Vigilant she toils, sweet attention planting
Violets, her favorite, delicate, fragrant flower
Valued for their deep, purple-blue petals
Visioning their success along with the
Vinca, viburnum, valerian and variegated ivy
Vining way up the sturdy oak
Victory will be had…with patience

Vandana Sharma introduces the Pleiades Form for us at dVerse Poets:

Uh, oh…I goofed.  The form is to use six syllables not six words.  I’ll try to redo it tomorrow…too late now!

Breathing In

breathing in

Breathing In by Brooke Shaden:


Each new inhalation
brings life anew
as if coming forth
from the womb.
Floating in wisdom,
the breath carries
me in peace and
holds me in
gentle repose.  
Freedom is the
all encompassing
space that
surrounds me.
The endless
vibration of
my soul
all of time.
And I rest here.
In quiet stillness.
Merged in joy.
With all that exists.

Grace is our hostess at dVerse today and invites us to use the art of Brooke Shaden to inspire our writing.  Gratitude to Brooke Shaden for the use of her amazing and inspiring art work.:


its tentacles
of ice
us to dance.

A dullness
this plague,
a migraine that
thuds and

along, our
feet leaden,
our thinking
caustic and
by the erosion
of our being,
opaque rime lingers

ever so slowly,
a provocative
drama is being
played out.
The elected
actors merely
puppets of a
higher power.
(A higher
power…not a
power looking
out for our best

An avalanche
of platitudes
has taken
our warmth,
our quickness,
our life force,
our Source.

Karin Gustafson invites us to dig deep into metaphors over a dVerse Poets:

Teetering on the Edge (of sleep)

Tossing and turning,
turning and tossing.
I refuse to look
at the clock with its
bright dial, plain
as day in the night.
But the hour is late
and it hounds me,
bothering and heaping
upon me all sorts
of layers of woe.
My mind worries
and thinks, makes
up stories that trip
me up and makes
my mind worry…
and mulls over
nothing pleasant.
I feel like a motorized,
hopped-up, agitated
version of a woman
who should be asleep.
It makes no sense.
I have a subtle but
palpable, physical
humming to my body.
Adrenaline seeps
in quick bursts,
with every heart
beat, into my
No sleep, no sleep,
no sleep, no sleep,
no sleep, no sleep.
Peeking out from
under my sleep mask,
I make out the outline
of the dresser and
the batik of some
obscure Thai goddess
that hangs on the wall.
A shot of moonbeam
illuminates the room.
It’s not dark at all.
Even the night is
awake and restless.
I will not get up.
I breathe deep,
in…and out…
calming breaths
will tame that
monkey mind.
Soon I feel it
giving up and
letting go.
I recognize that
sense I feel right
before I drift off.
At last it’s here,
and before I know
it, a dream is taking form.

Bill Webb is our host for Meeting the Bar over at dVerse Poets with a nod to Rilke:

Perched on the Curb (of Portobello Road)

Portobello Road/London by Claudia Schoenfeld










I want to shop at Portobello Market
and peruse and meander and hit
the hot spots. I want to squeeze
through the crowds and feel the
sights and smell the flavors.
I want to explore the arcades
of antiques and have coffee
and pastry at a local café. I adore
the Kasbah Bazaar with
its flair for Moroccan goods
and that ceramics shop and all
the unique, fine linens offered,
beautifully rendered in the
most pleasing designs of
delicate embroidery and pintucks
in the softest of cottons and
highest thread counts.
And I want to eat lunch at the
Notting Hill Café but which
way is it? I’ll ask for
directions from this petite,
dark-haired woman with the
quick, spirited, bright eyes and
the friendly, humming grin
(smiling even as she sketches)
perched on the curb of Portobello Road.

Mary is our hostess at dVerse Poets and invites us to use Claudia Schoenfeld’s wonderful sketches as inspiration:

Blinding Jewels

Precious jewels of every color
encircle her neck like a priest’s collar.
She makes use of them to blind and impress,
manipulate the world, make a dollar.
Stars in her eyes, thinks herself an empress
while cajoling, using words to profess.
Bold, yet empty soul, clearly insincere,
flatters, misleads, feigns, deceives with finesse.
Men fawn, become fools…she, acting cavalier
takes what she can get, leaves behind a jeer.
How damned the woman scorned becomes a shrew
and uses her sharpened tongue as a spear.
Askew, she sees her life a trumping coup
but behind those untruths she must construe
her heart cannot be whole and live this lie.
So let go this façade and start anew.

Bjorn is our host today and instructs us on the Ruba’i and Rubayiat for Meeting the Bar at dVerse Poets:

The Wild

White foam rides the churning
river and a Red-Shouldered Hawk
cries out as he drifts overhead;
a meadow vole takes cover.

