I remember my father digging,
foot on the spade’s top edge
pushing the blade further in,
Grandma twisting her trowel
into the roots of weeds,
breaking their tentacle holds,
and tiny me screaming, running
from a thick gelatinous earthworm –
never to be a gardener!
Written for Quadrille #246 at dVerse: a poem of exactly 44 words excluding title, which must contain some form of the word 'dig'.
The bones of my body
are reinforced now
with calcium injections –
effective. Despite the falls (I
am old) my bones don’t break.
The bones of my long life,
however – the scaffolding,
the structure, holding me,
enabling me – are words,
poems. Without them, how lost …
Written for Quadrille $245: Writing Down the Bones (a title inspired by my all-time favourite book for writers, of the same title, by Natalie Goldberg).
I have been a little unwell recently – nothing to worry about, but it has turned off my poetic inspiration for a few days, and I have indeed felt at a loss. Thank heavens (and dVerse, and in this instance De Jackson aka WhimsyGizmo) for the Quadrille form, to which I can seldom fail to respond. It is 44 words exactly, excluding title, and must include a particular word, this time 'bones'.
In my town, silence
deepens as the night
slows to late.
From my hill, I observe
streets and houses
settling down to bed.
An occasional dog.
A passing night bird.
One or two homing cars.
Then it belongs
to me and poetry
alone. Mine.
A second Quadrille about silence (inspired by dVerse) in response to a request from one of the others who answered the prompt, who wrote of his town and wondered what others might say of theirs in 44 words. (I'm not sharing this with the dVerse group as a whole, as we were only asked for one Quadrille to address the prompt, and mine is the poem I posted here just before this one. But it's fine of course if they happen across it.)
Conscience tells me
not to be silent.
When poetry is duty
is it still a poem?
But in these times,
being human
gives everyone the duty
the imperative
to speak against
all the kinds of destruction
by which
we are taking
ourselves
into silence.
A Quadrille written for Shhhhhhh.......Quiet, Please! at dVerse.
(Quadrille: 44 words excluding title – which in this instance must include some form of the word 'silent'.)
Bird, in this world, this
world of today, becomes
a symbol of escape –
if only we could
take flight, soaring
into high air, away
from war, starvation,
terrorist attacks and
homelessness …
our green home no longer
safe. If the economy
don’t get you,
climate
Written for Quadrille #243: Bird is the Word, at dVerse.
(Quadrille: exactly 44 words excluding title, and including a given word, in this instance 'bird'.)
In my friend’s garden
there are always flowers
every time of year,
and birds at the feeding box
her husband built.
The years go on;
we are all getting older.
Looking out across her lawn
over the descending hill,
I’m grateful to still visit.
A Quadrille for dVerse, 44 words (minus title) which must include some form of ‘flower’: Quadrille #241.
(Photos all taken in Lancia and Ern's garden; just a few of the many over the years.)
Rifle shots darken
day, mood, life force.
Killing Jews in Australia
doesn’t save Palestinians
suffering in Gaza. Just as
slaughtering people in Gaza
has not stopped terrorists.
What, then? Hibernate? Enter
the darkness? Escape
under that blanket, despair?
Or light our candles
for all?
Written for Quadrille #238 at dVerse: 44 words including ‘hibernate’.
People have been lighting candles for those killed in the recent Bondi Beach attack on civilians celebrating Hanukkah. Others are asking why we don't do that for the victims of the genocide in Gaza.
‘Write your happiest moment,’
the teacher instructs. I fly –
not to the birth of either child, nor
wedding their father, not graduation,
not even breathing freedom
after two huge years
of Wicked Stepmother –
but standing in your arms
briefly … everything
winding down to zero.
Written in response to Quadrille #237: Zero at dVerse.
(A poem of exactly 44 words, including the word zero.)
And also in response to an exercise in writing teacher Natalie Goldberg's book for memoir writers: Old Friend from Far Away.
?
Sometimes, like a musician
coaxing certain notes
and interminglings of notes
from strings or keys
or a sculptor pulling shape
gradually from stone,
chiselling away all that is not
that shape,
I draw words from somewhere
behind thought, from
beyond the air:
thus, here.
Written for dVerse 17 Nov 2025: Q236 – Coaxing Is As it Does, a Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words excluding title, which in this case must include the word 'coax').
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The track's a whirl of colour,
of swirling anticipation,
a loud buzz, a festive crowd
for 'the race that stops a nation.'
Champagne and fancy hats.
The flutter of skirts, or money.
They’re off! The crowd roars. Me too.
(Many are once-a-year gamblers; others…)
It's already Tuesday here in Australia: the first Tuesday in November, on which day there is only one race I could mean when I refer to The Cup. The Melbourne Cup has long been known as 'the race that stops a nation.' It's a public holiday only in the State of Victoria, of which Melbourne is the capital; but elsewhere many people, and many places of business, pause for the running of the race. After all, at most places of business, someone will have organised a 'Cup sweep' for the employees. (I don't 'have a flutter' myself, as I don't gamble, not even a little bit, having once been – briefly – married to a compulsive gambler. However , I quite like to see the spectacle.)
Written for Quadrille #235 at dVerse: 44 words which must include 'whirl.'
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