Tag Archives: Poetry

I Don’t Get It – A Décima

I Don’t Get It

Please tell me, how do you defend
the vile actions of the prez
the awful things he does and says
while guzzling down his koolaid blend
of hateful rhetoric and then
you want to give him four more years
to level all that we hold dear
and sell our souls to oligarchs,
do you not see his evil heart?
That you are lost for good, I fear.


This little poetry form gives me license to vent on the politics of the day. Honestly, I just don’t get it. 😳

For today’s challenge at Ronovanwrites, write a décima where the word BLEND must be one of the A line words. Then the other A line(s) word(s) must rhyme with BLEND.

A Décima is a 10-line poem with 8 syllables per line. The rhyme pattern is: abbaaccddc. Further study of this form indicates that the subject matter of a Décima tends to be more socially conscious than some poems, taking on topics such as philosophy, politics, dogma, and religion. It can also be in the form of satire, criticism or insulting to an enemy/opponent in a situation. 

Sometimes you break the rhyme into two stanzas using the following rhyme pattern. abbaac/cddc.

…and still

Last year’s pretty, porcelain pot was perfect, roomy, plenty of space for her roots to settle, to meander through miracle soil soaking in tap water and raindrops. She thrived as all good potted plants are want to do, her emerald plumes leaning east toward dawn, she grew and bloomed and grew, white-tongued symbols of peace pushing from her shoots, cocoons at first, to sleepy side-eyes, opening, her prickly heart revealing…then spring, then summer…

then COVID, sheltering in, mask-clad fear-ashed faces, black souls rising from blood spattered bedrooms and spit-stained asphalt, covered in flowers, trampled by broken, fierce legions chanting, ‘ENOUGH’ under tear-gas curtains peppered with rubber bullets, vigilantes, anonymous armies looting, rising from hell to disturb the peace, hurricanes, floods, shuttered storefronts, the dead stuffed into frozen trailers, not enough soil to contain them, mourners left to mourn in absentia, single file food lines doling out bread…lies upon lies

It took only two seasons for her roots to tangle, clinging tightly to pretty pot’s edges, only two seasons for her leaves to tinge yellow, her skirt of fading fronds to wilt under the confining walls of porcelain that once cradled her. She needed my intervention, clearly unable to move, to thrive, to breathe. What a journey it has been from beaker to pot to pot to pot, and yet still, she blooms, despite my oblivious tending, despite my errant caretaking, she blooms as if to remind me that she is, and refuses to stop.

in November, I will vote

I found another pot, a roomier pot, filled it with miracle soil, untangled her roots and set her gently down in it. We will likely cross this bridge again in a season or two or more…because that’s what peace lilies do…they grow.


So this is what happens when the muse returns and the dam bursts after months of holding in, holding on. Peace my friends.

Sunday’s ReVerse – 6 September 2020

I had to scroll back weeks to find where I left off to glean snapshots of my thoughts for this ReVerse. It’s been an exhausting summer. It’s been an exhausting year. 2020. In hindsight will our vision become clearer? It’s hard to say, I suppose. This year isn’t over yet. I believe we have a fighting chance if we are able to elect a new president here in the states, with an experienced and competent team of experts at the helm. They will have a lot to clean up. Another four years of this nightmare would…well, let’s not go there just yet. I’m holding out hope that people of good will will do the right thing and vote for decency and sanity. But what do I know?

In the meantime I am determined to write more and angst less. It’s a tall order for my empathic monkey brain! And my muse? Poor thing. I’m afraid I’ve sent her into hiding more often than not these days. She doesn’t take kindly to brooding. But it is time to make peace with her and myself and do what I do. Write my heart and soul out. It may not always be pretty, but at least I’ll be keeping it real, and myself from the abyss!

I do hope this coming week is a good one for you…for all of us. Counting my blessings…I have a home, food to eat, a four-day a week job (the fifth day was furloughed…but hey, it’s a job), I have people who love me, animals that follow me everywhere, and my soul. What more could a body need? Suffice to say I am grateful this sunny Sunday as I take a moment to breathe. Peace and love all. ❤️

Sunday’s ReVerse – 6 September 2020

it’s going to be a slow recovery
it’s the little things you know
like a kiss, soft, slow,
in its sweetness, charged
amidst a sea of jewels rising
here, safe, well, solitary bliss…
I’ll never say I told you so
I bite my tongue and bide the time
remember to breathe
while the world burns
as the nights grow long


A ReVerse poem (a practice I started many years ago) is a summary poem with a single line lifted from each entry of a collection of work over a particular timeframe and re-penned in chronological order as a new poem. Unlike a collaborative poem, the ReVerse features the words of one writer, providing a glimpse into their thoughts over time. I use it as a review of the previous week…or in this case, the past few months!

summer fading

berries on the vine
cold nip in the airs
summer softly fading
blossoms bursting seed

tree boughs gently rustle
baring their souls
as the nights grow long
full moon lingering, come dawn


Brought out the Nature Poet Kit magnets today. It is a gorgeous, sunny, cool day. But dusk is coming too soon.

the unraveling

the unraveling

the tapestry is unraveling
earthy tones of brown and
tan, yellow and red fading,
white patches soiled from
blood and tears, offering no
warmth, no consolation,
threads splintering, breaking
unable to hold together the
dreams of the innocents
wrapped in it like a shroud…
where are the seamstresses
with steady hands and nimble
fingers, trembling with needles,
eyes too narrow to thread, to
mend the tatters, to scrub
the fabric clean, to restore
the tapestry, or better yet,
to weave a new cloth, one
that is brilliant, softened
with batting, large enough
to cover all who slumber,
to shield us from nightmares,
from the darkest of nights,
to bring us safely to the dawn
we’re hanging by a thread
tossed by tempests, trembling,
chilled to our bones
while the world burns


Crawling out from under my rock. Sorry for my recent silence. I confess that I have been overwhelmed of late by what’s happening to our brothers and sisters of color, to those sick and dying from the pandemic, from the lies of our leaders, from the hate ravaging our streets, disturbing the ardent pleas of peaceful protesters, from sheltering in (sheltering…what a benign word…sheltering). I have struggled to find words, forgetting that it is words that save me from the abyss; that help me get out of my head. I hope everyone is staying safe and well. I hope…at least I am trying to even as the dawn seems so very far away. Peace ✌️

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