In an ancient, towering pine,
lies an enormous aerie, home
to a Bald Eagle couple and their
two fledglings who take turns
flapping wildly, strengthening
their wings before take-off.

A feeding herd of White-Tailed
deer wander calm through the
open forest, several fawns
leap and kick in play and sometimes
bleat for their mothers when they
wander too far.

The armor-plated armadillo can be seen
snuffling through low brush and dirt
searching for grubs, worms and beetles.
Berries, nuts and seeds are the choice
of food for the Florida Scrub Jay seen
flitting through the low, spindly oaks,
and hiding in the scrub when feeling shy.
Their lives lived in extended-family colonies
helps assure them survival even while
their habitat is being threatened.

A dirt colored and plain patterned
garter snakes through the underbrush
before coming to rest in a sunny patch
on the forest’s floor…taking time to
absorb some warmth before moving on;
a gopher turtle stirs from his day’s nap.

All the animals hear when the humans
approach and they watch with
curiosity and then fear as monstrous
machines can be heard revving their
engines preparing once again for
their encroaching.

Victoria C. Slotto is our hostess at The Bardo Group for Writer’s Fourth Wednesday and invites us to contemplate wilderness:


Mira, almost two years old...gardening time with her wonderful other Grandma.

Mira, almost two years old…gardening time with her wonderful other Grandma.

Here’s a recent photo of Mira taken while she was doing some important gardening with her other Grandma.  She’s wearing the very appropriate t-shirt that her Auntie bought her that says, Lettuce Turnip the Beet!  Mira will be two years old on September 3.

Myth of Countries

“As I think of the many myths, there is one that is very harmful, and that is the myth of countries.”
– Jorge Luis Borges

How did it come to be that
we have erected so many
boundaries between
ourselves and others?
A fence between neighbors
became a border,
a border became a wall.
Walls have become
countries, separating us all.
Small differences have
grown enormously vital.
Our skin shades don’t match,
best you stay over there.
Your speech has a lilt,
you should keep quiet.
You believe what?!
Oh no, that’s wrong!
And instead of peaceful
coexistence, our leaders
have directed us to believe
we must have those
walls to protect
ourselves from you.

Margaret Bednar is our hostess at Imaginary Garden With Real Toads:

Waking Mira

Late afternoon shadows
crisscross among the
scattered, stuffed animals
that surround the calm
of the napping toddler.
It’s time to wake her and
without speaking I
gently rub her back.
She stirs and reaches
for one of the silky
tags on her light,
cotton blanket (the
one with the green monkeys)
and rubs it between her
fingers…her mouth,
puckered around her Nook,
sucks and she slips back
into sleep…so I think.
I take it slow…she’ll
get grumpy if I hurry her.
I whisper to her,
“Mira, it’s time to wake
up.” No response.
I rub her back some more
and she flips and rolls over,
her eyes flutter for a moment
as she quickly drifts off again.

I can relate…it’s hard for me to
awaken from naps sometime too.

She’s so beautiful…her purity,
her peace, her trust in those
who live to protect her and
love her without boundaries.

Finally I ask this sleeping child:
“Did you and Mommy go on
some errands today and did you
fall asleep in the car?” And
without missing a beat, she
replies while opening her
eyes and smiling at me…“Yeah.”

Victoria C. Slotto is our hostess at dVerse Poets; Meeting the Bar, Patterns of Life:

How Wolves Change Rivers

The Bardo Group is celebrating Wilderness Week, beginning August 31, in conjunction with the 50 year anniversary of the signing in 1964 of Wilderness Act.  Stop in and read some great articles and poetry on the wild:

We Three

You two sisters and I,
we three came home
to only one mother
now still alive.
But we rejoiced in our
bond that has held us so
tight  through decades of
memories that we love
to impart.
Though many years pass
between our visits, we pick
right up where we leave
off as if no time had elapsed.
The familiarity of childhood
play, roaming the woods,
biking for miles, tea parties
and birthdays shared
somehow seems an
unshakeable foundation.
We are intrinsically connected
and steadfast like nature’s
rhythm, the seasons
and the comforting cycles
of the sun and the moon.

Abhra is our host today over at dVerse Poets and invites us to contemplate homecoming:

Without You

Without you,
I wouldn’t be
where I am today,
without you.

Brian encourages us to write a poem in under 40 words. Mine is 11 words.

I Nodded Off

I nodded off while reading
I nodded off while reading
The words they started a dream
The words they started a dream
A dream the words they started
While reading, I nodded off

The story became a mystery
The story became a mystery
Sleuthing I went to discover
Sleuthing I went to discover
I went to discover the story
Sleuthing became a mystery

Was nothing like Nancy Drew
Was nothing like Nancy Drew
No answers were uncovered
No answers were uncovered
Nothing like Nancy Drew was
Uncovered…no answers were

I went sleuthing a mystery story,
became a dream while reading.
The words they started…
nothing like Nancy Drew was.
Uncovered were no answers;
I nodded off to discover.

