The Painted Ladies

-

 dVerse Poetics: But no, a butterfly 

Merril tells us, "So, for today, I’ve composed a list of common butterfly names taken from several online sites. People seem to enjoy these list prompts. Choose at least three of the names from the list below and include them in your poem. You may choose to use more than three for your poem. Please use the entire name, that is use “Appalachian azure”, not just Appalachian or azure."

I do enjoy the list prompts!

photo credit 

A clouded yellow sunset

glows on golden birdwing

and autumn leaf.

The painted lady

reflects the setting sun.  

©2026 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved  

Comments

  1. AnonymousAugust 4, 2026 at 7:20 PM

    eric here. lovely. it’s great how you have so few nonbutterflyname words!what fun!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Merril D. SmithAugust 5, 2026 at 7:21 AM

    A beautiful imagist poem. I can see it!

    ReplyDelete
  3. HelenAugust 5, 2026 at 9:01 AM

    Within the eighteen words of poetry ... and the luscious image ... you transported me to magic land!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. LisaAugust 5, 2026 at 10:46 AM

      I was lucky to find a perfect painted lady photo! Also, that S.F. is situated to see sunsets!

      Delete
  4. TruedessaAugust 5, 2026 at 10:39 AM

    A lovely visual poem filled with color.

    ReplyDelete
  5. CaraAugust 5, 2026 at 12:10 PM

    Loved the poem and accompanying image, well done Lisa🩵

    ReplyDelete
  6. brudbergAugust 5, 2026 at 12:23 PM

    Sounds like a wonderful place and time to be

    ReplyDelete
  7. Arcadia MariaAugust 5, 2026 at 3:07 PM

    Loved this. Great poem.

    ReplyDelete
  8. Yvonne OsborneAugust 6, 2026 at 3:21 PM

    You squeezed in four with only five lines!! Love it.

    ReplyDelete
  9. purplepeninportland.comAugust 7, 2026 at 6:00 PM

    You said so much in so few lines. Great poem!

    ReplyDelete
  10. LisaAugust 9, 2026 at 8:08 PM

    What a beautiful row of painted ladies. Lovely poeming, Lisa.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

to be not a barnacle

-
Image
walking away down the dock I notice the barnacles clinging to the piles at low tide https://pxhere.com/en/photo/917607                 that’s their life clinging sending out little flowery legs to eat what floats by   never moving dependent on the tide the whims of storm and baking sun   I won't be a barnacle stuck on a dock accepting your lot as my life so I’m walking away   ©2020 Lisa Smith Nelson. All Rights Reserved Walking Away – Weekly Scribblings #40  https://poetsandstorytellersunited.blogspot.com/        
Read more

Where Are the Friends?

-
Image
dVerse   MTB: Ubi Sunt and that Where, Oh Where?   And our MTB prompt today is simply to use this Ubi Sunt motif in your poetry as such: title your poem with the question – where are the/they… use the questioning within your poem, even with repetition DO NOT ANSWER it though – the questioning is rhetorical employ concepts of mortality, the transience of life, a sense of nostalgia ubi sunt is a term meaning "where are they??" taken from the Latin phrase "ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt," or "where are those who were before us?"   Where are the friends who promised forever? Who vowed a cradle to grave? Where are the sisters who pricked their thumbs? Who undying kinship gave? Have they forgotten those carefree days? Broken our childhood pact? Have they forgotten we were as one? Ignoring our solemn act? Where are the friends we used to know? Those we held so dear? Where are the ones on whose sides we stood? W...
Read more

Ghost House

-
Image
The Sunday Muse #137 photo prompt        The sun set for the last time on the condemned farm house. I stand at a distance where I can see the golden horizon reflected in the glass windows.        I never knew this house when it was inhabited by anyone but ghosts.   Those specters are why its windows are still intact. No one has dared to break the glass for fear of opening the floodgates for spirits and ghouls.         Ghosts of the murdered…      …and murderers alike.           Something unholy, something unspeakable, occurred here.   Something no one talks about.   Those old enough to remember claim they don’t.   The local newspaper archives were lost to a mysterious fire.   Vague references to the murders exist only in faded, yellowed journals, dismissed as the rantings of paranoid farm-wives. No one questions. They’re af...
Read more