On the Banks of the Charles

lillian11 Comments

I meander the riverside. Meanwhile the
globe spins frenetically, as much of the world
is amok in violent rhetoric. Walking offers
views of spring. Geese nesting, itself
testament to the season’s rebirth. To
see the female sit patiently upon her nest, your
reminder. Hope lives within the imagination.

Written for Meet The Bar Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today we’re asked to write a Golden Shovel Poem.

What is a Golden Shovel Poem? It’s a poetic form where the last word of each line in a new poem, when read vertically from top to bottom, creates a line from another poet.

What line from another poet have I used in my Golden Shovel Poem?
“The world offers itself to your imagination” from Mary Oliver’s poem Wild Geese.

Photo taken on my walk yesterday, along the banks of the Charles River here in Boston.

The Tooth Fairy

lillian2 Comments

Translucent diaphanous wings.
Only one of her
not like hummingbirds who flit.

Collector of juvenile items
pulled or shed.
Never antiques.

Never the payer,
she collects payments
for the collectibles she collects.
.
Fair in her fee structure
adjusted to inflation.
Remnants of my youth, worth a dime.

Collectibles from my son? Fifty cents.
Today?
One dollar or more.

Children grin,
proudly display gaps in their mouths.
Proof of her existence.

I wonder, is she swayed by wealth?
Or is she kind-hearted enough
to make pro-bono flights?


NAPOWRIMO 2026. Day 30! Last day of National Poetry Writing Month.
Prompt: Write a poem about a real or mythical being or profession with a musing yet dispassionate tone. AI image generated on Bing Create.

Old House. Boston Place.

lillian1 Comment

Our first home in Illinois had no front yard.
Stepped off the front porch at your own peril,
into the dug-out pit for a new college gym.
Construction equipment clanged and buzzed
constantly digging, laying pipes and beams.
Inside, we served visitors spaghetti suppers
on our auction bought wiggly table top
screwed into four tall two-by-fours.
Rotary telephone hung on peeling plastered wall,
rarely used for expensive long distance calls.
We watched Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show
on our nine-inch black and white television.
As the old song goes,
“Those were the days my friends.”

Fifty-six years later, it’s high-rise condo life.
Outside our windows, Boston’s city scape
includes trees, few green areas,
buildings in every direction.
When guests or family arrive,
we serve delicious meals with wine
at our lovely oak claw-foot dining table.
Large screen television streams movies,
24/7 news, sitcoms of every genre.
Our handheld “telephone” is a clock,
calendar, address book and weather man.
It streams music on Spotify.
Reaches friends nearby and across the globe
with audio and video calls.

Gratefully happy then.
Thankfully happy now.
So is the old adage true?
Things are not better,
they’re not worse,
they’re just different.
What say you?


NAPOWRIMO Day 29. Prompt: In your poem today, compare your everyday present life with your past self, using specific details to conjure aspects of your past and present in the reader’s mind.

AI image created on Bing Create.

We Must Learn from Others

lillian17 Comments

Lessons from ancient cultures,
wisdom in Native Americans’ ways.
Guiding principles to live in harmony
passed down from generation to generation.

Debwewin is Truth.
Represented by the turtle.
The tortoise carries lessons of life on its back.
Years piled upon years.

It walks slowly,
sometimes laboriously,
feet firmly planted in earth’s reality.
Its purpose was, still is, forward movement.

Honest plodding, slogging, traipsing at times.
Memories, achievements, failures, goals.
All stored and carried through life’s journey.
No regrets. This is me. In this place. Now.

Everything past, a part of my weight,
my girth, my being, my soul.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today Mish is hosting, providing us with a very special prompt that explains The Seven Grandfather Teachings, a set of Anishinaabe guiding principals for living a good life in harmony with nature and others . . . all of creation.

Mish explains: “These ancient teachings have been passed down for generations through stories and ceremonies. Many Native American organizations have adopted these sacred laws as a foundation. Because they are the basis for a worldview rooted in respecting each other and the natural world, these values are often represented by a specific animal. We’re asked to write a poem influenced by the Seven Grandfather Teachings in any way that we would like. We may choose to focus on one or embody them all.“

I’ve chosen to write about Debwewin, Truth, represented by the turtle. “The turtle carries the teachings of life on his back. Slow and meticulous. Understand the importance of the journey. Be true to yourself. Speak your truth.“

What Defines a Circle?

lillian5 Comments

These days seem to preclude a circle of love.
Iced out. Proliferation of guns. Political strife.
Mathemeticians associate Pi with a circle
3.14159 and on and on . . . seemingly out of reach.

Some cite three-hundred-sixty degrees.
Others lecture three points required.
So many different opinions
can the circle be truly delineated?

How to create a circle of love then,
much less define the shape itself.
Perhaps when two people embrace?
When a family of four gathers round a campfire?

Elderly person sitting alone
waits for a visit, never to come.
But guardian angels gather round
faces remembered, comfort in faith.

Circles take effort to make.
One person reaching out.
More than mathematical equations,
perhaps circles are matters of the heart?


NAPOWRIMO Day 27. Prompt: Write a poem in which all the verses contain the same number of lines (whether couplets, triplets, quatrains, etc.) and in which you give the reader instructions of some kind.

