Nick’s Shtick

alexander-dummer-gZlsrMPwz0o-unsplash

Photo: Alexander Dummer via Unsplash

 

I nicked Nick

With a stick

After he picked

And tried to hit

Me

With a brick.

He should not try

Such a sick

Kind of shtick

If he doesn’t like

Being tricked

And summarily pricked

By a royally ticked

But quick thinking

Chick.

 

 

For the dVerse Quadrille challenge: Nick

 

 

In Between

walk at sunset

Photo: D. Freedman

 

In between the wish for more

And need for less

She paused to let the breeze pass

Through

And transform her

From the rushing steps that never seem to

Gain foothold

On life,

To the tranquility of what is

Yet

to be left

Behind.

 

 

 

For the dVerse poetry quadrille challenge: tranquility

 

Voice Of Song

Lady Liberty SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

There is no

Place,

No space,

Without

Voice.

 

If the trees of our soul

Fall

With no ears near

To hear,

Silence deafens

Roar into

Lore.

 

Be the voice

Of your song.

Let the air move

Through lungs

Via cords

To record:

You’re aboard.

 

 

 

For the dVerse Quadrille challenge: Voice

 

Freckled

mehrdad-haghighi-27sDypkWCF0-unsplash

Photo: Mehrdad Haghighi via Unsplash

 

Spattered,

Scattered,

Splattered

Like galaxies

Of reversed light

Upon the expanse

Of skin.

Concentrated pigment

On the canvas

Of the body,

They speckle

Like stars

Reflected

In the negative of film.

Beloved,

They dance upon

The nose.

A freckled

Symphony

Of brown and gold.

 

 

 

For the dVerse Quadrille Challenge

 

The Moon

blood moon

Photo by George Desipris on Pexels.com

 

“What’s wrong?” I burst into her room with uncombed hair dripping from the bath and my bathrobe hanging half-opened.

She was sitting in her bed, sheets all tangled, the pillow clutched against her chest.

When she said not a word, I felt the terror rise inside me, too.

She’d had good cause for nightmares in the past, but it’s been years since any of those had woken her in such a state. Why now?

“What is it?” I crossed the distance from the door in three steps but dared not touch her lest my hands make her remember other ones, a lot less loving. “Can you tell me?”

She shuddered as if coming back from a great distance.

“I dreamt I was the moon,” she whispered. “Vast and cold and deathly airless.

“and,” her breath caught, “I dreamt that he found his way there.”

 

 

For the dVerse prosery challenge

 

 

 

Sun Set

Sun set AtaraKatz

Photo: A.Katz

 

As the sun’s last light

Paints mountains

Red,

May worry find a safe

For stashing

Dread:

That morning might

Not come

Again,

That homes might turn

From hope

To strain,

And children’s cries

Will sound

In pens,

As they wake

More memories

Of pain.

 

 

 

For dVerse Quadrille Challenge: Sun

 

The Richness Of You

sunrise florida NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

If a hollowing sorrow

Catches your breath in a

Hold

And then folds

Like a snail

Into what can’t

Be told …

Let the richness

Of you

Spread like gold

From a long ago story

Foretold,

Like the waves’

Gentle touch

On a morning’s

Threshold.

 

 

 

For dVerse’s quadrille challenge: Rich

 

 

Up in Shame

earth desert dry hot

Photo: Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

When the world hollows out

And the sun cooks up blame,

Don’t forget there were times

When we’d known

The con-game,

And yet chose –

To our shame –

Truth’s very core to

Maim.

 

We allowed

A shell-game

To carve the Earth

Up

In flames.

 

 

For dVerse Quadrille Monday: Up

 

Learned Limbo

brown wooden desk table

Photo: Stephen Paris on Pexels.com

 

It has long lain

In limbo,

All voices ebbed

Into dust.

As silent letters

On chalkboard,

Watch the desks

Left to rust.

At one time

Children chanted,

Poems rose

Learned by heart.

But they’d grown

And time hastened.

School-house days

Did not last.

Now it sits,

Heart quite emptied,

And still waits

For the past.

 

 

For the dVerse Challenge: Limbo

 

A Spinning Spin

 

Illustration: Anne Anderson from Grimm’s Fairy Tales (London and Glasgow 1922)

 

He wanted her to spin

Straw

Into gold.

To make the mundane

Magic

To behold.

Though the metal

Nourished

Naught,

And left only

An empty

Cot.

Where with

Better thought

He might’ve

Got,

Riches which

Could not

Be bought.

 

 

Note: A little spin on Rumpelstiltskin

For Anmol’s dVerse poetics: Myths and Legends