Worrisome, unsettling times
lead me to wallow.
Sometimes in fear
at other times,
in the simple joys of my mortality.
I search out small
gasp worthy moments,
holding them close.
This sunset, a diverse gathering,
seagulls, pigeons, crows,
sparrows and humans – and
no misbehaving
Pat
3/07/23
For dVerse Poets quadrille night where the prompt is “Gasp”, and De is hosting. To participate or read go here.
melting into your kiss –
a recurring memory I hang onto
to keep me sane
to say goodbye
to move on
Pat
2/21/23
For poetics over at dVerse where Kim is hosting and we’re talking ‘kisses’. To participate or just read go here.
This pink flower is the heather. It beams from the clutter of a garden still under the spell of winter. Each year it gets stouter, more portly. It starts flowering in November or December. I am surprised every time. I wonder how such dainty looking blooms survive such cold. Grit, I suppose.
Next to the heather is the coneflower. That too tends to want to spread out. Only, it wakes up much later. It is always interesting to watch these two jossle.
That side of the garden is ‘survival of the fittest territory’. I am taking lessons and aligning myself with their determination and grit. As such, I am squeezing you out of my thought process. This gift you came to appreciate way too late will no longer swim in thoughts of you! This year’s a different thing, –
I’ll not think of you.
Pat
2/14/23
For prosery Monday over at dVerse where Merril is hosting and the prompt is to incorporate the following lines into the prose
“This year’s a different thing, –
I’ll not think of you.”
from Charlotte Mew, “I so liked Spring”
Go here to participate or just read
When I was growing up, each day of the week had its own menu. Sunday was beef, wednesday was stewed (red) peas, friday was fish and saturday was soup day.
The different types of soup sounds a little nuts, but they were good. There was beef, cow cod (don’t ask), fish head, cow foot, goat head, red peas, split peas and chicken soup. Red peas soup was my favorite.
That thing was a meal. My mom would let us ‘help’ by passing the vegetables which were carrots, celery, turnips, yellow yam, potatoes, and dumplings. We all wanted to help make the dumplings. A soup without dumplings was just not a good soup in our house. Then, of course, there were the spices – salt, scallions, thyme, garlic and pimento seeds (Allspice).
These soups brought a healing touch to every part of our insides. You could smell it from everywhere! It was fuel, it was filling, it was love.
through this autumn gray
memory from childhood wafts in –
soup day, saturday
Pat
10/25/22
For dVerse Poets Pub where the prompt is “soup”. The host for Haibun Monday today is Mish. To participate or just read go here
Moving across parched earth
a ground level dust cloud drifts
With the same breeze comes the scent of rain.
It was the rainy season and
somewhere in the distance
a quenching was in progress
Soon, it will be time for that soothing rhythm on the tin roof
Soon, it will be time to secure a spot on the verandah and make paper boats for the puddles
Then scampering down the steps through large plopping raindrops to set sail the next paper boat
Paper boat sailing – in this family of four kids, a rite of passage.
Pat
8/24/22
For the dVerse prompt where Jo is the host. The prompt words is Scent. To stop by to read or participate go here.
In mid tumble it swayed sideways. It looked like a butterfly, but there betrayal came in the landing. A falling yellow leaf is what it was. But, for a moment, it was pure joy to watch. At least I could see it. It’s better than chasing a memory that remains illusive. One that I still haven’t been able to bring into full focus.
Now, through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings..I listen closely. Along with the voice were melancholy strains from a horn played by the likes of Miles or Coletrane.
I should know this, I do know this. I close my eyes and surf the notes, willing and carefree. It’s laced with a hint of the blues. Maybe not remembering this title is a gift. Because I would just play it over, and over again, to what end?
https://dversepoets.com/2022/08/18/open-link-live-322-august-edition/
Pat
8/19/22
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
–by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., from The Chambered Nautilus.
This line is to be incorporated into a piece of prose over at dVerse Poets Pub. The deadline to submit to the prompt has come and gone. But I’m now posting it to OLN ( open link night) To check out what’s going on over there go to the link above. A good weekend to all.
These conversations of ours
It feels like you are forever in my presence
moreso than when you walked the earth
So agreeable, and still with the jokes
Don’t you have somewhere else to be?
What type of grieving is this?
– these conversations of ours
Pat
8/08/2022
For dVerse Poets Pub where the host, De, gives the word Type to be used in a quadrille (a 44 word poem created at dVerse). To participate or just read, go here
Another one! We are, yet again, undone. The only thing that seems to come out of these tragedies are the usual talking heads pretentiously wallowing in their fifteen minutes of fame.
The hands deep in their pockets also move the trap between their beady little eyes as they mouth platitudes and lamentations in the form of thoughts and prayers. All of which has become white noise because power takes precedent.
So, we continue to live under sinister skies raining death with nowhere to hide. Hoards of lost souls that will never again see morning. They will never again set eyes on arcs of grass bejeweled by dew reflecting twilight.
It is up to us to erase the platitudes and become a part of the solution. The way we do this is with our vote! These are the things they don’t tell us often enough.
Vote!
Pat
6/06/2022
For dVerse Poets Pub being hosted by Msjadeli where the topic is “How many will it take” as it relates to gun violence and mass shootings. To participate or just read go here.
Last evening while the setting sun was writing its own story cantankerous clouds to the right were leaving deep smudges in the evening skies.
The bird songs outside my window were unrelenting, piercing the roar of the harsh spring winds. Even the delicate cherry blossoms are standing up to this latest rage.
It seems we are all to discover what we are made of. In the end, we are all just holding on.
the ire of spring
that will not be placated –
belligerent storms
Pat
4/03/22
For Haibun Monday over at dVerse who is hosting with a theme of “Cherry Blossoms”. To view other entries go here
Also linking to Tanka Tuesday over at Colleen where the prompt is to take a photo from your day and write a poem in relation to it. To see other entries go here
I never could see my life without him
But there stood this broken trust
Shoving past all that I had come to know would only lead to regrets piled atop regrets –
never again feeling safe
As great as this love was
I knew me
It would not end well
So, I let it go in the most awful way
Never to see, or speak to him for ever
Time is not always the healer
she purports to be
Years later when we could again speak
He asked.
I explained.
That was not about you, I said.
That was about keeping that thread I was hanging by intact.
Pat R
6/22/21
Isn’t it pretty to think so.
–The Sun Also Rises (1926). Ernest Hemingway
Over at dVerse we are to write a poem based on a chosen quote from Hemingways work. I chose the above.
Linking to dVerse Poets Pub where Lisa is hosting Poetics -“One true sentence” . To read other entries go here
thoughts and entanglements 
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