Chrysalis dream
mezmerising solitude
finding peace within.
Photo from Provincetown, Cape Cod.
Author: lillian
Ferlinghetti 21.25
Casting her eyes to heaven
she meandered through what was.
If only
she’d sensed his other half,
those gentle hands fisted as
love pummeled, possessed too far.
She lie now, crumpled to the floor, that
human mass he abandoned in the night.
Sometimes poetry can be written to call attention to an endemic problem. This is dedicated to all those who face domestic abuse. Written for dVerse in a unique format that takes one or two lines from another poem and uses these words, in order, as the end words of the new poem. Photo credit: Linda Lucerne
Ferlinghetti’s poem titled 21 is from the 60th Anniversary Edition, City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology, edited by Lawrence Ferlinghetti:
Heaven
was only half as far that night
at the poetry recital
listening to the burnt phrases
when I heard the poet have
a rhyming erection
then look away with a
lost look
‘Every animal’ he said at last
‘After intercourse is sad’
But the back-row lovers
looked oblivious
and glad
Party Lines
Telephone chatter,
chirps heard round the neighborhood.
Eunice knows
what clara knows
what maybeth knows
what celia knows.
Biddies gathered round the wire
in times gone by.
Word Count: 27. Written for Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers (photo prompt appears on Wednesdays) Photo credit: Roger Bultot. Apologies to those expecting fiction here….saw this photo and could not resist! When we were first married (early 1970s) we lived in Marengo, Iowa — the last place in the USA to have 4 digit phone numbers (think about that!) and of course, we also had party lines. For those of you too young to understand, those were the days of rotary dial phones where 5 or 6 or sometimes more families all shared the same “line.” We always picked up our telephone receiver (the piece you listened to and spoke into) carefully, and didn’t start dialing until we knew it was “free.” OR, chuckle deviously here, you could listen in to what was going on in the neighborhood!
Bryce Canyon
Intruders are we
amongst orange-red hoodoos.
Otherworldly creatures,
knobby limestone
eroded by wind and rain,
guarding slot canyons
and plateau rims.
We tread silently,
specks of time
wandering through your midst.
Written for dVerse — prompting us to write poetry about the SouthWest USA. Photos are from a trip in 20013 to Bryce Canyon. A magical place indeed.
Festival
The sky is aglow this morn.
Floating quilt of primary colors
myriad shapes and sizes
blankets the bright blue overhead.
Row by row, baskets peopled
by those akin with adventure
fires stoked, ropes cut, they rise
to gas gusting sounds and cheers.
And we are left behind
we who stood the ground
arid browns and taupes,
dry earth and tumble weeds.
Thermos empty, dusty mouth
a vague sense of wish-I-was-there
mind dulled with lack of sleep
I crane my neck again
and wonder,
why am I here
and they are out there
soaring with their dreams.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, hosted by Mish. She asks us to write a poem related to the Southwest — and she has strong ties to New Mexico. A number of years ago I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico for the hot air balloon festival. I went out before dawn and helped folks with their balloons, readying them for flight. Watched as wave after wave of balloons fired up and lifted into the sky. An amazing sight indeed.
Memoir
i remember
skip-to-my-lou
kukla, fran and ollie
days of the week underpants
and uncle howie’s store
the wisconsin dells’ wooden indian
my lone ranger lunch box
howdy doody’s freckles
miss tews’ ballet school
and kindergarten with junie z
any one out there
remember me?
A man dressed as the Lone Ranger rides his horse along the pier as the aircraft carrier USS RANGER (CV-61) ties up behind him. The RANGER has returned to North Island following its deployment to the Persian Gulf region for Operation Desert Shield and Operation Desert Storm.
A quadrille (44 words) written for dVerse using the word “skip.” Skip to My Lou is a popular children’s song – begun in 1826 as a lyrical game in Abraham Lincoln’s youth in southern Indiana and Kentucky, it became a partner-stealing dance in the 1840s. In my childhood, we literally skipped along the sidewalk singing this song. Photos: The Lone Ranger; Kukla, Fran and Ollie; and Howdy Doody – tv shows popular in the 1950s. Me playing dress-up with Junie Z, on a Wisconsin Dells vacation, and ready for a Miss Tews dancing recital.
Artist in Waiting
Obsessed with her oils
and the patina of still life,
she spent her later years
living in a shadow world,
feasting on edibles
from her studio walls.
Image credit: AnnMarie at anntogether.com. Artist with words and brush. Creative woman extraordinaire. Thank you AnnMarie for allowing me to put my words to your amazing pear-fingers. Meander over to her site and see beautiful portraits, amazing creatures, and poetry that unites her images to words.
Water Nymphs
They carried purple sateen ribbons
furling and unfurling them into rays of sun,
dancing their way to the shimmering river.
Rivulets gurgled and tamed themselves
lily pads with pale green tendrils appeared,
pillows afloat in soothing cool waters.
Twirling through an iridescent aura,
stars dipped from darkening sky
entwined and crowned their flowing hair.
Bodies sprouted translucent wings
where once streams of violet furled
and their spirits soared.
Written for the final day of NaPoWriMo 2016. April is national poetry month.
Photo is in public domain.
My World
the circle of love
family
Gone
The house,
filled with yesterdays.
Sirens in the night
its newest memory.
Frayed rug askew
on cold oak floor.
Empty mirror
waits for her return.
lillian the home poet 