Built to the Glory of God

lillian5 Comments

La Sagrada Familia,
Barcelona’s stunning basilica.
Antoni Gaudi’s unfinished masterpiece.

Mesmerized, we walk in quietly.
Step ever so slowly between
thirty-six supporting stone columns.
Like mighty Redwoods
they tower silently overhead.
Sprout branches arching higher and higher.
Artistically created moldings crown them,
some crowded, some overlapping like leaves.
Sunlight streams between and through them,
as if in a forest’s royal canopy.
We marvel at the sun captured within this space.
Its glow. Its mystical aura.

How can one man dream so big?
Dead decades before its completion,
his body lies within a crypt below.
Surely his soul lives and revels there.
Uplifted, if somewhat humbly,
witnessing others fulfill his dream.
For here we stand,
above where his body sleeps.
And this place is magnificent.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to write a poem that includes at least one simile. A simile is a comparison of two unlike objects using the word “like” or “as”.

Images taken at La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona this past November.

La Sagrada Familia is a Catholic basilica in Barcelona, Spain. It is the unfinished masterpiece of architect Antoni Gaudi, although it is predicted to be finished by end of 2026. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It was begun in 1882 by architect Francisco de Paula del Villar. After he resigned from the project in 1883, Gaudi took over as Chief Architect. Gaudi died in 1926 and is buried in the basilica’s crypt. The basilica opened on November 7, 2010 and was consecrated by Pope Benedict XVI. Stained glass windows on the East side emit cool colors of blue and green. Windows on the West side stream in warm colors in hues of red, yellows and oranges.

In a word, La Sagrada Familia is magnificent.

A Plea on January Twenty-Sixth

lillian19 Comments

I seek a trip to calm.
A land called Calm
where love abounds
all people are valued
leaders seek to unite
children skip confidently to school.
Where lies are confessed,
not repeated bragadociously on the news.
Who can help me find that land?

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and we’re asked to write a quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) that includes the word “trip” within the body of the poem. Image from Pixabay.com

Now is the time . . .

lillian5 Comments

How did we get to this place?
When did ice become so much more
than a cube you put in a glass?
When did it become routine
for a president to continually lie?
For masked agents to roam our streets,
break into homes without a warrant?
I mean, I know people don’t agree on everything.
We’ve had two political parties since the mid-1800s.
But when did the abyss become so long and so deep,
that Congress members no longer work across the aisle?
I don’t have a plan to strengthen immigration policies.
But I do know “strengthen” does not mean
assaulting people based on skin color and accents,
or gassing peaceful protestors.
Close to being an octogenarian,
I’ve held signs aloft at demonstrations.
I often raise my pen to paper,
exercising my poetic “license”
to challenge the status quo.
It’s what I can and must do.
I will not tread water in this whirl pool.
Tell me, what are you doing
to change the tide?

Photo taken at a demonstration in Boston Commons.

Written in the style of Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets. I’ve used the last four lines of her poem, The Summer Day, for inspiration.

“Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I believe Mary Oliver, if she were alive today, would be asking the same question I ask at the end of my poem. In that way, and attempting to employ her style in my poem (although I’m certainly no Mary Oliver!), I try to honor her. Here is her poem:

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean —
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Life as a Snow Globe

lillian3 Comments

Protected life within glass sphere,
clear at times.
Watching my outside world
family and friends doing everyday things.
Hearing laughter, secrets,
television sitcoms and news.
Watching mealtimes, relaxation,
rushings to get out the door.

On display annually,
unwrapped with holiday treasures.
Seasonal awakenings,
year after year.
Douglas, Fraser or Balsam fir
garner most attention.
Delicious scent, sparkling lights.
I sit unobtrusively on the coffee table.

Many times a day
my life tips upside down,
sometimes by gentle hands.
Young children’s eyes
watch my snow fly
as if magic lives within my sphere.
Flakes so gentle,
softly floating all around.

Some hands roughly shake me.
Up and down, sideways back and forth,
and then up and down again.
Blizzard-like conditions their aim.
Snow flies about at a quicker pace,
for a moment view obscured.
Snowflakes however, remain same sized,
soft in weight as they whirl about.

I treasure the holiday season,
my opportunity to offer a magical world.
Obliging those who want to see clearly.
Happily providing a different view,
for those who want a whirling blizzard,
but never cold, never damaging.
Most treasured of all?
Being held in all those loving hands.



Written for dVerse Poets Pub, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Kim is hosting and asks us “to write about snow as you see, feel or imagine it, in any form you wish.”

Image from Bing Create.

Stuff It Stuff It . . .

lillian26 Comments

Her suppressed feelings:
cacophony of colors
ready to explode.

Written for OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, I’m hosting and folks can post any poem of their choosing…no required length, format, theme, etc. OR they can write a poem motivated by the painting above: “Mme Kupka among Verticals” painted by Frantisek Kupka (in public domain). It’s displayed at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.

