Tag: dversepoets.com

Sheets (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on Sheets (poem)

New Quadrille poem prompt this week at dVerse Poets from Mish

The 44 word (title not included) dVerse Poets specialty that asks you to include one word.

The new Quadrille prompt word here?

“Tangle”

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Sheets

Turning over and over sheets get tangled

in creases

that cut my toes  

in wary dreams

always trying push them whole

disguising away monsters

smelling blood in their air scare stares up from around the foot of the bed

at a child’s grown feet

Pantomime Madness in Spring (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry14 Comments on Pantomime Madness in Spring (poem)

A dVerse Poets prompt from Grace for exploring some “Magical Realism”, blending the ordinary with the extraordinary, placing magical or fantastical elements into a realistic, yet grounded, setting.

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Pantomime Madness in Spring

I curse and I sign

some nonsensical finger pantomime

of guessed import

asking myself to ask myself if I am losing my mind

(don’t tell your friends or family or enemies to then confirm

or yourself

for that matter

for any matter

at any time

to maybe infirm)

some swiped in air construct

that scatters symbols I saw maybe movie many once

or numerous too book look in one bulging volume

but thin for dunce

enough

to comprehend

found in dances and trances and drinks of history

family

in the field or wood or street

or square

all bursting, blurting, bustling, blustering

“you are crazy”

into dream’s fractured wholes

repeating

holes

with made up symboled twist musts

of fingers

to ward off gists only you seem to

get

well

but

not well enough

git

now

it’s cold

.

But you asked of me, of little sprites, of flower winged mites

and whisperers

whispering between trees

asked of all me’s to explain what went bump

what went thump

in the cold stark of winter

what bursted or blurted or bustled or blustered

what silenced loud to still

find

what was lost

just out of in under around the corner of your extra nesting eye

.

I did

I apologize

but will you will with me

bump and thump

and burst and blurt or bustle or bluster

and loud silence still

night

heal fractures that come to light

only then

soothe in day

through flowered walks, down path’s of plenty

scents of perfumed many

it is Spring again

after all

have you seen?

have you been?

to help me entertain what I don’t know and how lost lost lost and how it came

to be?

.

Of course of course

(quite pretty)

and of course

I am your Sprite after all

in Spring

and all things

To help explain

.

I curse and I sign

some nonsensical pantomime

but comforting

now

in

what I still hold mine

warmer in mind

I’m Ready (part one & two – poems)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on I’m Ready (part one & two – poems)

Dora of Dreams from a Pilgrimage has a new prompt this week at dVerse Poets to write a dialogue poem so I thought to a second part of something recent, the first part of which I included.

I’m Ready (part one)

I steal steely crazed glances between the blinds

through goggle glasses with cool blinder flaps

and a crushed torn beat bent brim ballcap

in moonlight  

peeking from out a blanket …

with binoculars too

under chairs and baseball bats

and plungers and sticks I gathered during the day

for stand in the heels of sneakers  

that no one would miss

unless there was suddenly company and mom presented trays

or an incident in the bathroom

or the woods missed their kids

or if game time suddenly discovered night had been turned to day

just something THEY would do

… draped over pillows and nosing cats and snoring dogs and sci-fi books

and I waited

by flashlight for the louding star hymns only I could hear

.

I’m ready for you,

I thought,

This time

//////////////////////////////////////////

I’m Ready (part two)

I startled to it all still in place

the baseball bats and plungers and sticks  

standing in sneaker heels

or balanced ‘cross chair tops

now

still

in place

still

under the blanket for peering from out

that hadn’t been disturbed by Mom company needs or accidents or trees

or nosy still cats or possible waking dogs

startled by a light in the sky through blinds but with naked eye

my binoculars to my side

cool goggle blinder flap glasses almost crushed under my bent brim ball cap

by my pillow star head

a light that woke to ask

“Why I waited?”

“For you” I stated   

.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

I startled to Mom from a Mom’s soft nudge

“Time to bed my little sleepy head, did you have any dreaming luck just yet?”

“You didn’t see?!”

“Of course I did”

.

I startled alone after days upon days and more

after I had grown sore and out from under blanket looks

and my own lore

of forts

built of pillows and dreams and chairs and baseball bats

and plungers and sticks but

with stones

now

new blankets heavier

for tired forts to hide my head

under and pillows just for escape

instead

from these days upon days and more

.

But I still check through the blinds at night

when I can

when it feels right

with still kept nosing cats at hand

but

wishing my binoculars were somewhere in sight

and those cool goggle blinder flap glasses and my old cap

or Mom with a nudge and a love

for my sleepy, wishing, dreamy boy head

to tell me it was alright

that she saw

too

.

