Wish Goddess

Wish Granter,
goddess of ages.
Utopia, her realm.

. . . if I could travel in time
. . . bring him back
make me young again . . .
. . . let her be well

Wish upon wish upon wish
year upon year upon year,
until she finally understood.

Hour glass, her tool of destiny.
Sand granules within,
moments in time.
What was, what is,
what may be.

Today, a crack in time.
Crystal orb wrought asunder,
sand grains burst forth.
Wish halos given light,
scattered among the stars.
All wishes granted.
From days gone by,
today’s dreams
and yours tomorrow.
Present eternally.

Wish Granter,
goddess of ages,
finally at rest.
Need erased for all time.
Alpha and omega.
finis

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Amaya hosts Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today she asks us to consider the idea of utopia. Image from pixabay.com

Todays Create Tomorrows. . .

Words matter,
sly winks silence not.
Words hurled into sea of humanity
ripple inhumanity.
Build waves tumultuously
till tsunami destroys.

Words matter,
crowds riled to group-think.
Vitriolic spittled slogans,
us-them denigration.
Barbed words
create the wire.

This era,
tomorrow’s ancient script.
Our ever-living shame.

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De hosts Monday’s Quadrille at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today’s prompt word is “wink.” A quadrille is a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!  

Fall’s Egress

Melancholy autumn rain.
Nature weeps as color takes its leave,
once golden amber, streaked through brown.
Droplets cling momentarily,
cleave to hawthorne crimson berries.
Lover’s farewell kiss.

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Photo taken outside our Boston high-rise yesterday. Coincidentally, our building is called Hawthorne Place and yes, this is a hawthorne tree after the morning’s rain.

Window on Her World

Inside, she looks out.
Seasons change
confined within her pane.

Stripped by cruel winds,
branches clatter
nodes exposed.

Charles River, ribbon slight,
below low slung sky,
scene through barren trees.

Relieved, she slowly smiles,
espies her Charles again.
Silent vow worms her mind.

Before spring reblooms in pane
I shall join you, sweet Charles,
an afterworld away.

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Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, on Open Link Night. 
Photo from Pixabay.com

 

Hope

Once upon a glimmer,
hope lived.
Moonbeam wisps
and dandelion puffs.
Dew drops on lily pads
and snowflake glisten
on frosted pane.
We watched.
We loved.
We waited.
Hope glimmered
in our evening prayers.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. The prompt is to begin a poem with Once upon a ?????   Writers may add any word except “time.”  So I’ve chosen Once upon a glimmer. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!

Her Leaving Time

She’d been left behind by her son and husband many years before. Left to grow old without them. Legally blind. Too much effort to live. Too many pills to remember each morning. Each night.

Now, this cold autumn afternoon, lying in a hospital bed, she simply said Lillian, I’m tired. And I knew. I bent down, leaned close to her ear and whispered. I told her it was all right. Find the light, mom. They’re waiting for you. And she suddenly sat up and smiled. Eyes bright. A broad big smile. And then she flopped back and lay still. The kind male nurse who’d been at her side looked across the bedside at me. He simply nodded. And I nodded back.

golden amber leaves
blow off trees, hit closed windows
nature’s death displayed

Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Merril is our guest pub tender and asks us to write about a transition. A haibun is two or three short succinct paragraphs of prose (must be true) followed by a haiku that, in the traditional sense, contains a kigo (reference to a season).

Sundays with Me and Paul . . .

Come walk with me . . .
past busy city intersections
into Little Italy,
past salumeris and bakeries too.

Now look up . . .
at that gleaming white spire
atop the red brick edifice.
Boston’s Old North,
Paul Revere’s church.
National Historical Park Site.
Active Episcopal congregation.

So glad you’re joining us today!
Allow me to seat you inside.
Are you three today?
Yes, amazing to see . . .
all original white box pews.
And where are you from?

How about Pew #25?
Owned in 1759,
by Captain Daniel Malcom,
a Son of Liberty.
Yes, in those days,
wealthy people bought their pews.
And note the plaque inside,
December 29, 1912
Theodore Roosevelt
He did! He sat right there.

Now do look behind you . . .
four wooden angel figures
in the organ loft.
“Gifts” to the church in 1745,
from a privateer –
a legal pirate –
“taken” from a French ship!

And look here . . . .in your bulletin . . .
right after the Offertory.
See the words to the Doxology?
We sing that, and then . . .
what I love best at Old North.
The next words you see there . . .
final verse to My Country Tis of Thee.

Our fathers’ God, to thee,
Author of liberty,
To thee we sing.
Long may our land be bright
With freedom’s holy light.
Protect us by they might,
Great God, our King!

The organ booms it out
and everyone sings . . .
oh how we sing!
Chills down your back!

After the service,
listen . . .
oldest bells in North America,
cast in Gloucester, England in 1744,
hung in Boston in 1745,
will be pealing away!

Six bell ringers pull on ropes
in mathematical sequences
from high up in that famous spire . . .
where the lantern was waved
April 18, 1775.
You remember . . .
one if by land, two if by sea” . . .

So there you have it!
Nice to have you join me,
on my almost-every-Sunday walk
to Old North . . .
hallowed ground
hallowed place
in American history.

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It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Sarah is hosting and asks us to take her and our readers on a journey that is very familiar to us. Most Sundays of the year when we are in Boston, we walk to the North End (Little Italy) to Old North (actually Christ Church) and usher for the 11 AM service. Top photo was taken last Christmas; second photo was taken after the Patriots’ Day Service, the one night a year the lantern is carried again to the top of the tower/spire to shine as it did in 1775. Every Sunday, we literally have visitors from across the globe.

Still Missing You

Charles Andrew Jr.
birthed before the War,
nine years my elder.

Took leave far too early
buried deep atop grassy hill,
mountain range across the way.

I see your image
every day,
looking out at me.

Framed and under glass,
always smiling.
Forever fifty-one.

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It was Quadrille Monday at dVerse. The prompt word  was “early” and somehow, I’m late to post for it!  Photo is my brother…..hard to believe he’s been gone almost 30 years.
Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.