In our family, the tradition since our children were very young, has been to sing The Circle of Love as our table grace before our suppers. Hence, the pondering on what is a circle; and how to make a circle. Click here for a recent poem about our Circle of Love tradition. Image by Speedy McVroom from Pixabay

My Ars Poetica

lillian10 Comments

I am not in retirement.
I did not re-tire myself.
I planned all along to gallop
into rejuvenatement,
like riding a new steed through
bubbling brooks and wildflower fields.

I took the reins.
Refused to canter the sedate path,
or be put out to pasture
in the doldrums of old age.
What’s that saying? “You can’t teach
an old dog new tricks?”

But I was not an old dog.
A poetry class, stabs in the dark
at creating a poetry blog,
journaling every morning.
Then dVerse came along
and lillian-the-home-poet was born.

Poetry is more than rhyming,
moving words around on the page.
It’s pulling out thoughts,
sometimes so deep in my psyche
I never even knew they were there.
It’s a daily communion with self.

No need for adulation,
or publication.
Poets simply need space, time,
reflection, and a way to record.
Voice in head transferred to paper
or screen, or simply murmured aloud.

If a tree falls in a forest
and no one is around to hear it,
does it make a sound?
If a poet writes a poem
and no one is around to read it,
does it matter?

I’d answer a resounding yes.
Why? Because I believe
poetry is a communion with self.


NAPOWRIMO Day 26. Prompt: Write your own ars poetica, giving the reader some insight into what keeps you writing poetry, or what you think poetry should do.

dVerse Poets: the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We offer prompts every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday and one one LIVE Saturday session per month with audio and video.

Metaphor Me

lillian11 Comments

Dandelion me.
Youthful glee in splashy yellow dresses.
All sunshine and skipping through fields!
But old age they say can be grizzly.
Those cubs, born hairless and toothless.
Grizzly cubs but not grizzly at first.
No pacifiers. Mother’s nuzzling enough.
Then playful to rambling to belly fat acquired
and hibernation needed. I always liked naps.
Or acorn me. Digging into soil, finding my own way.
Gangly seedling teenage years with
autumnal outbreaks. Cacophony of colorful
fashion fad flairs. To sentinel oak standing
with quiet grace. Am I there yet?
I still feel dandy and fierce. Dandy lioness am I.
Elderly dandelions’ delicate translucent skin
fades slowly until a passing by small child delights
in one puff from chubby cheeks. Giggles as seeds
soar on spring’s born-again breezes.
Dandelionalicious me with walks, hand in hand.
Stops along the way to collect bouquets of flowers
and skip rocks across the pond. With many smiles.
All the while acknowledging life’s delights.

NAPOWRIMO Day 25. Prompt: Write your own poem in which you use at least three metaphors for a single thing, include an exclamation, ruminate on the definition of a word, and come back in the closing line(s) to the image or idea with which you opened the poem.

DEDICATED to my dear friend, Lindsey. Wishing her well.

Metaphors used: comparing my life (anyone’s life) to a dandelion, a grizzly bear, and an acorn growing into an oak tree. Within the grizzly bear section, I ruminate on the meaning of old age. Had fun with this one once I decided how to approach it!

Photo taken many many years ago. And yes, it’s a dandelion in its old age!

Headline: Albert DeSalvo Dead

lillian2 Comments

Thunder crashed, lightning ricocheted.
Midnight’s blackened sky, awake and crazed.
That November twenty-fifth’s sheets of rain
pounded city streets, pummeled harbor’s shore.
Boston slept oblivious
unaware his curse was about to end.

Thirteen tormented souls,
dead to family
never truly laid to rest.
Thirteen deaths so violent,
they could not ascend.
Could not transition to another world.

Ten years, condemned to a different form.
Thirteen ravens, always together.
Never to alight on ground, seen by no one.
But this night, this was an anomaly.
They flew this night in frenzied disbelief.

Is he truly gone?
Lightning’s last gash flashed garishly.
Split open darkness. Revealed their final path.
You shall rest at last, the heavens proclaimed.
He is gone. Your deaths are avenged.


NAPOWRIMO Day 24. Prompt: Write a poem that takes place at night, and describes something magical or strange that happens but that no one is awake (or around) to notice.

Albert DeSalvo: For some reason, my mind went to the story of the Boston Strangler, Albert DeSalvo. He murdered 13 women between 1962 and 1964, terrorizing the city. Most of the women were sexually assaulted and strangled in their homes. He was never tried for these crimes but was sentenced to life in prison for other sexual assault crimes. He was stabbed to death in prison on November 25, 1973.

A Villanelle Walk

lillian18 Comments

Come walk this path with me
through wooded quiet calm.
It will lend its peace to you.

Canopy of green leaves gleam
as sunlight filters through.
Come walk this path with me.

Morning’s quiet coolness
will ease and soothe the soul.
It will lend its peace to you.

Some call it forest bathing,
five senses engaged in meditation.
Come walk this path with me.

Immerse ourselves knowing
Earth’s beauty nurtures best.
It will lend its peace to you.

Escape the city’s frenzy
find nature’s solemnity.
Come walk this path with me,
it will lend its peace to you.

NAPOWRIMO Day 22. Prompt is to write a Villanelle. Photo from a vacation we took some years ago.

Villanelle: A French verse form consisting of five three-line stanzas and a final quatrain. The first and third lines of the first stanza repeat alternately in the following stanzas. And these two lines form the final couplet in the quatrain. It’s a poetic sudoku!