Lilac aphrodisiac, scent my world. Your goodness blossoms blessed with sweet delicacy. From palest to deepest shades, side by side on Lilac Lane. Each alone exudes the beautiful, together you blend as one scene. I walk slowly, senses awakened. Serenity wafts, and in the moment, all is good in my world.
I couldn’t sleep. Walking the streets I came upon a small sign: Séance Sessions. Ten dollars.
“Letting go. Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end to this labyrinth called life. In reality”, said the medium, “you were here before your time and you will reappear many times after your body succumbs.” The lights suddenly flickered. The charlatan’s fingernails dug into my palms. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as her mouth moved in synch with Jim’s booming voice. “You killed me. I shall never forget. You shall suffer all the days of your lives and . . .” The medium’s body lurched forward. Her head crashed onto the table. She was obviously dead. I could see the dagger I’d carefully buried in my garden, sticking out of her back. Sirens began to wail.
Three apple trees. Due date approaching. Branches loaded with fruit, over-ripe ones on ground sickly sweet with buzzing bees. Fresh picked apples brought inside, peeled carefully, cut in halves, sliced after cores are tossed. Seasoned with cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg they’re left to sit, making their own juice. I move the rolling pin over the dough, stretching it carefully into shape, leaning in as close to counter as my swollen belly allows. And then I feel it. Shirt lifted, I look….. our soon-to-be little one is rolling too. Crusts placed gingerly in aluminum pie pans spicy scented apple mixture poured into tins. Butter pads scattered on top, then top crust placed. Crimping dough I smile, remembering. Yesterday I folded sweet little undershirts, cloth diapers, and placed them just so on shelf in second-hand bassinette. Pies made, into the freezer they go. All the preparations done, we wait. Iowa’s winter won’t seem so harsh this year. We’ll have that heavenly apple aroma as one of our pies bake, and we’ll be holding a tiny baby boy or girl ever so closely in our arms.
Knees creak. Arms once firm, crepe in thinning skin. Hands stiff in morning show off puffed blue veins, like highways on ancient road map. Grey hair brittles, mine still thick, yours not so. Burgeoning cataracts blur our pleasure but still we embrace life and love, changed as it is.
Rain gushed from heavens thunder, lightning pandemic hell turned purgatory. Boxed in by walls. Boxed in by zoom boxes.
Snows came, windows frosted shut. Our spirits glazed as seasons passed seen from shuttered window panes. Cities crawled. Inequities laid bare.
Sparse masked figures hurried to tasks, six feet apart. A grave distance indeed. Hope impossible to grasp by stifled hands. Optimists whispered. Hang on, hang on . . .
. . .after all, tomorrow is another day. But optimists were far and few between. Tomorrow is another day wore thin because it never was.
Addendum. Recovery. Release for those us who survived. Smiles visible but leery. Freedom, sort of, for far too many to openly grieve.
Freedom for the privileged while far too many across the globe still parched, still weary still covid devastated . . .
. . . another day . . . still impossibly too far away.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to consider lines made famous by movies. She provides many for us and asks us to include one of them in a poem. I’ve chosen “After all, tomorrow is another day.” from Gone with the Wind, 1932.
Waltz with me, take my hand. Hear the gulls call to us fly o’er us, soar for us dance for us on the sand.
Oceanside, hand in hand me touching, you wishing souls in tune, now kissing three-stepping, lusting fanned.
You’re so strong, hold my hand dance with me, past the sun dance with me, past the clouds through the stars, never land.
Oh my dear, damn this waltz. Pen down now, poem be done. Quick-step me, quick-step me! Now . . . now . . . now . . . never to cease. Now. . . Now. . NOW! Ahhhhhhh . . . release.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late to Thursday’s post – Bjorn hosts and asks us to consider the waltz in poetic form. For example, the waltz is usually danced in 3-beat measures: 1 – 2 – 3, 1-2-3. I’ve tried to have three beats throughout, so for example, the first line is “waltz (1) with (2) me (3), take (1) my (2) hand (3)”. Tricky. I’ve given it a go and ended up with a waltz on the beach that turns quite bawdy! FYI: the quick-step is another ballroom dance, quite opposite in pacing and attitude than the waltz or tango for example. Image from Pixabay.com
She writes of the sacred land, red earth cherished by Creek Nation.
Moencopi Rise, Round Rock, Four Corners, a dreaming place of bears. Her words are songs of praise to ochre soil, parched sand, grey rocks, and dust spattered plants. Her faith in the whole, revealed in full and sliver moon steady and flickering stars.
Prayer is manifest as horses gallop through hills. Words written in linear lines paint images revered by generations. Her poetic spirit soars. An eagle spreads its wings, magnificently embracing the bluest of skies.
She is those who were before her, caretakers of Mother Earth all.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late for the Tuesday Poetics prompt given by Laura. She asks us to consider poems to a poet. I decided to write an ode to poet Joy Harjo.
JOY HARJO is a member of the Creek Nation. She is a screen writer, poet, and teaches creative writing and Native American Literature at the University of Arizona. She has received the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Native Writers Circle of the Americas, and the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. Harjo served as United States poet laureate from 2019-2021, and was the first Native American to serve in the position. Image from Pixabay.com
She always yelled at him before her grand entrance. “Harry, crank up that wind machine!” Then she’d wind up those hips get the feathers quiverin’ and strut out on stage, fans strategically placed. She wanted to entrance the blokes, not wound their swoonin’ heart.
Sally Rand, born Helen Gould Beck, was an American burlesque dancer most noted for her ostrich fan dances and her balloon bubble dances. She was mot active from 1925 to 1979.
Diapers, bedtime stories, Christmas stockings. Driving them to lessons, reading report cards. Wound up like a top I whizzed through the arcane. Now in my golden years I think back and realize. I should have paid more mind. The arcane was indeed the miraculous.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and ask people to include the word “wound” or a form of the word in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Notice that “wound” is a homograph. There are two pronunciations and each has a different meaning: He suffered a wound in battle. VS She is wound up like a top. Folks are free to use either pronunciation/meaning or both! If using both, their poem must still consist of exactly 44 words, not including the title.
Photos are of our children who are now 45 and 46! And yes that’s me, about forty years ago!