Dark Moods

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Hypnotic Fusion of Portraits by Antonio Mora, Spanish photographer Antonio Mora

dverse  Prosery: Meet Jane Kenyon Posted by Victoria C. Slotto in Prosery

If it’s darkness we’re having, let it be extravagant. Let it be a heavy velvet, deep purple sky lit with fireflies and the iridescence of copper and green Japanese beetles. Let there be a throbbing drum of a bull frog’s rum, rum, brum and the caw of a blue-black crow. Let the sooty night settle like coal dust on the eaves and the trees nothing more than ashen shadows on the hill.

And if I must lie in my lonely bed let me lie in gaudy jewel colored silks. Let my tears roll profuse down my cheeks and my sobs flow like a spendthrift fool. For if it’s darkness that I must suffer, then let the darkness be elaborate, extravagant, excessive and my sorrow steeped in a deadly potion of Indian licorice, pheasant’s eye and suicide tree. Then, pray I, just let me be.


If it’s darkness we’re having, let it be extravagant from “Taking Down the Tree.” Jane Kenyon

The Weightiness of Words

PoeticBloomings  BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE

I hold my hands over the dictionary
letting the warm words warm me
cozy · snug · comfortable · mellow
toasty · snuggly · balmy · summery
letting the comfort words comfort me
solace · commiserate · succor · ease
relief · cheer · gladdening · reassure

Oh, the weight of ink that speaks
to the inner man, to the soul and spirit
to the hurt, confusion, dearth of love,
words of healing, delight and family
served chambré like a glass of Cabernet.

“The Weight of Ink” a book by Rachel Kadish
chambré , French, to bring to room temperature.


The Twiglette

This       is      text     in     a        block         form          not       a       block-headed      form
there            is             not             anything             stubborn       or     stupid     about      it
it           just          wants                to           fit            in           with            the        perimeters
of            convention,             of            not            showing            off        or   showing   up
has                   no             need           to           be         svelte           or             wasp-waisted
or       undernourished    or       sexy    as       sexy    is       known      in        this          age
or       any         other          age. It      is      just     a       chip       off      the      old        block
going                 around               the             block           for          a            healthy        walk
or                    maybe                          trying                    to               block         the             sun
from                    shining                         too            brightly                in             its            eyes
so                pull              the              shades           and            let          the     child        stack
the        block          high           and      let     them    fall      and     stack     them       again
ad             nauseum         or               at            least        until          you          want     to  cry
e                          n                              o                            u                             g                                 h!

Don’t Tell Me What’s True – Show Me.

imaginarygarden Kerry Says ~ What is Metamodernism?

I grew up in a black and white world
where truth was stable, grey ignored,
and I was fine, I thought, until
winds sighed ‘there’s a crack in the world
another truth is leaking in’
and all the things I’d accepted
as sure drifted from their anchor,
floated just out of reach, twisted
into a different shape and hue…
Eve’s curse,
Ham’s curse,
Sodom’s curse,
only told part of the story
and truth fractured like a mirror
letting me glimpse more and more views
the colors refracted amazed me.
They say “the truth will set you free.”
Color my world with verity.




Autumn Meditations

Laura Bloomsbury at dverse prompt
“Do you know what the earth meditates upon in autumn?” from Pablo Neruda’s “Book of Questions”

When summer has dog-eared her welcome out
her sere winds drying the spit from my mouth
I wonder if earth longs for relief, too?
Does she meditate on cool nights, morning
grass with seeded heads bejeweled with dew?
Does she dream in shades of bronzed-brown, pumpkin,
russet, gold… bold pigments of deep rich hues,
covet the crunch of withered-leaf strewn paths
and snapping acorns under wandering feet?
Does she make a list, check off each to do…
thickening the sap, nudging the fox squirrels,
slowing the heartbeat of the bear, I swear,
there’s so much to do, closing down, stripping,
draining, shriveling, decelerating,
planting somnolent seeds in living things…
Are these the things autumn meditates on?

Study in Grey

Poetic Bloomings   Among our highlighted Japanese forms I am using Boketto for the second poem. “Study in Grey” came first this morning then the Boketto followed.

I look up from my book
at the sound of the rain
its pounding pulse
draws me to the window
where gradient degrees
of opaque fog drifts
thinly as mosquito netting
deeper within damask flocking
and furthest away the
heavy semi-sheer organza
ghostly pearl and the
mountains tops misty lines
upon a shadowy bulk.
I have become a grey thing
stationary, staring, gripped
by the presence of nothing
acquainted with stealth
and ancient needs to be
safe, sheltered, hidden… enclosed


The pounding pulse of the rain
pulls me to the windowpane
to see gradient degrees
of opaque fog
thin then deepening.

I have become a grey thing
a statue, staring, suffused
with silence.

Far away the mountain tops,
misty lines of ghostly pearl
share with me their deepest needs
primeval needs
stillness, sheltered, safe.

I have become a grey thing
a statue, staring, suffused
with silence.

Wizard of Hot Air

Poetic Bloomings – There’s no place like home


There are things which are out of our control
destiny, fate, karma or providence
call it what you will, that’s your only choice
because suddenly life is upon you
and an evil wind has blown you away
you find yourself where you’d rather not be,
like Oz, where reality has taken
on a shimmer and shine of fantasy,
delusion likely, hallucination
so you bluff your way through with arrogance
hiding behind a curtain of bluster
dreading the day of reckoning, unveiled
seen for what you really are, a nothing
no magic, no power, just a common
little man who desperately, frenziedly,
just wants
to go home
again, too.