“You’re still waiting, we see”

“I always will be”

even more so

now

The Cul-De-Sac (fiction)

by Stephen J FrankenberryLeave a Comment on The Cul-De-Sac (fiction)

This started as a haibun response to a prompt from Merril at dVerse poets this week and began with a remembrance of a time once spent on a Spring break from college to visit a Joanie and where we were, indeed, laid out hand in hand on a blanket in a darkening cul-de-sac whispering the sweet sweets of young love and treacly envisioned futures to each other.

The prompt also included some paint chip names to use like random words if you were so inclined, one of which was “Big Dipper”.

Then, well, it went in a bit of a different direction, though I did still finish with a haibun’s haiku.

The Cul-De-Sac

We lay together with a small billboard for Allgrove Estates “Coming Soon!” behind us, sharing a blanket and large pillow that we had brought along after being drawn unexpectedly to the quiet darkened cul-de-sac on this slightly askew Spring evening.

Just she and I, some half-finished modern homes encroaching the Darker Wood in a broken unfinished circle, and the stars.

We both had heard the talk about the why’s of the new home’s incomplete and why Mr. Allgrove had to leave town very quickly, flown in the middle of the night actually, as one story went, something about possible angry jilted investors and why his wife and family had left just as quickly to move in with someone’s in-laws or grandparents or cousins, or some extended family someone’s or others a few towns or states or even countries over, as the continued story went, but we didn’t care of any of that as we just held hands willed together now in that darkened quiet of the unfinished cul-de-sac, on our blanket and shared large pillow, in front of the small Allgrove billboard looking up at the Big Dipper and other constellations (the big dipper was the only one we could name) wondering which stars to wish young love upon and which one of us would dare a first kiss as we felt a sudden unexplained want, a pull we didn’t know or understand.

There were other stories too, floating about in the mist of whispered townsfolk conversations or just nervous singular darting eyed declarations before they all just silenced themselves with quick left fingered signs at hips, or behind backs or, for most, in pockets, hidden, and quicker turns away to eventual slammed doors and curses. She and I even talked briefly of this, but in throes, with our sweating palms grasping each others much more tightly now, more tightly than we had thought could or wanted, especially the rumors of Ol’ Mrs. Gladstone, the only one who would talk openly, and not haltingly in fear, of the cul-de-sac, what was there before and why the Darker Wood had never been developed and how Mr. Allgrove should have known better having long family history here, something the former Mr Gladstone knew full well according to Mrs. Gladstone with also a quick left fingered sign but one made with no intent to hide.

There were no angered investors she would tell me when I delivered her newspapers in weeks before this night. That was just the “story” she would say with a winking glint eyed rasp, to have his and his family’s disappearance make sense and that, NO, that he had ventured too far into Darker Wood out of greed, overstepped  his bounds and a town’s long history’s understanding of lines not crossed.

Then the Big Dipper disappeared and all the other constellations as well (the ones we couldn’t name) all the stars we tried to wish Spring wishes upon were gone, blackened into a pitch above us that we could feel settling and seeping into our blanket and onto our large shared pillow and slowly enveloping the Allgrove billboard like a heavy burden’s damp and with the smell of old embers and ash after the fire was out from Spring rains. Then it was that we couldn’t unclasp our hands, or star thought wishes, or now, even move, other than to lean into a mutual first kiss till we couldn’t even unclasp our lips. 

Then we heard the scrape of metal on stone.

/////

Spring brings birds in night

Feeling the pull of days come

To prepare new light

I Was A Mountain Once (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry10 Comments on I Was A Mountain Once (poem)

A dVerse Poets prompt, this one from Mish, to personifying the abstract

.

I Was A Mountain Once

I was a mountain once that held pathed treks to enlightenment

I was (a) small mound (s) wearying those trek steps footed steep heavy minded way

.

I was a sky’s wind once that carried gale words thrown into it with profound or misguided intent

I was a small breath naked angry aloud from red hands to bare ass, bare hands to red ass, to hold me alive screaming to hopes and dismays

.

I was an ocean’s currents once, tide’s ins, tide’s outs, navigated with expert sailor’s aplomb or hubris

I was a small tear (s) peering over a water’s ever shaping shape at broken piecemeal ships or grand full chested sails, falling, aiding the waters   

.

I was a flame once that warmed pairs of hearts or burned everything down

I was a small flinted flicker where alone began

.

I was all things at once, once

And none at all, small, still, to begin, again

.

I was a mountain once

I was a small mound

Last Pot Luck (144 word story)

by Stephen J Frankenberry9 Comments on Last Pot Luck (144 word story)

Bjorn at dVerse Poets has a prose challenge this week to write prose of 144 words including the line ‘There’s a lullaby for suffering‘ from Leonard Cohen’s tune “You Want It Darker”.

