Wayne Michael DeHart
(Page created September 7, 2019)
Unlike the picturesque Snow Sleeves of Winter, WordSleeves will be home to an assemblage of broken branches from an abstract tree of original writings. They are not intended to arrive, nor take their leave, with the whim of the weather. WordSleeves will be both without season and for all seasons.
Unlike Nature’s artwork, the writer’s words will never fit perfectly; just closer in some instances than others. (The eye of the beholder, and all that.)
Like the Snow Sleeves of Winter, however, the selections will appear and accumulate at their own pace, softly and gently falling without direction or destination. Each passage, like each snowflake, will be distinct and different than the next – in the form of sporadic, disparate observations, thoughts and musings. Random and casual in presentation, they will meander and wander aimlessly through the army of trees, and in time find this landing spot – and with it, hopefully, you – the reader.
No promises made; no promises kept. Just Word Sleeves – irregular in size, sequence, substance and significance – looking for a fit.
All posts below are original writings by Wayne Michael DeHart, thus the writer’s name will not appear on the many individual “Sleeves” that make up this page. The great majority of them have been written from 1995 onward, although a small number will date back as far as 1968. (The dates accompanying each item are posting dates only.) All entries will appear in reverse chronological order in the same manner and format as “The Intellection Collection”. Selections will be chosen and will appear without rhyme or reason, time or season, blending form and format into the literary version of a potluck dinner surprise. Sample what looks good, ignore the rest – the chef won’t mind.
That said, “WordSleeves” begins …
September 24, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG Haiku Challenge for “SHADOWS”:
March 26, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG Haiku Challenge for “BLUEBELL”:
The beast from Bordeaux,
on the flowered forest floor,
asked, “Feeling blue, Belle?”
March 20, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG Haiku Challenge for “BEES”:
“Excuse me, Honey,
but Hive wanted to Mate you.”,
he Droned to the Queen.
February 16, 2021, response to Mensa poetry SIG prompt (based on original “Deer, Boy”):
January 29, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG prompt:
January 24, 2021, response to Mensa Poetry SIG photo prompt:
September 25, 2020, response to Poetry Group Haiku prompt “Red”:
Burns the game he play’d and luved
– Robert Burns, 1794
– for “burning” the game
August 29, 2020
In Response to Mensa Poetry Group Challenge from Bruce Miller- re: the photo
Small of feature
is this creature
who poses for the camera lens
and artists bearing pens
to show the world – mankind,
that if ye seek ye shall find
a woman that sits and rests
with pointed eyes and perky breasts
that beckon and stare, here and there
at we who look and take the dare
of one Bruce Miller’s daily fare.
August 29, 2020
In Response to a Mensa SIG Haiku Challenge on “Colors”:
Tints and tones rained on
shades of hue and me in days
before darkness came.
In Response to a Mensa SIG Haiku challenge on “Silence”:
First thing I could hear
were birthing screams whispering
aloud the sounds of …
June 15, 2020
In Response to a MENSA Poetry Group Challenge – Re: the photo
A wordsman of wisdom, born into the book,
he grew to know just what it took
to examine and study, to describe and define,
uses and meanings by intent and design.
A sculptor of sentences, a litterateur,
he Rambled for readers in his forty-first year.
Growing older and wiser, his standing unmarred,
he took the bold step of critiquing The Bard.
Now certain of purpose, aware of the path,
he chose to expose the poets of Bath.
From Milton to Dryden, from Swift to Hope,
he gave us the scoop, he gave us the dope.
When Boswell penned his story, with maxims galore,
his friend, his companion, added much to Sam’s lore.
But alas, as is written, in this history,
It was Walter not Samuel, who always struck three.
June 10, 2020
In Response to a Modernist Poetry Challenge Re: the following photo:
Eliot and cummings woke me this morning
to tell me that nothing I will see today is real.
I listened well then told them both to go to hell
and step away from my view of the clouds and the sun that Camus
told me the day before weren’t really there anyway so
I now embrace the decorations of the sky
knowing that it’s not what The Greats of times past
promised me it would be in my youth, but only a
visual perception before my eyes only and not yours.
It is what I say it is, it is what I see it as, it is
my one and only reality as I drink my mourning tea.
April 30, 2020
In Response to a Poetry Challenge Re: the following photo:
Mike DUKAKIS, on a whim, went to France
one day in search of him.
“DUKAS?” they said, “you’re late my friend,
he’s gone, finis, he’s dead.”
Traveling on, you see, to find what’s lost,
he ended up in Germany.
He wined, he dined, at a DUISBURG pub,
fell into the river, sadly, Rhine-d.
Then he had an idea, after being rescued
by a friendly chap – from Tanzania.
“Let me, dear fellow, come home with you
to chill out, calm down – to mellow.”
And so, they flew, to Dar es Salaam
for him to make a memory or two.
They drove south, tout suite, toward Malawi,
then stopped at a cafe for something to eat.
They ordered, then talked, till the food arrived,
and Mike chewed on the meat but suddenly balked.
“Ugh”, said the Yankee, “what is this stuff?
“It’s DUIKER stew, my man, it’s what we eat,
when famine pervades this beautiful land.”
“Duiker, what’s that, sounds nasty to me”
“Well” said his friend, “it’s better than rat.”
The man from Mass. just sighed, and ate on
but that night his gut really hurt inside.
“Enough for me!, I’m leaving, I’m gone”,
he told his companion, then started heaving.
No Dukas, alas, and Duisburg was damp,
and the Duiker filled him with gas.
Then he came home, to his tank, and knew there
was someone he really should thank.
So he called me, today, and said “My friend,
I read what you wrote, and it was as you say!”
February 2, 2020
In Response to a YouTube Viewing of Captain and Tennille’s “Muskrat Love”:
The Dragon said “Toni, my dear.
What crawls yonder – a rodent I fear.”
But she didn’t respond – his wife didn’t hear.
So he inquired again, drawing her near,
and whispering his ask into her ear.
She simply smiled, and said with good cheer;
“Worry not, dear husband, it’s perfectly clear.
It’s a sign from above,
it’s what songs are born of,
it’s a diamond, a dove,
it’s a …
February 2, 2020
In response to this long-ago page:
Favonius, humming a hymn,
took to the sea, for a midnight swim.
But in the dark, became entwined,
in eight-ish threads, and lost his mind.
Struggle he did, for the rest of his days,
erratic in thought, engulfed in a haze.
Blinded in blackness, turned Brutish in view,
took his last breath . . . in ’42.