BROKEN (a Quadrille)


Dreams exploding
like detonated bombs - 
that's the sound of our prayer.
Tears cannot fall fast enough
to drown our pains - 
could they be the rain
coaxing kindness to life
or the glue patching broken 
pieces with gold.
We are wounded
and we soldier on.


For DVerse Poets’ Quadrille prompt – Sound

The photo above is a picture of my sister-in-law's sculpture, a group of exploded heads, that sits in one corner of my in-laws' garden. I have long been intrigued by its theme. After I have written this piece which was inspired by current events (in London, in Marawi City, Philippines - my home country, among others recently hit by terror), I thought that my SIL's work fit the theme.

ADRIFT

A leaf, adrift
goes where the wind blows
floats where the river flows
where it stops
where it goes
it doesn't have a say
it no longer grows
it no longer cares
whether the sun shines
or whether it rains
it only obeys
a little leaf, adrift
ripples in the currents.

DAILY POST:  ADRIFT


Friends, especially those of you who enjoy good and makes-you-think kind of poetry, you may wish to visit JohnCoyote’s poetry page. 🙂 Enjoy his words.

A CONVERSATION WITH THE WOODS

Three-Mile River running through Gertrude M. Boyden Wildlife Sanctuary, Taunton, MA.
I leave you my footsteps
quietly resting on the pine needles
carpeting your floor
Conceal them  in the cracks of the earth
from where your trees and flowers grow
for me to retrieve upon my return

I leave you my shadows
hiding behind the trees 
among the leaves unfurling, greening
in the ever warming sun
Allow them to rise with the mist
greeting each morning as it comes

I leave you my breath
run ragged by worldly cares
Have it
Cleanse it 
that it may be a pure and worthy
life essence.

Just let me take with me
your  birdsongs and the river's hum
to sweeten my everyday grind
Send me off with the fragrance 
of the lilies growing under the trees
or of the honeysuckle along your edges.
Tuck in my pockets 
the sunbeams filtering through the leaves
so I may have something to light up the grey days.
Then wrap me in your timeless embrace
make me feel as if I never left.

LEAVENED BREAD

 


Sugar comes back to our kitchen on Holy Saturdays after a forty day absence. It feeds the yeast that leavens the dough for our favorite Easter treat, Philadelphia Sticky Buns. My husband carefully kneads the rising dough and leaves it on a covered bowl to double. Then it will be kneaded again preparatory to a second rising.

While the dough rises, my husband prepares a bed of chopped pecans, corn syrup, and brown sugar in a pan to receive the sticky bun coils. When the dough is ready, our children fight over who will help their Daddy cut and roll the dough into little buns. Each will have a turn, each one’s concentration broken either by daddy’s admonition to put the  bun right side up in the pan or by a child asking, “Is this alright, Daddy?” Soon the pan fills up with dough rolls  distinguished by the age and skill of the hands that shaped them. After awhile,   the aroma of baking bread, caramelizing sugar, and roasting pecans wafts out of the oven and fills every corner of our home.

A season to bloom
the garden yielding its fruits
heading to winter.

For Dverse Poets Haibun Monday:  From the Kitchen of Poets

THE FLOWERS OF SPRING

 

Magnolias paint grandeur on the April skies
and lilacs lend their sweetness to the spring air
as cherry blossoms unfurl their silken shade
only to rain blushing kisses everywhere
Apple blossoms secrete the flavors of fall
but Dogwoods with their blood-tipped petals recall
His journey from the cross to resurrection.

 

daily post:  PINK

DVerse Poets’ Pub LIST Poem prompt 

MEMORIES IN MY ARMS

 My arms knew music,
the feel of a violin
my fingers knew the places
where the notes sang well

My arms have forgotten
the weight of a violin
but know well the comforting feel
of a baby in their cradle

My fingers have forgotten
the melodies they played
but they  have been quite adept
at eliciting childish giggles

Maybe one day
when the baby becomes a man
my hands will remember
the curves of a violin again.
A disclaimer: Implications of the poem above notwithstanding, I have never been a (good) violin player. At best, I was an intermediate learner. 🙂

DVERSE’s OPEN LINK NIGHT 194

The piece was a response to PAD 20 Challenge which was to write about a memory or something like that.

THE ART OF LOVE

Love casts out fear, it has been said
but I have never been as scared
as when I loved and gave my heart
to love's power and to its art.
To what folly have I been ensnared?

Alone, I fly free, as a bird
leading its wings to paths it dared
fly, with no one to lose or hurt.
Love casts out fear -

in soothing tones, it calls, I learned
and followed where my soul love steered - 
a full life seen from all its parts
as its Maker had planned.  His art,
Love, casts out fear.


~~~~~

Written for PAD Challenge - Day 3 - "_____________ of Love"
Linking with DVERSE OPEN LINK NIGHT

An attempt at writing a Rondeau.