Family gathering
love, laughter, reminiscing.
Like the inevitability of spring,
our connections bloom again.
Written off-prompt, for NaPoWriMo. It’s National Poetry Writing and the challenge is to write a poem every day in April.
Written today, on the occasion of a family gathering this weekend in Chicago, to celebrate the lives of Joanne and Ed Schnackenbeck.
have some aches and pains
but able to walk
and reach dishes on the second shelf.
Enjoy a good book
sleep beside the love of your life
and have family that cares,
said the septuagenarian.
To be blessed is to
be with your forever family
who plays fetch for hours on end,
lets you get on the couch with them . . .
occasionally,
and get kibble treats for just sitting still,
said Zoey, the dog.
To be blessed is to
enjoy sunshine filtering through your leaves
provide shade to a couple’s picnic beneath your branches
sport reds and burnt oranges in the autumn season
mourn the dropping of leaves and skeleton shivers
knowing your resurrection will come next spring,
said the seventy-six year old Metasequoia.
Written for Day 5, NaPoWriMo where the prompt is to “try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio of very different things would perceive of a blessing.” The line “to be blessed” and the idea for my poem is taken from the poem used to illustrate the prompt, “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog” by Alicia Ostriker.
*There is indeed a Metasequoia tree planted in the Arnold Arboretum of Harvard University in 1948. It is one of the oldest and first of its kind to grow in North America in over two million years according to the City of Boston official website. The photo, however, is of a tree in Boston’s Public Garden taken during an autumn walk several years ago.
….the poem, written on July 6 2021…
In the Good Ole Summertime . . .
corn-on-the-cobify me . . .
tomatocize me.
Plop raspberries on my fingertips
only to pop them one by one
into my eager mouth.
It’s garden fresh
summerliciousness time!
——————————————————————-
…and the palinode, written today…..
In the Crappy Fickle Spring . . .
frozen dinner me or . . .
chilly me with stewed tomatoes
and black beans poured from tin cans.
I love eating yet another chili supper,
spoon by spoon,
dripping on my well worn flannel shirt.
I’d much rather nosh on
bruised banana slices than fresh raspberries,
tastebuds screaming their disappointment.
Longing for summerlicious times?
Not me.
I absolutely adore this crappy fickle spring.
Written for dVerse today, where today, in the spirit of April 4th being National Tell a Lie Day, we’re to write a Palinode: a poem that contradicts or retracts something the poet has previously written. Today, in Boston, we’ve had snow, hail, and/or cold sleety rain all day. I imagine the daffodils are frozen in shock. And I for one, am tired of this year’s fickle spring!
She prefers
the zone of morning twilight.
Eyes sensitive to cruelty
ears offended by malice,
she avoids humans.
Shoreline creatures know her well.
Gulls flock to her side.
Cormorants swim nearby.
Black and sleek
they duck beneath waves,
pop up farther down shore.
Her dune shack stands alone
away from prying eyes,
her choice since long ago.
She collects sea glass,
gems given up by the sea.
Handmade dream catchers
flutter in the breeze.
High tides, low tides,
her only sense of time.
Solitude gleaned at ocean’s shore,
the gift she treasures daily.
Written for day 4, NaPoWriMo. April is National Poetry Writing Month. The challenge is to write a poem every day in the month of April.
The prompt for today is to “write a poem in which you take your title or some language/ideas from The Strangest Things in the World.” I’ve chosen the line “the zone of morning twilight” which appears in the Introduction of the book. Photo was taken a number of years ago: a dune shack on Cape Cod’s National Seashore.
Her iridescent spirit carries her through the golden dust swirls of the Orion nebula. Fourteen hundred light years away from earth, she awaits the right moment. She is the Unique One. A star whose heart pulses in time with the ebb and flow of ocean tides. She is composed of compassion and love. Once a nova who flashed too close to the moon, she witnessed the inhumanity of humanity. She must find her way through constellations and galaxies, to find one human creature she can claim. And in that claiming will come illumination. A flame. Kindling for a paradigm shift. The only hope for earth to survive.
Photo image from the telescope of John McKaveney: The Orion Nebula.
Written in response to NaPoWriMo, prompt for day three: to write a surreal prose poem.
Look upward with me,
magnify the solar system.
Marvel at what is light years away.
Now stand in still of night,
look up with naked eye.
Millions of tiny shining lights,
star specks in ebony sky.
No matter our egos,
we are simply small creatures
alive for a millisecond of time.
All the more reason
to be humbled by the universe,
to live and love,
thankful for every day.
Posting to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, and noting it is day 2 of NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month.
I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics, introducing folks to John McKaveney. John is a friend from San Diego who has an undergraduate degree in Astronomy and Astrophysics, is a lawyer, and has an amazing telescope! For today’s prompt, I’ve provided four of John’s amazing photos and asked folks to use at least one as inspiration for their poem today. See information below, about the photo I’ve used here.
