Roses and shoes under the bust of Sophie Scholl: By no bias, Wikipedia Commons
For All Who Dare
How scared they must be—and how brave- the women who dare to bare their hair— and all who battle not monsters, but men, who protest, write pamphlets, drop flyers–
the Plaza Madres, the White Rose students, those with forbidden books, those who share their knowledge, truth, the oxygen that inspires and fuels their desires–
the feathered hopes on wings, phoenixes that singed still soar to sing—everywhere– riders on a bus; a girl with a pen— swirling spires of dragon-breathed fires
rising—beware—they dare! Not if, but when. Then they do it again.
For dVerse, where Björn’s Meeting the Bar prompt is to write a bref double poem. You can read more here. I’ve put the unrhymed line first: xabc, xabc, xabc, ab.
Jørgen Walentin Sonne – Young Lady looking at the Summer Night from an Open Door of a veranda
Pausing
The sun sets, splashes into a pool of red punch, one brilliant flash and gone.
The woman, with freshly shampooed hair watches from the veranda, the air scented with coriander and cardamon,
garam masala, and more–spices like magic transform. Now as the dal simmers and also the rice,
she thinks there is chutney to make, mangoes to slice, but still, she pauses–
soon, the stars, like small dinghies will sail their light pale, the first star a flying fish– she looks up to make a wish, and it blazes, vanishes with swift swish,
a single note in the universe’s tune she hears the melody now, smiles at the humming moon.
For Punam’s prompt on dVerse using Indian words that have become commonly used in English.
Now, the season of in-between the summer heat dims, the vultures soar wind-embraced through clouds to blue– no evil or good in their birds’ eye view above the trees, across the shore, circling death, cleaning the scene.
“Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;” –from John Keats, “To Autumn”
SunriseSunrise, Delaware River, September
Now the dragons come, sending their fiery breath Into the cerulean sky, last gasps, a vibrant show before their long, winter sleep.
Now squirrels skip and scurry to find and bury their treasure, eagles soar from shore to shore,
white-feathered heads glowing above the river blue, where herons and egrets in shallow water wade still in shadow, then with broad wings wide, glide
to other shoals. While blue jays gather in raucous meetings throughout the day— yelling at hawks, asking summer to stay—but
Blue Jay with shade of greenApples and Honey, both local and delicious
now the apples come—red or golden-green, the colors of both fall and spring, tart and sweet as life, well-balanced, though seldom neat.
Now t-shirts are covered by sweaters, above, azure turns grey, but bright a spray of yellow in bee-swallowed goldenrod, and violet aster.
Golden rod and aster at dawn.
Now we are in transition, in-between, summer has ended, winter not yet come but we remember what has been
the roses of summer and the fruit, their essence captured in honey and wine– with time,
the memories and promises, like late spring’s bird-dawn chatter— everything connected, everything matters,
the constant of love’s endurance glowing brilliant as the light of ancient long-dead stars, so bright, still guiding us from afar.
Where the light comes through—early morning, Delaware River.
We celebrated the first night of Rosh Hashanah last night. It makes so much more sense to celebrate the new year in early autumn as summer fades into fall than tacked on to the end of winter holidays on the first of January. Of course, no one has asked me. It was wonderful to celebrate with family, and while we missed not having everyone there, the smaller group meant we could all sit at one table and converse together. We toasted the memory of my aunt Sima, whose recipe for challah cannot be surpassed. It’s the one I always use.
Sun above and below, reflections and shadows on the Delaware River
In this time of shadow and light crow flies from trees with raucous caw– there are things I think I saw–
when the world is washed fresh and bright the grass is showered with sparkling drops, a rainbow orb shimmers and hops
and robins sing to dawn’s delight, the stars are gone, the moon will set, but now she hums, and lingers yet
the truth of sun, moon, stars invite the ifs and whys of death and life hereafter lived in peace or strife,
questions of time—the infinite echoes on stardust in our blood and bones dissolved in ancient mud.
In this time of shadow and light, when the world is washed fresh and bright and robins sing to dawn’s delight, the truth of sun, moon, stars invite questions of time—the infinite.
A Constanza for dVerse. The first line of each 3-line stanza forms a poem, which is the final stanza. You can read more about the form here.
Grey Winter growls, Spring dreams of green when flowers grow, and love birds preen. Soon rabbits wake, the vixen prowls then runs and hides, afraid she’s seen the fearful beast, who’d foul with howls spring dreams of green–grey Winter growls.
Now what comes next, before green spring when sparrows fly, and robins sing? Do wolves bare fangs? Do bears get vexed by hopes or dreams, by what spring brings, and seek with blood, destroy, annex before green spring? Now what comes next?
Before spring comes, the bullets fly. The people grieve, the winds just sigh as they drift by soldiers and drums. Power? Money? Who knows why the bloodlust soars. The moon just hums– the bullets fly, before spring comes.
For dVerse, a made-up form called the Sparrowlet. You can read about it here. The name of the form made me think of spring, and I wrote the first stanza yesterday. Then when I heard the news today, I wrote the last stanza. So then, I wrote the middle stanza to connect them. We are living in a very scary time, and so much disinformation is being spread constantly.
Peder Severin Krøyer [Public domain] “Summer Evening at Skagen beach, the artist and his wife”
If beneath the blue and honeyed light, we dream of love, and watch milk-lather waves in tumbling play,
then we can recall those dreams when shadows scream and mind-aches sway
our thoughts— there’s evil about and cold winds blow, my love,
but there! They sweep the sky of storms, and blanketed against the air, we wait for sun-dazzled caramel rays
to cast aside the haunted winter-breath and with summer-warmth overlay.
The Oracle kept giving me “shadow,” today, and it made me think of the Lady of Shallott, “I am half sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott.” And aren’t we all?
“I am half sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott.” John William Waterhouse
Almost autumn with an Egret. the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield
Linger here—wait, hereafter– listen to the gulls call in laughter. Rest awhile in this in-between the sky so blue, the trees still green—
soon, the russet-leaves will fall, and we’ll recall–
memories dim–rose-scent and sun-kissed skin as icy fingers stroke your chin.
A quadrille for dVerse. Linda has asked us to use the word linger. We’re just about at the autumnal equinox, and the weather seems perfectly balanced. I wish it would linger like this for awhile.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 