Agitated wake
churns up, roils ocean’s surface.
Then stretches into
gently glistened smaller waves,
like life’s long past memories.
Photo taken from aboard Celebrity’s Silhouette.
The Tanka form, when a Haiku just won’t do.
The haiku has 3 lines of the following syllabic content: 5 – 7 – 5
The tanka has 5 lines of the following syllabic content: 5 – 7 -5-7-7
She seeks answers in the landscape,
this early nineteenth century woman.
Firmly corseted, demure by training,
constrained by society’s expectations.
She pauses deliberately on crude dirt path,
having followed it through rolling hills
amidst surrounding trees.
Would that she could stretch her limbs,
bloom anew, sway in every fresh breeze.
Remain firmly rooted defying threatening storms.
But she is here. Painted in her times.
Resolutely she turns, walks off canvas,
slowly returns home.
How much joy she would have
if in this moment she could know,
her female counterparts
will change the world.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual home for poets around the world. Today Melissa asks us to consider the artist Henri Rousseau and provides us with several of his works to motivate our poetry. I’ve chosen his painting, La Promenade dans la Foret (The Walk in the Forest) c 1886.
One must take care
when confronted with fragility.
Gardenia petals bruise easily.
Strong hands support the newborn’s head.
Grief must be consoled,
memories gently relived,
tears allowed to flow.
Mother Earth deserves respect,
her beauty preserved.
Empathic understanding
and quiet listening,
truly divine gifts.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Sanaa asks us to write a 44 word poem, sans title, that includes the word “care”. Image from Pixabay.com
Adirondack lady
blankets at the ready
cool evenings to come.
She sits surrounded by woods
lulled by the sound of loons,
listening, smiling with Joe.
Memories seem to visit her lately.
Their early parenting days
punctuated by laughter and love.
She waits now, expectantly,
their child’s mothering days
soon to begin.
Time passes by, disappears,
inexorably moving forward.
Generations born and tendered.
One certainty
in these unpredictable times,
this new little one
will be born into a world of love.
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.
lillian the home poet 