It came out of Eldon, touching, tearing, ripping trees, roofs, indiscriminate in its favoring or rending. It arrived unexpected, thirty miles later, hills and bluffs, the expected buffer, failed to deter.
Walls that once met, met
no longer. Roots meant to anchor
kissed the sky, their farthest
extremities kissing the earth.
It didn’t stay long. Why would it?
After crossing the muddy river
it returned to its true home, the sky.
Touchdown originally appeared at Vita Brevis.
Shared with Open Link Night #397 at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
Easy to anger,
risen to ire,
with his boiling point
long passed
and zero inclination
to see reason,
there seemed little
chance of talking
any sense into him,
yet all it took was
her gentle touch,
making them
an unlikely pair,
this zeotropic couple.
This is my response to Quadrille 237: Zero, the prompt from Melissa Lemay at dVerse ~ Poets Pub that asks us to use a form of the word zero in a Quadrille – a 44-word poem (excluding title), with no required meter or rhyme
Many thanks to Editor Barbara Leonhard for featuring three of my poems, Changing of the Guard, Last Sunset, and Always in Megan’s Orbit, at MasticadoresUSA.
A thundering roar overwhelms the senses, and a refreshing mist on my face and arms brings relief from the heat of an August day. Niagara Falls is a wonder to behold, from the rapids leading to the edge, each crashing wave a character holding the briefest of poses for my camera, to the American Falls, that edge that tempts so many to know its height in their final moments, to the grand Horseshoe Falls on the Canadian side of the Niagara River, best experienced from the Maid of the Mist as it pauses mid-river, drenching its passengers in a deluge of exhilaration that has no equal.
An afternoon could easily be spent here. The Observation Tower, like a bridge that seems to extend partway across the river, offers a view that includes the American Falls at its side and the Horseshoe Falls a half-mile upstream, taking its shape from a ninety degree bend in the river. A walk across a bridge over the rapids takes me to Goat Island, which separates those two great falls, to the delight of Bridal Veil Falls at its near edge, separated from the American Falls by Luna Island, and then to a view of the horseshoe from Terrapin Point at its farthest edge.
Any visit, whether on a sunny or a gray day, could result in hundreds of photos. This beautiful day under blue skies is no exception, and the tourists recognize that. Some locals will avoid the Falls when those tourists number in the thousands, but I enjoy seeing the excitement on their faces. Some days, I take more photos of people taking photos of people. Niagara Falls offers so many reasons to return, again and again.
seagull on the wing poised above the mighty falls framed by a rainbow
Framed by a Rainbow originally appeared at Silver Birch Press.
Leaves lie thick in the yard. Just last week, their green gave no indication that autumn held a grip on them. The eighty degrees we experienced three days ago gave way to frost this morning and mid-forties for a daytime high. Gray clouds have swallowed yesterday’s clear blue sky. Light snow is in tomorrow’s forecast, with sixties predicted for the weekend, leaving time to rake the leaves before snow comes, and goes, in time for a fair-weather Thanksgiving. Welcome to Missouri in November.
My poems, Still Life, and Unity are featured with many other great poets at fws: random beauty ii. Many thanks go to Editor d. ellis phelps for sharing my words.
Clouds part to reveal that same orb viewed years and miles away, its shape crisp in the cool October night air, as we sat beside a fire talking about his youth, mine, and that in store for my children, knowing its light as the one true constant throughout, as it is now, the miles no less, for my grandchildren as they look to the night sky.
Thanks to Editor d. ellis phelps, this poem was included in fws: Spring 2020 renga. One True Constant also appears in my poetry collection, Heron Spirit.
Knowing there are differences
between New York and Missouri
is one thing. Experiencing them
is another. Politics, for one.
I knew Missouri would be
far more conservative than New York,
but when I left that blue state behind
to live in a red state, it became
a reality I’m still trying
to accept thirteen years later.
But the seasons?
Winter is sporadic, with snow
lasting on the ground
until the temperature shoots up
to seventy, then drops back
to the twenties for more snow.
Maybe. And spring lasts just
long enough for leaves to appear,
before the sweltering heat of
summer arrives. Then there’s autumn.
Forget New York’s colorful splendor
of early to mid-October. Missouri’s
comes in late October and early
November, with colors that fail
to live up to New York’s.
November is almost here,
and I’m still waiting.
This is my response to Poetics: Creating our own micro seasons, the prompt from Kim at dVerse ~ Poets Pub. While we consider there to be four seasons in a year, in Japan the year is divided into seventy-two micro seasons of several days each, with poetic names, such as ‘distant thunder’, first rainbows’ and ‘first lotus blossoms’. A full list can be found here. Kim asks us to “make up your own name for a micro season, such as ‘it’s raining again’ or ‘it’s still too cold to plant potatoes’, and write a poem about it, with the micro season’s name as the title.”
Top image: trees along the highway on the way to Rolla, MO for a poetry reading, yesterday
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