The cold silence quivers, swollen with memories,
Until, with a flash of cymbals and the thunder of drums,
It shatters, spilling angry notes from the past to
Rain over me. They cut like ice shards as they hit
And flood my heart with pain.
Written for dVerse Poets Pub where the word of inspiration for a quadrille (a poem of 44 words) is spill.
From the moment he took his seat in the classroom, the geeky guy in the third row gazed at me with rapt attention. Moon eyes. That's what my mother would have labeled the look he was giving me. To be honest, it made me a little nervous. In my years as a trainer, my poetic words about financial software had never inspired that kind of reaction from a seminar participant. Normally, the challenge was keeping them awake. At the break, he made his way up to the front of the room. Taking my hand, he introduced himself, and my first thought was, "Oh-oh." Grinning mischievously, he said, “You remind me of my wife. She’s a teacher too.” Relieved, I smiled in acknowledgment. And then he went on. “It must be the implied whip.”
I'm lost in the mist, seeking your touch. Are you there? Take my hand and lead me. I can’t find my way with nothing to remind me that you’re close, walking beside me. I hear voices in the fog, but don’t know who they are. Is one of them you, my love? I need to know so I’ll know where I am.
Written for dVerse Poet's Pub. Today's prompt calls for a poem in a form called "The Golden Shovel."
According to Writer's Digest, theseare the rules for the Golden Shovel:
- Take a line (or lines) from a poem you admire. - Use each word in the line (or lines) as an end word in your poem. - Keep the end words in order. - Give credit to the poet who originally wrote the line (or lines). - The new poem does not have to be about the same subject as the poem that offers the end words.
Our hostess’ little ranch house is surrounded by cactus and
the occasional Palo Verde tree. It sits in a fold of parched earth at the edge
of an arroyo several miles north of Phoenix. During the monsoon season each June, the arroyo churns with racing waters. But this time of year, it’s
dry, serving as a convenient highway for the critters who call the desert home.
As we sit around the table on the lantern-lit covered patio at the rear of the house,
the desert beyond crashes the party like a noisy dinner guest.
The first tentative note comes from a distance down the
arroyo, but is soon answered by another, much closer. Our hostess has just told
us that we might be visited by the local javelinas, a wild pig-like animal
that frequents the area. Though nearly blind, she says with a laugh, javelinas can smell a
grilling sirloin a mile away. But this is no javelina. With each passing
minute, another voice is added to the chorus, surrounding us with song. Like a
traveling minstrel show, the troop passes through, their music echoing over the
desert. I am enchanted.
He waits, wooing,
Whispering words of
Love and longing.
Paint me, paint me
Purple with passion.
Strokes of seduction.
Make love to me
Again and again, and
I will be yours.
“It’s my private mountain. It belongs to me. God told me if I painted it enough, I could have it.” ~ Georgia O’Keefe
Written for dVerse Poet's Pub. The prompt today is "Sentiments of the Southwest." One of my favorite places in the southwest is Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, New Mexico. I am in good company. Georgia O'Keefe fell in love with it too, and settled in Abiquiu after her husband Alfred Stieglitz died. While there, she painted Pedernal over and over until she made it hers. Her ashes are scattered at its base.