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.

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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.

Posted in Poetry

Red; Green;

I graze on violent hay

ruminate

ruminate

swim for the harbor lights

Gatsby symbolism

in a Li-Young Lee

world where I can’t chew

fast enough to digest

all that this world wants

meeee to doooo

while I search for the gift

of a splinter.

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Lillian bids us ‘harbor’ a quadrille over at d’Verse Poet’s Pub. Join us!

The Gift by Li-Young Lee remains a personal favorite.  Just finishing a poetry unit in my classroom in which we read and analyze four poems that deal with father-child relationships.  Also included are Blood by Naomi Shihab Nye, Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden, and Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll.

Posted in Poetry

Sharp Objects

jitter shake and tremble, cold cold coffee
slurp
don’t slurp
is it cold or shock
(it’s both)
the copper stars break
jump and jerk in the fan reflection
prince is still on my desk waiting to be ripped he rips
it like none other
only raul gets that too bad he o.d.’d on the cuban
coffee last year back before he almost burned
his place down with that dog with the broken ear too
bad about the coffee i could use some jitter shake and tremble
so i could bludgeon the fears of never seeing god in action
only the neglect that causes the jitter shake and tremble
the shock part coffee brake emergency brake fire break
if you drop it does it break like my
yellow coffee cup on the garage floor
i am too dangerous to be given sharp objects
like anger and despair black and white on the floor of the italian deli
with a splash of red or maybe blue
as we all keep gazing out over the sod and don’t give in to
soccer the devo game according to coach k let’s just load up the bases
raw and pure like that canker sore on my right cheek raw
pure and painful do we stop feeling if we don’t have pain?

 

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Posted in Poetry

Hitchcock Birds

Hitchcock birds covering the baseball field
the batting cages
starlings
they move in murmuration

slow and quick

My blackened voice lifts off the ground with them

(no one sees us)

in a zizz and swirl
soundless except for the air they press and fold

© Jilly’s All Rights Reserved

for De’s Quadrille challenge at dVerse.

Posted in Poetry

Fences and Snakes

black racer slooshed through the short grass
gently startled we
no yelp from me no hiss from he
(or was it a she?)
all silent speed travelling she
(making of us a sisterhood flee)
into the shrub between us and they
who splash and whee! ‘til quarter to three
glee o’er their newly found pool
with thumps and thrums and bass beats
accompany
hope she (or maybe he)
made it stealthily through
unseen
for a silent black racer
makes for a better neighbor
than they
these middle-night raiders of sleep

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Björn is hosting Meeting the Bar at dVerse this week and we are slapping a bit of Onomatopoeia into our poetry.  My encounter with this silent visitor occurred right after work yesterday and, smiling at one another, the snake and I made no noise.  My challenge was how to write about that silence with sound.

Posted in Poetry

Foiled Again

She
there in the door
way beyond any other
sigh

He
there are the bar
staking his hero journey
her

Eyes
scanning the room
she glances over you
smiles

Eyes
watching her move
he follows her with his eyes
prey

You
here on the wall
you see them plotting their moves
die

They
there in the night
picture it all in your mind
cry

You
here in your room
wanting to foil their delight
try

Eyes
turning away
for a watched plot never foils
comply

© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Join me, my  friends, as I host Poetics tonight at dVerse!  We will be twisting adages and you are invited to flock with other poets to write and read poetry, and maybe discover that great things come in blog packages.  🙂

Posted in Poetry

Self

I cannot see myself except
I look down and here I am
hands, knees, feet

I cannot see myself except
I look in the mirror and here I am
face, bodyyouconnectwithme

I cannot see myself except
I look in your eyes and there I am
you love me, hate me, disdain me,
dismiss me, envy me, findmeinaccessible

You cannot see myself except
what I let you see, here I am
little girl hiding in the high branches
of my cottonwood tree
wind catching the waxed-paper leaves
clack, clack, clacking
afraidandunafraid

I cannot see myself except
I know I am here

some

where

© Jilly’s  All rights reserved

Join me as I host Poetics at dVerse Poet’s Pub this week where we will explore things unseen!

 

Posted in 28 Days of Unreason, Poetry

Wrap-up of Unreason

Congratulations to all who pursued the 28 Days of Unreason 2018!

19 different poets were represented and while no official count was taken, we averaged about 9-10 poems per day at 28 days.  Let’s see…doing the math… about 250+ poems were written.  Many comments included expressions of growth as writers; that always happens 🙂  Do share your thoughts, my poetic friends.

I leave you with a complete poem from Songs of Unreason:

Horses by Jim Harrison

In truth I am puzzled most in life
by nine horses.

I’ve been watching them for eleven weeks
in a pasture near Melrose.

Two are on one side of the fence and seven
on the other side.

They stare at one another from the same places
hours and hours each day.

This is another unanswerable question
to haunt us with the ordinary.

They have to be talking to one another
in a language without a voice.

Maybe they are speaking the wordless talk of lovers,
sullen, melancholy, jubilant.

Linguists say that language comes after music
and we sang nonsense syllables

before we invented a rational speech
to order our days.

We live far out in the country where I hear
creature voices night and day.

Like us they are talking about their lives
on this brief visit to earth.

In truth each day is a universe in which
we are tangled in the light of stars.

Stop a moment. Think about these horses
in their sweet-smelling silence.

“Horses” by Jim Harrison from Songs of Unreason. © Copper Canyon Press, 2011.

~ Jilly