Last Pot Luck

Maggie brought a faux beef stew, she had an extra provision card she’d nicked, Selina brought chicken though she was saddened by it, Constance brought her last small vegetables thinking why not, Angie brought a State song with altered lyrics as There’s a need’s new lullaby for suffering, Maribel brought small sweet lip smacking things baked in her basement’s hidden basement that were presented on trays like old days, ones with views of the sea or dreamt flowers, Caroline brought pictures from slots in window sills in plain sight, her William was held somewhere because of them but he always said “un-hide them when you can”,  the rest of the girls brought what they could for the Pot Luck, maybe the last one.

Oh, and Tracy brought guns.

There was a knock, no, a pound at the door.

Everyone was glad Tracy was there.

Bloody Paradise & Death Becomes Us (call and response – poems)

by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments on Bloody Paradise & Death Becomes Us (call and response – poems)

Have this friend that I met through dVerse Poets, Paul (and a thank you to dVerse for such) an absolutely wondrous writer/poet whose work just astounds me and he recently wrote this at his site, Parallax

Bloody Paradise – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon  

Note: I wrote this in response to GP at Pacific Paratrooper following our respective comments on his post  “Letter IX “A Day’s Venture” which is a post about his father Pvt. Everett “Smitty” Smith’s letter to his mother in regard to a rest day spent around Buna after allied forces liberated it. The post was in September 2024 (linked above).

Pacific Paratrooper is a blog based around the life and service of Smitty with the Headquarters Company/187th Regiment/11 Airborne during WWII. Follow the links above to read GPs excellent work.

“The war continues working, day and night.” Dunyah Mikhail

Bloody Paradise

Some things catch us by surprise
like the irony of a sabbath amidst
the trail of death and destruction
in an ever moving theatre of war,
feelings about shame and waste
momentarily cleared by
observations of the ordinary and
mundane albeit cultural experiences
allied with peace and quiet
buddies swimming in
pristine bejewelled water
shaded by coconut trees majestic,
a veritable paradise
framed by a cemetery screaming
“death becomes us,”
as Buna now breathes
Buna becomes today
tomorrow …
if not this war,
then the next.

/////

Well, this poem and the line “Death becomes us” struck me and I thought to take a bit of a liberty and write a “response”.

/////

Death Becomes Us

Death becomes us

said General to a friend

in kinder times

when this was just pieces

on a board

a game

over seas distance

closer now

or skies resistance

closer now

and simple regrets

closer now

like a kiss not had

from that pretty girl

at that pretty café

on that pretty shore of a foreign land

to be felt another day

but friend General had dispatched

in quick fashion in need

as only needs need

according to ordered needs

.

I have medals he said

.

Death becomes us

said the dispatched

wishing General hadn’t said that

I had other friends

really

he thought

who didn’t take this so seriously

and danced to tune

in kinder times

it was just a game

.

Death becomes us

said Devil and Lord

puffed chests

In accord

you have done our warned

work

all on your own

you wanted, you played

you moved pieces on a board

you played Devil and Lord

toward

an unquestioned end

.

Death becomes us

always becomes us

in dirt too soon

General

too soon

.

Tell her I think of her

her little pretty

or just pretty

in general

General

at that pretty little café

on that pretty foreign shore

wished

pretty

once

/////

Hope I did a justice in this uncalled call & response Paul

Elements (poem)

by Stephen J Frankenberry7 Comments on Elements (poem)

I couldn’t

as Master tasked

decide on earth or fire, water or air

which was I

his ask

for our studies

surely test

of his best

pupil I thought

he said

once

.

I said …

.

Earth is of dirt where life begins in leaves to breathe, breads to eat

where to build upon

place our heads until

lay down with centuries and crawl underneath

To begin again

.

Fire lights our way plucked from the sky before end

day’s fade to preserve till return

warms us

But also destroys only to apologize in violent cleanse

feeding earth in its regret

.

Water quenches us, is most of us, fills us to the burst of tear

rinses sins when it falls

along

with us

but drowns when wayward we

and recedes in earth after the washing away

.

Air fills our chests from its sky

lifts wings so we know beauty, hear songs in beautiful sings

carried to dream

but angers sudden and scatters earth to far places

then feeds anew wherever earth it lands

.

I am afraid I may

disappoint

this day

Master

but I cannot decide

as I would surely choose

either

which presented first

for choice of lesson

from your best pupil

as you’ve said

once

I hope

until the next takes it’s place

in choice

none the lesser

all the mighty for the thought

but I think I is earth

as all seem return

there

.

I turned to master only to see he had gone to ground

started to sprout

and it began to rain

as wind fed his leaf to rise

a flame lit my way

in lack of light

and warmed me

until it dawned

on me

dawned new day

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Prompt:

THE FOUR ELEMENTS at dVerse Poets from Kim of Writing in North Norfolk

The ancient Greeks believed that the Universe is made up of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water.

Your challenge is to choose one of the basic four elements and explore it.