The Singers Raise Their Voices in Praise

Grasshopper and Moon.  Ohara Koson











mindlovemisery B&P’s Shadorma and Beyond – re-interpret existing poems as a shadorma


little songs
from morning to dusk
the ant’s chant
the bee’s hum
the frog’s grunt down by the pond
gird the day with praise.

of the kakydids
who-ing owls
cooing dove
and the cricket’s chirping tune
lull the night to sleep

of nature’s mantra
hum, buzz, trill,
bark, cry, shriek
by night and day her creatures
celebrate the earth.


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A Slip of Sky

dverse Haibun Monday: The Sky IS the Limit
Today, I would like for you to write your haibun about the day sky – from dawn to dusk and any time in between. From you I am requesting a haibun of one paragraph and one paragraph only. Please make this tight and of course, it is non-fiction. Write about the sky – the sky the day you were married, a sky from a childhood memory, lying in the grass and looking up at the clouds, a rainy sky, a snowy sky, any daytime sky.


The sky sat low on the mountain top. Swirling wisps of fog painted a grey and white horizon. I watched as the sky slid lower, erasing the landscape, leveling the world, softening the sounds of life to a sleepy hum. This blanket of mist crept closer still till from my window all I could see were vague shapes of trees and hints of deeper greys. It could have felt eerie, menacing, a gothic shiver of apparition unfolding. Instead it was a tranquil enveloping like the drowsy moments before drifting to sweet dreams.

Clinging, foggy tendrils
blanket the heavy-eyed day
snug in downy dreams



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The Twilight Days

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie (A look at Julia Spicher Kasdorf) B&P’s Shadorma and Beyond
Now it’s your turn.
After you’ve written your Shadorma (or other poem) post it on your own blog, tag it B&Ps Shadorma and Beyond and MindLoveMisery’sMenagerie


I’ve long admired you
strong woman, gentle,
we became friends
in our roles as wife of-
mother of- the son
that we both loved
and both hurt by.
I sat beside your bed
last evening as you slept
contours of bone showing
through sheer skin.
One small, lone body
with ninety-two years
of wear and experience
much you’ve shared
and yet so much unsaid
of the inner life.
Endings are like a thought
half spoken, a mystery
never solved, a breath indrawn
and never expelled…
I grieve for you while you live
and grieve for me at what will be.



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dversepoets I am who I am, but tomorrow, who knows? Posted by

I am
crafted of
abundance and loss.

I am
content and restless
shades of grey
in swirls of black and white.

I was
born in the twentieth century
will die
in the twenty-first

but until then

I’ll live
to see
more wonders and woes.



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And Then it Rained

You can write of a summer where you experience a life changing event and how you coped with it. Or you can choose to write a summer storm poem. We’re talking weather, social upheaval, or controversy that can be considered a “storm” of sorts. No matter which one you choose, it will be expressed tenderly by your heart.


It had been building all day
a tension in the air a heaviness
a murmur of muted sounds
and colors that drooped
on slender tendrils
wearied with expectation
a question unspoken
a hot, sticky, pressure
butting up against my skin
and then
a distant rumble and dark clouds
roiling like bubbles gathering
in the bottom of a pot
a searing slice of jagged
electricity sending
static round my head
and then
intermittent drops of rain
like a promise about to be broken
and then
a steady, rhythmic plop
on metal gutters, percussion
midst the soft violins
and then
the tension eased
the world massaged
to soft sighs of ahhhh



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Honeysuckle Nectar

Image result for tasting honeysuckle images
Google image

Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie  Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille “one with nature”


Soft current of air
honeysuckle scent lures me
sweetness to my tongue




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These Skies Today…

PoeticBloomings Poet Gary R. Ferris provides today’s inspiration with his poem: Peaceful Summer Day “Hook into a word, a line or a thought to expand upon, and write your new poem!”


are hypnotically clear
not even a contrail
smears the sheer blue
in the Appalachians
where elms, poplar, and ash
shin up the sides
in a leafy frame of green,
where the wren and jay
and the chickadee convene
to sing their delight in the day.
Oh, pellucid skies, to be alive
and cognizant of the opulent
grace of God.


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