Photo by John McKaveney. The Orion Nebula: “This is an active star forming region about 1400 light years away, of condensing gas and dust, illuminated by newly forming stars. Our solar system formed in a region much like this about 5 billion years ago. The photons that were observed when this picture was taken, left the nebula in 624 AD. At that time, Mohamed had just won the Battle of Badr, in Saudi Arabia, the classical period in Europe was ending and the middle ages beginning, the Mayas were just beginning to build their largest pyramids, and Europeans had not yet set foot in North America. Throughout this entire time, those photons of light were traveling through space to be captured to form this photograph, where their journey finally ended.”
From this vantage point,
looking up, like looking back.
Contours evident.
Cracks, crevices, smooth edges,
veins streak across surface.
Planar sedimentary laminations
mark periods of sustained times.
Strength, resilience,
past layered upon past,
weathered but still tall.
Pulpit Rock in Norway
metaphor for life.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we’re asked to write a Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) that includes the word “contour.” Will also use this poem for the first day of NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month, where the challenge is to post a poem every day in April!
Photo taken two years ago, on a Celebrity cruise where we visited Norway and took a boat trip down the Lysefjord and saw Pulpit Rock.
Réne Margitte’s canvas, perhaps unwittingly,
illustrates the patriarchal paradigm in 1953.
He paints more than one-hundred men
floating down from the sky.
Every one the same staid figure.
Black topcoats, black bowler hats
atop staid unfeeling faces.
It’s a dull world of sameness
that lulls the joy out of life.
1964, a new canvas came to light
danced and sung on the silver screen.
All those dull men replaced
by one Mary Poppins floating in,
seemingly from the same sky.
Bert, the chimney sweeper,
may have been her pal,
but she was the change agent,
intelligent, talented, and kind.
One woman’s abilities, her smile,
her laughter, and creativity
reached thousands that year,
and still today, brings joy.
Time to repaint Margitte’s canvas,
create a paradigm shift.
Time to take up our own brush,
claim our rights, our bodies,
say enough is enough.
Golconda by Réne Margitte. Oil on canvas: 1953.
Poem created for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Melissa is host and introduces us to the surrealist painter, Margitte. She asks us to consider one of several paintings she provides, and write about what we see and what we don’t see…to use the image as inspiration. I must admit, as soon as I saw this painting, I thought of Mary Poppins! And then, the poem wrote itself.
Words burst like cannon shots
swift, sharp darts to hearts
breaking into shards of glass
no longer able to hold
love.
Bullets of bravado
bully brave souls
who face blistering barrage
with shields strengthened
by past assaults.
Words with no fire or smoke
but haze of hatred make it hard
to catch a breath, a sliver of life
before when air was fresh and
hope was alive with promise;
before words exploded in heads
like bullets seeking bullseyes
in hearts once filled with love.
Words pile up like smoky ashes
burying dreams, lives imagined
before the vitriol rose up
to tear down expectations
leaving debris, devastation.
War of words leaves victims
with wounds unseen
hurting on the inside
no blood just torrents of tears.
Sharing this poem written by Lindsey Ein. She read it aloud for us at dVerse LIVE on Saturday. I thought it quite powerful. I’ve taken the liberty of creating an image to accompany her poem….created in Bing Create.
Recessed window’s wide ledge
holds spirits for drinker’s escape.
Time out desperately needed
from hatred, tyranny,
spewed vindictiveness,
misogyny, racism, and lies.
Broad brushstrokes have not,
cannot hide, underlying malevolence.
Clean canvass craved,
painted in meaningful hues.
Foundation layer of iridescent justice.
Calm cerulean waters
governed by tides of crimsoned love.
Emerald-kindness speckled shores of honesty.
Sun-flowered happiness rollicking
beneath cobalt cloudless skies.
Is there a bard to create this script?
A Dali, Miro, or Kahlo
to produce this surrealism?
Who among us
will ensure it becomes reality?
Human dignity bathed in light,
tinted with opalescent caring,
glowing in a patina of hope.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting Open Link Night where folks are invited to post any one poem of their choice, no form, rhyme scheme etc. required OR use Van Gogh’s painting, Studio Window, to motivate their creative juices.
AND you are invited to join us LIVE (with audio and video), on Saturday, March 16th from 10 to 11 AM New York time. Simply click here, and then click on the link you’ll find for dVerse LIVE. You’re invited to read a poem of your choosing, or simply come sit in and listen. Drop in for a few minutes or come and stay the hour. Although we’re an international group, all readings and conversations are in English. We’ve had folks from Sweden, the UK, Trinidad Tobago, Finland, Pakistan, the US, Kenya, Australia, and India. I do hope you’ll join us – the more the merrier!
lillian the home poet 