Addled scene.
Lingering sunset residual,
palest pink hazy clouds.
Grey rain clouds hover nearby.
Belligerent earlier,
dryly brooding now.
Wearing nature’s night cap,
fog topped buildings
tower over drizzled damp pavement.
Scattered bright office windows
tell-tale signs.
Duped or dedicated workers toil.
Green light,
twenty-four hour traffic cop.
Evidence the city never sleeps.
Photo taken from our Uber ride home last night after seeing the fabulous play, Eureka Day. Boston’s changing scene.
Time is constant. Determined mathematically,
a fundamental dimension.
Time zones and watches set. Seconds tick by.
But can time be relative? Can it have voids?
Does time stop, race ahead, appear, disappear?
Can it be measured differently?
Through distance, visual changes, mental acuity,
ambulatory ability, skin texture, hair color.
Can it be lost in sepia toned photo collections
missing documentation of a generation?
Obituaries, birth announcements
perennial blooms, seasonal shifts.
Age appropriate gifts packed away,
idioms of the day, skirt lengths
and medical advancements –
all measurements of time.
Time gifted me memories.
Stripped me of loved ones and muscle tone.
Encouraged gratitude and forgot rebuffs.
My mind often dreams at night. I am the ingenue
leaping freely across the divide of time.
At sunrise I awaken, stand up, bend down,
groan a bit, shove dry cracking feet
into well worn slippers. Shuffle to the coffee pot.
Time keeps ticking and I’m still in the parade.
Who knows what’s round the next bend?
Time ticks one tock at a time, or does it?
All we can do is lean in.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today Mish asks us to consider the literary devise of juxtaposition. She writes
“the contrast between subjects, settings, ideas or moods not only highlights their differences but can also uncover unexpected similarities or connections.” One example she provides is from Dickens in Tale of Two Cities: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom. It was the age of foolishness.”
In addition, Mish provides us with a series of images. We are to choose two (I’ve chosen three) that we “feel could create a contrast” and then “use them as a foundation to build your poem.”
I must add here, lest you wonder. This is not all me in this poem. I’m still kicking up my heels, traveling, enjoying family and life with the love of my life.
city deck
concrete perch
serenity, relaxation, calm space
urban busyness below
Summer’s peach, sensory delight.
Fingers leave light impressions
on delectably ripe fruit
blushing to the touch.
Peach skin’s palette presents palest reds
blurring into sunset shades of lightest orange,
blending into golden yellow.
All these shades, a gentle swirl of color
so appealing to the eye.
One bite and juice dribbles down the chin.
Moisture stains fruit’s soft velvety surface
where our mouth has been.
Colors remain the same
on dry intact outside of fruit.
Inside colors brighter than outside.
Pinkish bronzed red merges into
lemon and orange sherbet shades,
temptation for another taste.
Summer’s peach,
visual and sustenance delight.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting, asking folks to write a “colorful” poem. No required length, form or rhyme scheme. Only requirement is that it must include colors! Images from Pixabay.com
He feigns strength,
gilds his world golden.
His name. His visage. His way.
Trumpian mythology
built lie by lie, threat by threat.
Its depth unimaginable,
bottomless pit of greed, racism.
So self-consumed is he,
blind to his wax wings melting.
Truth’s flame is invincible
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to include the word “myth” or a form of the word in a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.
Reference is made to mythology’s Icarus whose wings were made of wax…which led to his demise when he flew too close to the sun.
I recall being always happy in the early years of my childhood. Playing house with dolls, parading down Melrose Avenue in dress-up clothes, riding my tricycle, running through sprinklers and drinking from the garden hose – all with my best friend, June. As we progressed to first and second grade we climbed Mrs. Jester’s apple trees, held hands as we walked back and forth to West Elementary School, made chalk drawings on the sidewalk and played hopscotch too. I loved sleepovers at June’s house, looking with wonder at her sister Auberdene’s dressing table filled with lipsticks and perfumes. We’d sit in June’s living room and watch Roy Rogers and Gene Autry on the black-and-white tv while eating a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches. Once every summer, my mom bought a box of popsicles and doled them out to June and I and other kids on the block. Everyone fought over the red ones. I always had the yellow ones to myself. I guess nobody else liked banana.
childhood memories
friendships frozen in photos
long faded by time
Writing this to say Happy Birthday on June 15th to my dearest childhood friend, June Zitka Trentacosti. June is on the left in both these photos.
how did we get to this place
where journalists are called piggy and stupid
and the one before is called sleepy joe while the one now
who was also before the one before
nods off in televised meetings but wakes up
demanding cabinet members sling odes of praise
while hiding their genuflecting knees below the conference table
refusing to speak against indulgences given to insurrectionists
as others under his spell fund masked men
not Zorro types
accosting individuals who by the way are not eating your pets
rather paying taxes to raise their children who are US citizens
being good neighbors attending church
working jobs that need bodies who show up and care
we need Martin and Jesse
John Lewis and Barbara Jordon
to be here again
we need their spirited tenacity to rile up cowardly sycophants
to grow backbones and finally say enough is enough
meanwhile he’s playing feral tom cat lifting his leg all over DC
leaving his mark so future felines and species of any kind
will know he was here in his gilded age of narcissism
adding his name atop JFKs and on towers and arch de trumps
even as he paints the Reflecting Pond blue
in the image of Mar-a-Lago’s swimming pool
which as he explained with posters as visual aids
is taller than any of the tallest buildings in the world
never mind it’s a pool of water lying prone on the ground
not a building actually standing tall reaching to the sky
he’s become an AI Master in the wee hours
evidenced by his creations
something no other president has or ever will be
see Donald the pilot dropping shit bombs everywhere
while JD warns Leo to be careful talking about theology
his boss created himself in the image of Christ
and it goes on and on and on like a run-on sentence
with no stops no resets no commas
just implicitly felt exclamation marks slung everywhere
until we the people add our own exclamation mark
and say NO in November
let the reckoning come
Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Melissa asks us to write a poem with no punctuation.
Image by Vilius Kukanauskas from Pixabay
Birds of a feather
argumentation our game,
friendship scores the win.
College debate partners from 1965 to 1969. Friendship scores over years and miles – that’s the real trophy in 2026. Just back from a wonderful visit with Karen in Sarasota, Florida.
Shared on dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.
Trees arc in late spring wind.
Cherry blossoms hold on tight
then float down like gentle raining mist.
Accumlate on ground,
nature’s pink coverlet.
AI generated image on Bing Create. We did see beautiful scenes like this on a trip through Japan many years ago.
Also shared for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
. . . some arranged
some from love at first sight.
Some wooed over coffee dates, dances,
walks in the woods, saunters through town.
Some too good to be true
and they were.
In his imagination, he pictured her
a match for his gentle soul.
Someone to color his world,
hues of happiness and hope.
Ruby red lips, dark indigo eyes,
cheerful lemon-yellow everyday dresses.
She appeared in his dreams occasionally.
Magenta velvet dress swaying,
complement to his black velvet tux.
They danced together, high in the night sky,
galaxy spinning, sparkling its approval.
Their’s was a match made in heaven.
Sadly, night’s chill always ended this folly,
waking him as he reached up,
up into the nothingness of stark reality.
His hand empty, heart aching.
Would he ever find her?
Or is his dream, simply out of reach?
Too good to be true.
Written for Tuesdayd Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Melissa is hosting. She’s given us images of 4 Marc Chagall paintings and asked to write an ekphrastic poem using one of them. I’ve selected The Promenade, oil on canvas painted in 1918.
An EKPHRASTIC poem is a poem inspired by an image.
lillian the home poet 