This Being Human Is…

Western Motel by Edward Hopper, 1957

You can read Kim’s post and prompt here:

In brief: “The challenge is to write a metaphor poem that starts with the words ‘This being human is…’ It does not have to be in the same format or style as Rumi’s, and you can compare being human to anything you want: a building or place, an object, something natural or something manufactured, a ritual or an everyday act. It is up to you to explore whatever it is in your poem.”


This being human is…

Sand on the shore

And waves that freshen

Dawn meadow of purple heather

Cliffs above, jagged rocks below

Orchard boughs reaching, feeding

Cold concrete walls e’er unyielding

Pock-marked, knife-scarred, bruise-painted

First snow soft-falling whispered white

Midnight moonless, stars shy of dark

This being human is…

People passing fast as freeways

Pausing awhile, canvases

Of changing scenery

Kaleidoscopic hearts

Laughter ringing through musical rooms

Shadows slipping in, out of crowds

Trailing tears, dripping blood

This being human is…

Seasonal transitions

Hellos, goodbyes and 

Myriad words in between

Phrases synched…sometimes dangling

Broke-stave fences, blazing bridges

Tapestry’s constant weaving

Abandoned shacks, restoration

Castles solid, and tumbling down

Final losses named on marble stones

©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.

Dear Body Mine (Verse Epistle)

Dear Body mine—

Sad to say, I feel betrayed.

To be fair, I don’t mind loss

Of beauty—though I was a

Head-snapper, many said so…

No, my issue’s not that shallow.

What have you done with my

Memory?  Did you take it as

A trophy?  Don’t say I misplaced

It—don’t you dare go there!

Buying post-it notes will bankrupt

Me…not that you care.

Worst part is what you chose

To steal—why not trunk full

Of dark-scarred recollections?

Try those on for size!

It’s the small, crucial bits I need

Every day…but can’t locate

Without stressed distress:

Passwords, appointment dates…

Phrase I spoke a moment ago?

It’s gone…but you can’t relate.

Once, I prided myself on vast

Vocab, penned and articulate…

Now I cast about, constantly

Reach for scraps of thoughts

I wish to express…

I gave up looks, strength; I own

Those choices…vision’s

Slipping, I’ll adjust I guess.

But you’ve robbed the best and

That’s a fact—I’d never sign

Your crazy contract…you’ve no

Idea, can’t conceive harsh impact.

Be off with you, then!

On my first love, I’ll depend—

Imagination’s truest…still

Most loyal friend.

©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.

Exploring the poetic genre: “Verse Epistle” (Come taste the feeling)

Time’s Silvered Blur

For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub ~ Click the link at end of post to learn more and join the others😊

Time’s hands run circles

Etching stories on my face

Convert, squaring rows:

Months’ pages racing past…years

Too swift gone to capture glimpse


Aged vision blurs glass

Poet’s rain…words ripple, pool ~

Relentless, seek healed

Quietness of soul at dusk

Where blessed-rest at last is met

©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.

An Edgy Community

My response to dVerse Poetics prompt, “Edges and Fringes”:  I’ve used both word prompts in a LONG prose poem; the inspiration comes from my novel in progress.


Richard stood braced against the wind

As near cliff’s edge as was prudent

Thinking about the young people

Who’d thrown their barely-lived lives

Over it, crashing to boulders below where

Voracious tides rushed to claim anything

Not clenched in rocks’ unmatched shark-teeth.

He was undecided whether to remain in this

Odd town; today the sounds—shrill breeze

Seagulls, icy water beneath—merged into

Keening lament, perhaps last words

Of the lost, or sirens who’d wooed them.

He hadn’t known these kids, but during his

Short residence he’d become consumed by

Enigma of their deaths; and myths, other

Mysteries secreted in secluded, strangely

Fear-shrouded place of closed-mouth folks

Who had appraised his arrival without welcome.

He might have turned his old VW ’round, left

Them with their shadows, but ambiance was

Writer’s bait.  Too, there was a kindly older

Couple—surprisingly open to his curiosity

Unlike the someone determined to frighten

Him off by way of arson fire, or recent illness

He’d suffered…a deliberate poisoning.

And, there was the lovely-as-heather (yet

Aloof) recluse he hoped to know better.

The suicides distressed him, and peculiar

Absence of children—though he’d first met a

Teacher, and observed mute brown-brick school

Tucked inside the hamlet’s formidable

Wrought iron gates (locked at sundown).

All in all it was an edgy community, seemingly

Bound on blurred fringes by a darkling force.

©Zelda Rene, 2021 ~ All rights reserved.