Today I need to write a kyrielle.
I think that I will do so very well.
I dare someone to offer a critique,
‘cause, hey, that last line’s sure to rhyme with “trick.”

I’ll try to write three stanzas, maybe more.
There are so many options, rhymes galore.
I’ll use words such as kleptomaniac
‘cause, hey, that last line’s sure to rhyme with “trick.”

And now I think my little verse is done.
I’ve written lots of lines and had some fun.
And I don’t want to hear a word of flack
‘cause, hey, that last line’s sure to rhyme with “trick.”
 
 
This poem was written for Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Eight challenge. Suffice it to say, I am not so good with slant rhymes and perhaps a bit lacking in the iambic pentameter department too.

 

 

 

“’Tis the gift to be simple.”
Then why do we choose and admire
other gifts — adorned, elaborate,
embellished, complicated,
complex, challenging, difficult?
We swaddle them in beautifully
crafted wrappings with fancy bows,
all to be torn and discarded.

Why do we forget this simple truth?
What if we learned to wrap one
another in our loving presence
and simply be present together?
 
 
This was written for Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Seven prompt, a poem about shopping for gifts on Black Friday.

Red
shiny
Jonathans,
peeled
and sliced.

Perfection:
apple
pie.

This poem is for Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Six challenge, which had something to do with fifteen syllables and eight lines (I think.)

Crack, crunch and a muffled,
“Thank you, Nana, for this treat.
Mmmm. Blue raspberry for me.”
And silently I thank you, kitchen gods,
for the forgotten bag of Dum-Dums
hidden, waiting for an indoor day.

While crystalline frost coats the
windows and the wind howls in
bare branches of the trees,
we’re grateful for small treats
and warm hands and bright blue tongues
amidst the crack and crunch.

 

This poem was written for Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Five challenge. I have two granddaughters, one of whom crunches her lollipops while her sister savors hers.

 

Ma belle, are you well?
If you are well, why
do your eyes well with tears
as you wander in white
round home and hearth,
guarding your heart from those
who try to wish you well?

Be well, ma belle, and if
“all’s well that ends well,”
may you find an ending for all
of us in your pen and inkwell.

This is in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Four challenge to rework one of our responses from this month by adding a larger-than-life character to it. I’ve struggled to add the Belle of Amherst to one of my poems. The poem needs work, but I like the concept.

 

Meditation on Lady Macbeth:
Sleepwalking through her part,
where talk is cheap and no
argument can undo what’s done.

No matter how hard the work,
the smell of blood remains,
the flavor of blood in the air,
red stain that equals her guilt.

Fake somnolence to hide
hands that will never match
that innocent rosy pink
before what’s done was done.
 
 
This poem was written for Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Three challenge providing twelve possible words to use in a poem. I used ten of the twelve: lady, part, cheap, argument, work, flavor, equals, fake, match, pink.

 

Consider the color.
Consider it red, the
red of sriracha
behind a white rooster.

Consider what I see.
Consider what you see.
I call it red, the
red of sriracha.

Suppose you see green
when you see sriracha.
Then what is the color?
And what does red mean?

This poem was written in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty-Two prompt, which was to write something about synesthesia or at least about the senses. This doesn’t exactly fit the bill but it does speak to my fascination with color perception and how it might differ from person to person.

Are you well? Well, are you?
If you say you are well, why
do your eyes well with tears
unshed and why do you wander
well away from home and hearth,
a heartbeat away or a day away,
still well away from those who
love you and wish you well?

Your well-being, your being well —
same or not the same? “All’s
well that ends well.” But
does it end at all? Well?

A bit of a a cheat on this one, since this was a previously discarded riff on the word “well” from the Day Seven challenge, but I tweaked it to echo throughout the response here to Day Twenty-One. Thanks for another day of poetry, Miz Quickly.

She came to Book Club, unanticipated,
even though she said we should expect her.
Paler, thinner, but receiving and returning
our hugs despite her own fragility.

Later, her comments were few,
the small glass of wine untouched.
Only the dainty lace cookies tempted her —
“Nothing tastes good anymore,” she sighed.

The book? Forgettable, uninspired.
“A beach read,” some said dismissively,
as they played the game of casting the
inevitable movie to come.

Our own stories, quiet, yet more dramatic
than any novel, each confronting our own
mortality over wine and cheese and
fragile cookies of delicate lace.
 
 
This poem was written in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Nineteen challenge, in which we were to write about a reader.

 

To my right, a clear expanse
lets in light and even heat.
I look out, but I scarcely see
except for the wide sky, the blur
of colors, an occasional sign, my life in brief
through the window of my car.
 
 
This one is in response to Miz Quickly’s Day Twenty challenge, “Consider the Window.”