An inverted senryu for today’s Twiglet…
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his sleep was only silent
for his observers
—his dreamscape kept exploding—
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Tuesday Twiglet #227
~ silent, like sleep ~
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Author Archives: Ron.
Even Here, Still There
It’s Quadrille Monday again at the dVerse Poets Pub; time to create a 44-word poem. This week, we’re asked to create a poem using the homograph “Wound”. (In case you forgot, homographs are words that are spelled the same, but have different sounds and meanings.)
Thanks to Lillian for hosting and getting us started.
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Even Here, Still There
He spends every day, all day long
on the streetcorner’s bench;
and every night, all he does is
long for a good night’s sleep.
Every former soldier knows:
time and alcohol can be bandages
but no matter how tightly wound,
some wounds never heal.
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dVerse Poets Pub
Quadrille Monday
~ What’s In A Word? ~
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The Earworm Questionnaire
The Earworm Questionnaire
Even though I don’t know,
(even though I’ve never known),
I can’t get through to them.
Even though all I ever do is
keep writing back, keep on
telling them over and over,
“I don’t have any answers.
Please stop asking. Please.”
It’s no use: the first thing
every morning, the last thing
before bed, and all day long
every damned day it’s the
same unanswerable question.
I never know how to respond.
I ask everybody I meet; even
surly-looking strangers, even
great-grandmotherly types, busy
minding their own business, just
waiting at a downtown bus stop.
Most of them just squint or stare,
scratch their heads and smile,
but no one ever has an answer.
Most folks who know me well
think I’m a little obsessive, but
if I could just get an answer
I’d send it in to Earworm Inc
And put this all behind me.
If only I could answer their
one (and only) Question #1:
Why Do Fools Fall In Love
Under The Boardwalk,
Somewhere Over The Rainbow?
There Is No They
They come to this country because
they’ve made up their minds. They
keep coming even when we tell them
there’s no room at the inn. They
come to this country a yearning mass,
huddled, wretched refuse doing
whatever they can to escape
their own teeming shores, tired,
poor, homeless and tempest-tossed.
But here, where there should be
lamplight and golden doorways,
there is only more of what they
prayed they’d left behind.
They come to this country and
they keep on coming,
in spite of all that, no matter what.
We all have histories; we all have
parents and grandparents; ancient
ancestors that came here ages ago.
Sadly, most of us have conveniently
forgotten that arrival; forgotten
how we must have looked and sounded
just stepping off the boat; forgotten
how our ways and means must have
seemed to those who were already here;
forgotten how we, too, nearing failure,
starving for success, would have starved
without their help.
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Poets And Storytellers United
Writers’ Pantry #70
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Welcome Back, Ron.
Technically speaking, my favorite café never actually closed; it was just too scary (and too risky) to bask inside their window on Main & sip a coffee while munching their marvelous Mediterranean Quiche. But things have (FINALLY!) begun to change… Aaaahhhh. Calls for a Shadorma, me thinks:
Finally
Monty’s re-opens
and I’m there
journaling
in my sunlit window seat
happy as a clam
Ron. Gets Edgy. . .
<< Originally published (online) in August 2020 at the Constellate Literary Journal, but substantially revised and presented here for sharing at this afternoon’s (3PM EDT) Open Link Live event at dVerse Poets Pub…
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On The Edge Of Green
It’s finally almost the middle of May
and I know I should be obsessed
with the recently vanished snow,
the slow green appearing everywhere,
the chickadee mornings and the likely
arrival of goldfinches at feeders.
……………………………………………………………..Here,
where there’s often no Spring to speak of,
no noticeable warming of soil, only mud
and more mud and more; here, where
the morning air is only an unmet promise
of primrose and peony,
……………………………………………..I should just be
thankful, I guess; glad to be alive amid
impending fields that will bear green corn
a month or two from now, that will show
no sign that winter ever was.
……………………………………………………….I suppose
I should be happy just to inhale the season;
to concentrate on fledglings, on treelines,
and on beckoning haylofts; to live a quiet life
on the edge of green, where everything’s
only just
……………….almost.
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dVerse Poets Pub
Open Link Night
~ OLN Live #292 ~
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Obsessional
He knows she’s out there.
He keeps turning pages, turning
dials, clicking icons, seeking
even just one last glimpse;
he keeps turning over in bed
all night every night, searching.
He’s not sure she knows he’s
still hoping, still hot and
still hot on her trail, still
hung up on her last words
(whatever they were); still
just dying to see her again,
just one more time; just once.
He doesn’t have any special
strategies; doesn’t have any
plans or an agenda, doesn’t
really have any ideas about
what might transpire if he
ever meets her again,
……………………………………….but
he knows she’s out there…
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Poets And Storytellers United
Weekly Scribble #69
~ Of The Hunt ~
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Forbidden Fruit
Forbidden Fruit
Having completed the requisite fast,
half an hour before the procedure
he swallows a single frozen blueberry
just to freak out the colonoscope.
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dVerse Poets Pub
Poetics
~ Tuesday’s Blues ~
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Tuesday’s Twiglet
Barn Swallow morning
I watch it rebuild a nest
—returning tourist—
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Twiglet #226
~ hope rides the air ~
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Ummm. . .
It’s still early, but
he isn’t. He can’t.
Or: he won’t; doesn’t.
He used to. Easy.
He might, still; but
right now? No.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Like it or not.