Brian Miller is hosting at dVerse today and invites us to try a new form…yes, Brian! See below for the rules of the Paradelle.

The paradelle is a 4-stanza poem, where each stanza consists of 6 lines.
For the first 3 stanzas, the 1st and 2nd lines should be the same; the 3rd and 4th lines should also be the same; and the 5th and 6th lines should be composed of all the words from the 1st and 3rd lines and only the words from the 1st and 3rd lines. The final stanza should be composed of all the words in the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas and only the words from the 5th and 6th lines of the first three stanzas.

Sweet Dreams

Caught in a haze (not sure if it was purple)
my mind soft…floating…dreamy,
cascades smooooothly.
Colors ping and I hear them as notes
on a scale of 1 to 10 and they spontaneously
create an orchestra of enraptured awareness,
the music composed of streaming images.
I watch from outside of myself but am deeply
curious in the film being played within my
consciousness. Feelings arise, a smile plays
across my face, and a deep longing for my brother.
He appears and sits by my side and love pours
back and forth between us, our eyes beaming
light into infinity…the third spins a mandala.

Playing in a field of dreams with Anthony Desmond at dVerse Poets:

Sevenling (She Stayed)

She stayed with him
in spite of his alcoholism,
disparate views of life and selfish ways.

Wild winds blow day and night
through the Kansas grasslands, prairies and trees.
Change comes slowly to this small town.

A jack rabbit keeps watch on the deepening leaden sky.

Thank you to rmp for inspiring me to try my hand at a sevenling after I read her intriguing write with this form. Victoria is our hostess over at dVerse. It’s Open Link Night…anything goes!

The Devotee

A man, very dedicated to his spiritual
studies, was also a husband and father.
His wife was proud that her husband
was a good provider, a man of higher
faith and too, was devoted to their son.

As time went on, his work duties
took more of his time and his
wife and child saw less and less
of him. But still, faithfully,
he would meditate four hours
a day…two in the morning
and two in the evening.

Chores around the house that needed
attending were going undone.
The wife and son ate their meals
without the presence of husband and dad.

But still he kept to his sadhana schedule,
knowing his actions were adding up
to good karma and “right action.”

Social gatherings were missed, son’s
baseball games were not attended,
vacations were not taken and the years
rolled on with work taking precedence
next to the sacred practices that
he faithfully performed.

He would reap the rewards, he told
himself. His family would be blessed
by his astute and humble customs.
He took sanctuary in this knowledge
and committed even more to his endeavor.

But his relationship to his family dwindled.
No laughter or inquisitive talks were had.
Money was fluent but their emotions dry.
A deep imbalance had become evident.
After a time the wife divorced him and
his son felt forevermore like they were strangers.

Victoria demonstrates allegory for Writer’s Fourth Wednesday for The Bardo Group:

Microscopic Expanse

Photo of magnified sand from Mental

As my feet crunch, crunch,
along the shore’s
widening expanse,
I’m aware that I traverse
over countless, microscopic
pieces of sand art.
Exquisite in their form,
my mind expands in
the realization of how
these came to be created
through earth’s ages.
And around the globe,
on beaches far and wide,
we share in this vast,
seemingly endless,
astonishing beauty.

Over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Mama Zen invites us to write in 60 words or less on the subject of macro/micro presented through Words Count with Mama Zen:

It’s Time

Image from Bing Images

Panic gripped and I hid away;
I turned tail and ran and tried to keep it at bay.
But it’s useless I know, it’s happened before,
the cycle continues and the pain I deplore.
I know I am judged as weakness overcomes,
the shame that envelopes me, dark and tiresome.
My stuttering excuses fall on deaf ears,
they’ve been said many times, when the beast has appeared.
A lifetime has evolved into a habitual disgrace,
and a pushing against instead of embrace.
It’s a painful admission to put this out here,
but it could help someone else who may disappear.

Come, I say, beckoning to myself, let me hold you in love;
you have much that is worthy and are a sensitive dove.
This reality was created by a small, frightened child,
let go and relax, live a life that’s more mild.
You know it’s your thoughts that have brought this about,
and your worst judge is you, of that there’s no doubt.
So turn them around, make it a practice
create a bright world, and let go of the blackness.

Mary is our hostess today at dVerse Poets after our 3rd year anniversary celebrations. She is inviting us to write something on the subject of time or clocks and use either word in our creation. Thank you, Mary! Join us here:

Ode to dVerse

Appearing unbidden
Though soft, welcoming, sweet.
Open doors…unhidden,
Beckoning from the street.
Like a bright, warming cool day,
Friends greet and support,
Uplift and urge to play;
They’re the long-haul sort.

