Cracked but Not Broken

Roth Poetry

Ruth's Tile

After twenty-five years of marriage things were unraveling.  Our boys were off in school and the empty nest syndrome was weighing down on us. Depression was challenging every part of our marriage. On our anniversary we went out to dinner and as was our tradition we exchanged gifts. She gave me the tile above inscribed with the words of hope for our marriage. I have had it on our wall ever since. A couple of years ago, it fell and cracked in half. I got some glue and cemented it together and hung it back on the wall. I thought, how symbolic of our marriage, cracked but not broken! Next year will be our fiftieth!

Cracked but Not Broken (a Quadrille)

Twenty-five years

Things were shaky

Gifts after dinner…

Tokens of love exchanged

For me ‘twas a tile

Words …of hope for the future

“Paint me a picture,

Draw me…

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Writing Poetry

Roth Poetry

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I wrote this quadrille this morning, before I knew what our prompt of the day would be on d’Verse. Bjorn suggested that we look at silence in the poetic line and the different ways of marking those breaks.  It is know as Caesura, the breathe of the poem. It includes standard punctuation as well as other markings. I went back and put in the silent spaces and pauses in my poem. This is my first attempt at this, so I hope it is what is expected.

Writing Poetry 

My words // chosen carefully…

Like stepping on wet rocks

crossing a stream.

Hoping this one // will sustain me

to the next.

I am not interested in a big splash!

Simply making it across

One solid word at a time

Reaching my desired destination.

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Check out our group site on d’Verse~Poetry Pub at: https://dversepoets.com/

Photo: Dwight L. Roth

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Les dessins du déménagement !!!!

BUBO

Ola le net

Comme promis, cher lecteurs dévoués voici les dessins que j’ai réalisé pendant mes pauses ou pendant mes soirées. J’ai vraiment laissé libre cours à mon imagination.

J’ai réalisé une grande partie de mes dessins au crayon de bois sauf les 3 derniers (j’avais réussi à retrouver mon aquarelle :p)

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Pour ce dessin je rêvais de prendre un bon bain.20180311_150332[1]

Pour ces dessins, mon esprit a vagabondé.

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 J’ai retrouvé mon aquarelle !!!

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The Boatman and the Traveller

Ishaisms

Starless winter night, the cold, dark waters;
The boatman comes to ferry the midnight travellers,
Yet, waiting hatless, at the lonely harbour,
head bent down, a solitary smoker,
leans ‘gainst the mossy ladder –
coat revealing a silver dagger…

Breaking into a sweat despite the shiver,
The boatman reluctantly takes him in and stammers,
“And where would you like to go to, sir?”
A faraway look and a frown between his brows gather,
as the traveller, his eerie, incoherent reply utters…
“Take me to him, I seek no other,
take me to the one – the one who murdered…
left me to die, in these cold dark waters…
I come to settle old scores, with his dagger…”

© Isha Garg

Doodle by Isha Garg

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The Untold Story of a Prison Guard’s Struggle

Tropics of Meta

With a generator powering the house, my family reluctantly went through belongings at my sister’s home. While going through her bedroom, deciding what clothes to keep and what to donate, I discovered a journal containing my sister’s own words about her time as a prison guard. At the age of twenty-one my sister, Jami, went off to the California Correctional Academy with dreams of having a lifelong career. After completing and graduating from the academy at the top of her class, she received a job at Corcoran State Prison.

When it opened in February 1988, Corcoran State Prison was only the nineteenth prison established by the state of California since 1852. The opening of Corcoran, however, came at the beginning of an unprecedented prison build-up: California has built twenty-three new prisons between the years of 1984 and 2007.[1] With more than double the amount of prisons, one would expect…

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I remembered the tree and the tree remembered me

Kindred

We sat in the car, a full country’s length away from our normal. Years of marital problems had come to a head in the preceding weeks and, after an agreement to work on these problems and an understanding that they weren’t going to be solved overnight, nearly tangible tentativeness and awkwardness hung in the air between us. We had made it to the outskirts of Boston, my childhood home, for Christmas. As my husband drove us towards my parents’ house, I pointed out landmarks to lighten the mood.

“That’s Grant Circle… who knew that would become my name?”

“That’s the pier my Dad and I have kayaked off of.”

“That’s the bowling alley we rented for a birthday party, but it got snowed out.”

Dan jumped on that landmark.

“I didn’t know that,” he said. We’d talked about it before, so he knew birthdays were hard for me. Sweetly, he…

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