script of unlined sheaves
vellum void
must write/right itself
more ad lib seen/scenes
life in present
learn from past-tense
new year
ingenue reborn
Author: lillian
Past/Present/Future Tense
disappointments drained
happiness residual clogs sieve
new filter awaits on shelf
ring in the new year
for unto us a child is born . . .
Sweet fawn, framed by forest clearing
breath vapor hangs in air,
eyes wide alert, stare through snow.
Crystal flakes cling to coat,
velvet brown ears quiver
hear soft cries and crooning sounds.
Hooves muted by drifted snow
young woman and man oblivious
as wet nose pushes stable door ajar.
Innocent deer stands quietly,
sees calves lying in tussled straw
lambs nearby, quietly sleep.
And there, wrapped in woolen shawl,
a small babe with contented smile
held close to mother’s breast.
A simple pastoral scene,
Love and Light born this morn.
Photo credit: Benjamin Earwicker. Title from Isaiah 9:6
Poetic license taken (creativity beyond the traditional story).
That Christmas Eve . . .
White crystalline flakes
cascade from dark skies
falling, drifting quietly,
upon the rural scene.
A lowly ass plods slowly
pulled forward by a bearded man.
They lean forward,
tandem force against the wind.
The young woman huddles, sways,
shifted side to side by the animal’s gait.
Feeling movement from within,
she burrows into her woolen shawl.
Talons sunk in frozen bark
feathered body blending into frigid tree,
the snowy owl stares steadily
at the slow motion scene,
watches the couple disappear
over the hill beyond,
unaware, in the darkness,
of the Light that is to come.
Photo in public domain. Poetic license taken (beyond the traditional story).
Christmas in Boston
Splashes of red brighten everyday winter mood.
Cardinal perched ‘top snow laden branch
holly berries ‘mongst waxy green leaves
stocking-capped girl on ice-covered pond.
Cranberry garland round grandma’s tree
foil-wrapped treats with ribbon-tied bows
cinnamon red-hots on gingerbread men.
And then . . . on a star lit night
Old North’s steeple glows tall and bright
draws us to her warmth within.
History fills this sacred space
softly lit by candlelight,
voices lilt from loft above.
Spirits lift and faces shine,
voices raise as all join in
oh come all ye faithful . . .
celebrate that gift of hope.
Love born this very night,
so long long ago.
Old North. Paul Revere’s church where lanterns were waved that infamous night, immortalized in Longfellow’s poem.
We shall walk to Old North on Christmas Eve when the church will be aglow with candles lit in her brass chandeliers and sconces that are 200+ years old.
Joey
Marsupial babe
cramped tightly in pouch,
leaps out to stretch his legs.
Wobbly, directionless,
returns to mama’s world
snuggles deep within her folds.
Jostled and pushed about by son
mama lies her frame upon the ground
belly flat on dirt, ready for a rest.
Joey’s head suddenly appears
as if to loll about before their nap,
fresh air, elixir to sweet dreams.
Shared with dVerse, a virtual pub for poets. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time.
Photos and video below are from our recent trip to the Australian Wild Life Sanctuary outside of Sydney. These are wallabies and they roam free on the grounds. In the early morning, we saw this mama and her Joey’s tail and feet were sticking out of her pouch. We decided to go back to see her in the afternoon, right before we left. I was feeding her the special food you can buy there – it’s in an ice cream cup. After the food was gone, we just stood there and watched her for the longest time. Everyone else had gone on to other parts of the park. All of a sudden, her joey jumped right out of her pouch!!! Apologies for the blurred photos — we were so shocked. It was amazing to see this gangly little creature hop about — we couldn’t figure out how all that could fit in her pouch and suddenly, the joey jumped back in! We watched a bit more and mama decided to stretch out for a nap….Joey was no where to be seen…just a lump and then, out came his head! Earlier in the day we’d had our photos taken with a koala….but this was truly the “icing on the cake” to an amazing trip!!!
Yuletide Carol, 2016
In the quiet spaces
my heart awaits a miracle.
A family with no home
carrying a gift within,
sought shelter on the darkest of nights.
Turned away,
their solace lay with stable mates
and a symbol of Love was born.
As the world seethes
a baby in Aleppo writhes with pain,
feels not the love promised to many.
Angels hover,
ethereal wings tattered and torn.
Their yuletide song has but six words.
How has it come to this?
Created for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. dVerse will take a holiday hiatus, but I shall keep posting here. Heads up! Tomorrow’s post is about our recent trip to Australia and includes some amazing photos of a mama wallaby and her joey!
Special thanks to Bjorn, Gail and all my fellow pub tenders. And a very special thanks to all dVerse participants for making 2016 a great year!
This Season…
Christmas lights flicker
like memories this time of year.
Snow falls quietly
somehow ignorant of her pain.
Dedicated to all those who have difficulty this time of year . . . facing personal challenges, illness, grief, or loss. And remembering those who are no longer with us to celebrate this holiday season.
she waits . . .
elusive time
slips through fingers
like threads of gossamer silk
elusive time
disappears like dew drops
as sun steeps blades of grass
elusive
as sheaves of journal pages
covered in faded ink,
tear drop stains
softened by the years
journal pages
fingered tentatively
as she sits, mind wandering,
wizened body ensconced
in pale grey prayer shawl
I’m hosting the bar at dVerse today, a virtual pub for poets, and asking folks to write a poem with the word “time” in it; or a poem about a particular time etched in their memory. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and imbibe some poetic words or take up the prompt yourself. We’d love to have you! Photo credit: Kristen Hultzapple.
One Iowa Night
We rented an Iowa farmhouse in 1973, in the midst of loess hills and cornfields. The acreage included a silo, machine sheds, pigs’ digs, and a large barn with 1876 chiseled into the fading red wooden door. On this particular January night, in the midst of a howling blizzard, we heard thumping at our door. Cat, our inherited outdoor farmcat, sat on the stoop. Bulging pregnant belly of yesterday gone, her teats hung low. We offered a bowl of warm milk as George donned winter gear. He set out to follow Cat and insure her new kittens were safe, protected from the storm. She led him in and out of buildings, round that farm for thirty plus minutes. He finally gave up the hunt and came inside, looking like a freeze-frame from Dr. Zhivago. Mucous frozen mustache. Beard turned prematurely white with snow. We feared the worse. And then . . . some weeks later, on a clear, crisp and sunny day, Cat paraded by our window with a smirk on her face. Six little ones scurried behind.
winds howl, snow pelts earth
nature’s creatures burrow deep
wait for calming sun
It’s haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Toni asks us to write about a night we remember. The haibun form includes a paragraph or two in prose (must be nonfiction) followed by a haiku. Photo is in fact, the old farmhouse mentioned in the haibun. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop by and imbibe some poetry or share your memories of one special night!
lillian the home poet 