Never a cloud or a coarse word,
Even, accepting, but by rules are lead.
Abide and check yourself, preferred;
Relax, join in, and add to the thread.
Your fears will be put to rest.
You will be held with encouragement.
Feel free to share your zest,
Your authentic engagement.

Much like a steadfast lover
(Whose partner may come and go),
Or a devoted mother
Whose affection overflows.
A fluxing group that ebbs and flows
Like the tides…and the moon.
But always will find, though,
Spirit, life, truth…a boon.

Claudia invites us to share an ode as dVerse celebrates its third anniversary. Congratulations everyone!

The Way of Tea

Photo from Bing Images

Soft flute melodies
enchant the room;
with measured grace
the tea ceremony begins.
The tea house clean…
utensils handled with
distinct purpose, each
movement meaningful.
A meditation in action,
significance and detail
in its formal conveyance.
Each gesture choreographed
as if a ballet of the hands.
The ritual incorporates the
outer and the inner states.
It then becomes not so much
about drinking tea but
giving attention fully
…to the art…from the heart,
and blending the two.

Tending Thoughts (A Sestina)

To tend my thoughts and focus on all that’s good
will surely serve me best and bring me peace.
Attention given to pain and all world woes
only takes my happiness and swings it low.
For me to feel its grief makes two that suffer,
I will instead beam love to make that grow.

The ripples will go forth and all will grow
in love, steadiness, happiness and good.
The world will begin to heal from all it suffers,
no ills can escape the mend; it will know peace.
No peoples, nor air, nor lands…high or low,
will no longer be affected by any woe.

I firmly believe that this will cure our woes,
to focus on the affirmative and watch it grow.
Keep light, laugh, enjoy…play high and low
and reap that energy that sustains all that’s good.
The world and you and I will revel in joyous peace.
Life’s sorrow will be but a memory suffered.

Delighted freedom from ills is all we’ll suffer.
Start now to train your thoughts to forego woe,
and see how quickly fear is replaced by peace.
Give up worry, allow the good to grow.
Our thoughts impart power to make things good,
energy reacts around us to elevate or lower.

Keep to a state of allowing the higher…not low
into your conscious thought to abate any suffer.
Practice feeling happy, relaxed and good.
All things can be returned from a place of woe
through expansion of loving thoughts that grow.
Pay attention to your feelings…follow those of peace.

Calm, harmony, stillness, silence, peace
instill us with the strength to accept the low
yet not react and give it feed to grow.
You and I, this planet, need not suffer
by wallowing, dwelling, and grieving in the woe.
Contemplate only on thoughts of good.

Enlighten yourselves to ease all suffering.
As a whole we can transmute life’s woe
and increase a thousand-fold the good.

Claudia is our hostess at dVerse Poets for Open Link Night:


My inner-wanderer
has gone deep
this time.
Through the top
of the head
and out to
the cosmos-ladder
that lifts me beyond
I can see for eons,
forward and backward.
I’m free of limitations
and this data-know
quickens the kundalini
energy that runs up
my spine out into
the everlasting-always.
I return the way I left,
slipping back into
mundane consciousness,
but feeling as if in
a nirvana-garden.

Bjorn has us trying our hand at writing kennings at dVerse Poets:

Lady With the Birds


“Lady With the Birds”; Painting by Sunita Khedekar

Her eyes were pavonated
like the feathers of the peacock
that was her constant companion,
and lightly encircled with deep topaz.
The affect was stunning.
Shiny, silky atrous hair
framed a delicate, porcelain countenance
that equaled her kindly demeanor.
But her outward beauty was
not why the avian world
was attracted to her presence.
It was her ease with and acceptance
of all feathered and winged creatures.
Since a small child, she doted on
and cared for fallen nestlings.
The injured or lost found their
way to her capable and
encompassing spirit.
She spoke to them in low,
gentle coos and trills and was
recognized as one of their own.
Her daily sadhana was
performed under the spreading
canopy of the village banyan tree.
As she relaxed in contemplation,
birds of all size and hue would
gather close…quiet, respectful,
in repose…understanding her
communion with the All Loving One.
They felt her peace; they knew her love.
Her gaze emitted a celestial, pale blue
light…the soul light of the Blue Pearl.
Stillness and harmony reigned…hearts
merged between woman and bird.
There was no separation.

Today at dVerse Poets, Grace introduces us to the spectacular artwork of Sunita Khedekar as inspiration. I chose her painting, “Lady With the Birds.” Thank you to Grace, and to Sunita for your generosity in sharing your work with us.

The amazing story of how Diablo became Spirit

Posted on YouTube by Arjan Postma


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