Band Member

Signing up with the Sargent 
audition unrehearsed
first chair potential

the score, peppered with notes
unwarranted, unanswered, unsent

and I, virtuoso in
a minor key
play
plucking my heart
con dolore

transmuting
pain to melody
oxidation to harmony
and regret to

solo

 

This is for dVerse where we were asked to write  a Quadrille (44 words, including title) including some form of the word, “pepper” in honor of the anniversary of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Half Life

As I drift off to sleep I hear voices
like a radio playing, softly
in another room
just below
the threshold of understanding

In the morning
the voices are gone.
There is no radio
playing anywhere in the house
and so I go
about my day

Each night I listen
but I can never, quite hear
enough
to understand
and I cannot remember my dreams

 

This is written for the Sunday mini-prompt at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where we have been asked to think and write about hearing voices.

 

Night in the Portrait Gallery of My Ancestors

The dead watch me
as I walk down the hall

I hear them whisper
among themselves
mournful, mindful
urgent or ironic
I cannot tell

when I turn
to look
mist gathers
behind my eyes
and they are still, silent,
poised within their frames

waiting…

 

This is a quadrille (poem composed of forty-four words) for dVerse Poets Pub.  De also asked us to include some form of the word “whisper” in our piece.

Loss

Loss curls around him
rubbing against his stubbled cheek
he turns his face to it
and swallows it whole

he feels it circle then settle, heavy
and smooth in his belly
like a stray cat
coming home

inside he is windswept
flapping around the dark pit of absence
bleak as the moors in November
and falling
always falling

 

This started out as a quadrille (44 words) but I came back to it, fiddled, and added a few more.  Now it’s linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads where they are hosting an open forum.

On Outliving One’s Child

He pads down dark corridors
peering into empty rooms

Loss curls around him
rubbing his stubble

He swallows it whole
and feels it settle
heavy
in his belly

Picking at a frayed seam
he wonders how he can be both
so full
and so empty

 

This is for Bjorn at dVerse Poets Pub where we have been asked to write a poem of forty-four words including the word, “curl”, also know as a quadrille.