Author: lillian

After All These Years . . .

lillian14 Comments

They were so young. Grins on their faces more often than not. Dressed in wool caps, fuzzy mittens, and brightly colored scarves. The backs of their snowsuits still showed evidence of the snow angels they’d just completed. An annual tradition at the first deep snow. Jill’s yard was always the scene. More often than not, they’d be in the midst of a wild dance to the blizzard gods when Mrs. Cranston called out to them, one by one. All of the names swallowed up by the cold, but loud enough so they knew her homemade hot chocolate was ready.

All these years later, Jill looking so beautiful in her wedding gown, they sat looking expectantly at Mrs. Cranston. Snow falling outside the church fellowship hall’s window, she held up her champagne flute: “To lasting friendship, my dears. You will always be my cold-nosed angels!”

It’s Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe. Today Bjorn is hosting from Stockholm, Sweden. He asks us to include the line All of the names swallowed up by the cold in our piece of prose/flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length, sans title. The line is from the poem “After Someone’s Death” by the late Swedish Nobel Laureate, Tomas Tranströmer.

Touching the Moon

lillian18 Comments

Hours ago, we were walking in Provincetown’s center. Raucous, crowded. Bicyclists weaving through pedestrians on Commercial Street. The Lobster Pot’s neon sign flashing bright. Drag queens in stiletto heels enticing folks to come see their shows. Owners walking with dogs of all sizes, bejeweled in tiaras, on rhinestone leashes; some sitting pertly, watching the crowds from baby strollers.

Now, with skies darkening, we stand alone on our deck. We’ve rented this special place for two weeks every year, for the past twenty-five years. A twenty-minute walk into town, it seems like a world away from all that we were in the midst of, just an hour ago. We listen to the silence around us. We watch with incredulity and awe as the sky darkens and a full orange-red gleaming orb rises. “Hold your hand, just there,” my husband tells me. He takes the photo. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to touching the moon.

civilization
believes itself so clever
full moon knows better

Frank is hosting haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re to write about the full moon. According to Frank, in February, the full moon is called the Snow Moon. I’ve taken the liberty of writing about an experience we had one September. I believe the full moon was called the Blood Moon at the time. Photos from two different years in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which is at the very tip end of Cape Cod.

A Colony of Ants, a Flamboyant of Flamingos, and a Bloat of Hippopatomous Met One Day

lillian20 Comments

What names be known, for groups benign
to get, to go; to roam, to grow.

Porcupines in groups are prickles.
Wild geese do gaggle, soar in glee.
The bees all bumble, swarms the buzz,
while murder, mischief crows do make.

(And now excuse my poetic license)

A pile of purses we name a pursuit.
A nosh of neckties, a collar’s noose.
A group of grown-ups, known as grumps,
a trickle of teens, they call a twit.
A poet’s pub is fancied a pword.

*pword – Think of it as a plosive before “word” – not to be mistaken for pee-word!

Written for dVerse, Meet The Bar Thursday. Today, Bjorn asks us to write alliterative verse. He defines the form:
1. The alliterative verse has four stressed syllables per line.
2. The three first syllables alliterate, while the fourth does not.
3. There is a caesura (pause) between the first two stressed syllables and the last two.
4. If you want to, you may put a line break or some punctuation to make the caesura clear.

* I handled the alliteration and the syllables; in a few lines, I did not add the caesura. I did have fun with this….prickles, gaggles, swarms and murders. And then some made up group names: pursuit, noose, grumps, twit, and power! Phots from Pixabay.com

I Should Have Listened

lillian19 Comments

My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me.
Tell me, where did you sleep last night?
Beneath the willow tree?
Its branches so lithe, so low.
Its lance shaped, feather-veined leaves
brushing sensuously across your bloodied mouth?

They warned me:
if she floats then she is not
a witch like we had thought.
But your incandescent eyes beckoned me,
consumed my rationality.
And I learned, you are so much more.

Blackened sky, host to full moon.
I am bereft. Abandoned again.
Shrieking howls from God knows where,
scream the undeniable truth.
How much longer can I endure
these monthly night terrors?

My lust lit afire by your smooth body,
entwined with mine so often at evensong.
But this I fear, left once again.
I am slowly going insane
knowing you have never been,
nor will you ever be, all mine.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Melissa is hosting and sharing information about the late singer, song-writer, Kurt Cobain. She asks us to consider several of his songs and use one or more lines from them, within a poem we post today. Image generated on Bing Create.

“My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me.
Tell me, where did you sleep last night?”
From Where Did You Sleep Last Night? / Songwriter: Huddie Ledbetter

“If she floats then she is not
A witch like we had thought.”
From Serve the Servants / Songwriter: Kurt Cobain

Glaciers’ Demise

lillian24 Comments

Foggy mist hovers.
Murky white veil,
nature’s hide-and-seek touch.

Glacier calves, cracks sharply.
Blue tinged icebergs
float aimlessly, shrinking in time.

Numbed cold rouged cheeks.
Breath’s visible trail hangs
in cold crisp air.

I am witness.
I understand now.
Warnings of dire disaster.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse. Today we are to include the word “touch” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photos from our cruise some years back to Antarctica.

Annie Boaden

lillian11 Comments

As a little girl, she often escaped the city’s bustle by visiting the public library. She’d sit quietly reading Betsy, Tacy and Tib stories and smile with Winnie the Pooh. Sometimes she’d spin the large globe with eyes closed, stop it, and imagine moving where her finger landed.

Years passed until she was alone, eyes clouded by cataracts, still living in the same small house. She adored its flower garden, tending it so carefully. Hollyhocks, primroses, lilacs grown tall over the years. Today, it rained so she sat beside her kitchen window gazing out. Screen door open, she could hear the rain patter, smell her city lilacs release their sweet, wild perfume, then bow down, heavy with rain. The teapot would soon whistle, and she’d pour herself a cup to share with Jane Austen, escaping into the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy.


Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. In Prosery, we’re given a line from a poem and must include it, word for word, within a piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length. Today we’re asked to include the following lines from British writer, Helen Dunmore’s poem City Lilacs:
“. . . city lilacs
release their sweet, wild perfume
then bow down, heavy with rain.”

Photo taken some years ago on Lilac Sunday at the Arnold Arboretum in Boston.

Can you picture it?

lillian32 Comments

Boxes full of joy and laughter.
Clouds ready to burst,
rain happiness upon the earth.
See-through containers
brimming with peace.
Seed catalogues with special sales:
flowers that bloom understanding,
guaranteed to produce gargantuous yields.
Imagine with me, all these possibilities.
Which would you choose?


Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting, asking folks to include the word “imagine” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Image created at Bing Create.

Stormy Night

lillian16 Comments

Clouds meld as sun disappears in night,
form thick starless low-lying scrim.
Thor, maestro of storms, hurls bolt.
Rain streams sidewise,
wind powered slant.

Lonely man on street leans in,
challenged by elements, struggles forward.

She waits impatiently.
Nine o’clock draws near,
time agreed upon, one tryst past.
He plods on,
tears mixed with rain.

Thor’s Opus intensifies.
Relentless time moves moments on.

Clocktower strikes nine times,
signifies his doom.
He stumbles, staggers, stops.
Bereft, done, hopeless.
She’s forever gone.

Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We are free to post any poem of our choosing. Image created on Bing Create.