
Artifice is shamed