Learning Guitar 

Press strings on fret

hold tight

strum or pluck

find a rhythm

 

Slide to another

hold tight

chord of C7

fingers aching

 

Dreams of Joni and Joan

sounds of voice and string

oh to be like them

 

Never too late

for a new song

___________

dVerse quadrille using the word fret

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Learning Guitar 

Yellowjackets

A yellowjacket is not a bee

it is aggressive

stings multiple times

eats meat and honey bees

My daughter stepped in a hive

we were walking in the woods

off trail when buzzing

erupted out of the ground

Run I yell

we all ran towards our house

I licked her three year old’s wounds

with baking soda and kind words

love that child with all her stings

Yellowjackets

I Poet

I

I came out of the canal listening

for my own voice

with my first breath

I heard it as a cry

I found darkness in my eyes

til opened to the light

I was that baby you wanted to be boy

I was made girl

all parts of me to receive touch

to open

to flower

 

II

Listening for my own voice

it navigated out of my thoughts

my mind spoke a product of time

of culture of possibilities

of bouquets gathered in spring

it was good to be who I am

 

III

Now the voice knows its own cry

weeps into the light and dark

listens with belladonna ears

what hallucinations will arise

I Poet

Pranked by History

History is no joke. It is a record of what is happening, happened or didn’t happen.  “Fake News” becomes history.  A current event is history tomorrow.  History is ancient or recent.  Ninevah was a real city buried in sand, with a real gate, resurrected and bombed.  

History is a joke when used to advance an agenda.  My fifth grade textbook world history teacher could never get to the chapter on the Middle East.  I would read ahead.  Daydream of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.  I wanted to dig deeper to see what was under the sand.

mind craves for meaning

ammunition for profit

know who benefits

______________

dVerse prompt – haibun on April Fools Day – being pranked 

Pranked by History

Sewing Room

I remember the light in grandmother’s sewing room. It was shining through on either side of her old black Singer sewing machine. That room had the best light of the whole house. It is where she stitched away for decades after her husband died. The sound of that machine echoing down the basement stairs where grandfather’s tools lay silent and dark.  

Customers came and went past the living room, the kitchen colored with Fiesta ware, or up the side stairs into the back foyer set for sewing. The huge kitchen table was where she laid her cloth, cutting the fabric with shape shears, the bright light on the pins as she prepared to stitch it altogether.

light through the window

make long or short of season

the cloth unfurled

Sewing Room

Monarch Migration

I hurried 

     from five blocks down the street

          equipped with a jar

               and father’s fishnet

so much orange

was more than I expected that August day

the white of milkweed in the field

     fluttered with brilliance of orange

          a cluster of milkweed and butterflies

two or three 

     clung to a single stem

while some rode others

     on their backs

          sun upon their wings 

and few would fly

     as they sucked a clover flower

I stood and picked

     as though they were poppies

          to fill my jar

and only when

     next to the coolness of glass

               did those wings start to pound

Monarch Migration