Posted in Poetry

Mars red Mars orange

Mars red Mars orange
a map to show me the way across the year

at 10:36 each night tapestry wing-backs that never got recovered like I planned

Mars still keeps time pays us
no attention
though we are watching
Mars entirely too much these days
with chicken little leading the way
the sky has always been falling the stars
don’t seem to know  
to care enough to recover
our shabby tapestry
to reupholster our worn out edges they
just move as they have always moved
Mars red Mars orange

© Jilly  All Rights Reserved

Join me over at dVerse for Meeting The Bar where we are playing with repetition in our poetry. 

Posted in Poetry

Iambic Spider

The seven legged spider knits and sews
Makes seven little socks to warm her toes

What mountains should she climb without a rope?
(it’s tempting here to rhyme by using ‘hope’)

What balance, oh! what symmetry beheld
When once she set about her climb, compelled

Considering her loss she holds her ground
Returning home she stokes the fires, earthbound

The seven legged spider knits and sews
Makes seven little socks to warm her toes

© Jilly & Silly Jilly  All Rights  Reserved

Frank is tending bar at the Poet’s Pub,
dVerse on Thursday night, we’re challenged thus
to meet out lines for Meet the Bar this day
Iambic feet in lines that hold to ten
I cut my teeth on nurs’ry rhymes of old
with thoughts that run within this form each day
And so, my friends, my spider with a crutch
is in the spotlight twice within one week.

Posted in Poetry

Thirty-Five Toes; No Soul

the seven-legged spider

pulls threads through

needles of daffo-lillies

and yuck-a-dills

awaits aphin-lets and buzz-a-winkles

carefully cleaning thirty-five

toes she thought should be

hers

counting the lost five

wondering if it is true

that she lacks a soul

won’t go to heaven after all

© Jilly’s & Silly Jilly  All Rights Reserved

De is hosting the Quadrille at dVerse this week; join us!

 

Posted in Poetry

One’s Self – En Masse

Upside-down, warped butter crust resting on the speckled-like-a-robin’s-egg-if-it-weren’t-neutral brown counter-top, you lie there, golden soldiers or yellow-brick road tiles, not sure which, nearly perfect symmetry, all in a row, except for one wounded warrior who rose and rested too close to the flame of the oven, with a lightly bruised and burned shoulder, but all else the same as the rest, yet it is what makes you stand out from the rest, catching my eye, wondering if I see mold, no, it’s not mold, just an injury that makes you the slice I leave behind when I make turkey sandwiches for our Thursday lunch, in hopes that you will be, instead, singled out for a solitary honor, like toast or better yet, a crustless straw hat where that ugly  birthmark can be shaved off – it’s painless, I promise – and you will be glorious like the others, no, more so, because they shall continue to be all lined up, yellow-gold, bland, white bread squares, one sandwich like any other, and you alone shall be the Marilyn Monroe with that beauty mark, or I could just turn the loaf over, set it up-right, hiding your shame, pretending I see only the tops, each one perfectly Orwellian like the others, wonderful rectangle of tan, lines demarking the individuality that would spill out like dominoes if I slid the plastic wrapper off with the flourish of a magician all at once, showing off your nakedness, breaking down the barriers of the loaf into its geometric components.


dragonflies hatching

rise from the lake to follow

their own curved road to Oz

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

qbit is our guest-host at dVerse this week for Haibun.