NOTE: come join us Saturday, January 17th for our LIVE session (audio and video) from 10 to 11 AM EST. Go to https://dversepoets.com for the link to join us live.
Come read a poem of your choosing or come to just sit in and enjoy. We usually have folks from across the globe…all in English. We’re a very friendly bunch!

The Innocence Project

lillian13 Comments

Hope for the wrongly convicted.
False confessions
coerced confessions
eyewitness misidentifications
forensic science errors
public defenders inexperience.

Cell doors clang shut
futures stunted
tears long since evaporated
possibilities suffocated
except
the Innocence Project has my name.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Melissa asks us to consider the song, “Folsum Prison Blues”, written and performed by Johnny Cash. The first four lines of the song are
“I hear the train a-comin’,
it’s rolling ’round the bend
And I ain’t seen the sunshine
since I don’t know when.”
Melissa asks us to write a poem inspired by the song….and by Johnny Cash actually going to Folsum Prison and singing to the inmates.
The Innocence Project is an organization that works toward the release of prisoners who are wrongly accused and imprisoned for crimes. To date, their organization has succeeded in the release of 250 innocent prisoners. The Exonerated Five (formerly the Central Park Five) are some of the more famous individuals who benefited from their work.
Image by Daniel Vanderkin from Pixabay

Grief

lillian3 Comments

He lost one wife to family genetics. Her parents and siblings suffered fatal heart attacks before the age of sixty. He woke one morning to find her cold body next to his. Thank God he passed away before his eldest son suffered the same fate.

He lost his second wife to religion. A devout, and some would say overly zealous Christian Scientist, he watched her cold symptoms worsen. After arguments that went nowhere, he stood by as she prayed her pneumonia away. He held her hand as she died.

If we are all actors upon a stage, Grief enters with or without directional cues. A sudden drop-in as if let fly from an overhead catwalk. A slow unraveling as clues and evidence appear, until the perpetrator is revealed and the curtain falls.

We – the family, the friends, the audience – ultimately leave the theater with only playbill in hand. But Grief hangs on to the one left alone. It may dissipate ever so slowly, but the void remains. And at times, sometimes unexpectedly, it grips the heart like a vise. Grief, a character in every script, is simply masked at times or hovering in the wings.

Nature airs her grief.
Loud thunder sounds her anger,
soft rain weeps her tears.


A haibun dedicated to my dearest uncle. His “story” is in the first two paragraphs. He has been gone many years now. I loved him dearly. Also dedicated to my dear friend, Mary Nilsen.

Haibun: a Japanese form consisting of prose (usually nonfiction) followed by a haiku that contains a nature reference.

Image by Vilius Kukanauskas from Pixabay

The Sun

lillian20 Comments

It always rises.
In rain or snow,
whether you see it or not.
Hiding behind clouds,
invisible under a putty grey sky.
It’s there
blessing the new day.
Its rays smiling upon you,
gifting hope
even on the stormiest days.
If only we believe.

It’s quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, De asks us to include the word “smile” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo by Anandu Vinod on Unsplash

A New Year’s Resolution, in alphabetical form

lillian9 Comments

Abracadabra
because I want a magician’s wand to
change what was into what was not and what could be.
Defy divisiveness,
effects of hatred, and speaking of the “us” versus the “other”.
Forge ahead to find new paths.
Gather those who want positive change.
Hand in hand with hope, honesty and just
intentions, may we begin to
just listen. Truly listen
knowing we are all located within the same sea of humanity.
Listen and listen more. Open our ears and hearts.
Make a concerted effort,
not numbing the pain of others into
oblivion.
Prayer is not enough. In the
quest for healing, we must
reflect on what could be and make it so. It may
seem
tenuous
until we verbally and actively
validate the
worth of all God’s people.
Xenophobia is not an option.
You and I, if we’re honest, also have roots in other places.
Zest and good will toward all humanity: may it be our Resolution for 2026.

Written for Meet The Bar night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re asked to become Abecarians: Create a poem of 26 lines where each line begins with a letter of the alphabet and the letters are sequential. I’ve written from A to Z. Not the first letter of the first word in each line. Image from Pixabay.com

Building a Reality

lillian39 Comments

People are different.
Color, ethnicity, gender,
religious beliefs, language,
citizenship, culture.

Gather them all in one place,
in concentric circles
facing each other, holding hands.
Each circle defined by a trait.

Note: circles have no beginning or end.
He who joined first disappears.
She who joined last disappears.
All are integral to their circle.

Herein lies a truth of geometric principle.
Concentric circles differ in radii
but have the same center point.
And what is that same center point?

As Maya Angelou famously wrote,
“We are more alike, my friends,
than we are unalike.”
The center point is our humanity.

Sadly however,
truth is not constructed reality
when the builder is a demolitionist.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today I am hosting: go to https://dversepoets.com to see the prompt this poem is motivated by.