Author: lillian

Walls Do Fall as Wills May Not

lillian31 Comments

Razor edged wire, threatens no more
pock marked walls show soul’s erosion
wind, humidity and whipping post,
rotters in this Devils’ Isle.

Faceless among spirits’ wails,
I roam this prison centuries freed.
Death’s release forced my choice
and I am staid midst crumbling stone.

My crimes were but a patriot’s wish
allegiance not to putrefied wigs,
but to the poor and scrabbling ones
who sought but food and voice.

I swear to you, the sun cared more
within these exiled walls,
than in London’s teeming lanes
and me upon bended knee.

I watch you, with eyes no more
buildings turned to crypt
by guards decrepited, paneless,
upright never then, and failing now.

I see those who cannot see me
workers, reclaimers and visitors alike,
bodies who will never understand
restoration shall never be.

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Motivated by dVerse Poet’s Pub: Victoria  tending the bar asked us to think about Me, Myself, and I…..or Is It? and write a poem in the first person.  This piece is inspired by both the ruins and the history of Bermuda. Photo is at the Royal Naval Dockyard — the Casemates, built in 1839 by British convicts. These buildings were first used to house militia and later became a prison. Some restoration work has occurred — the climate here takes its toll on the old and the new.

 

 

Pro or Con?

lillian4 Comments

They lost their true selves
changed beliefs with shifting winds
chameleons at heart.
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Photo from yesterday’s walk: a Jamaican Anole. Species brought to Bermuda in 1905 in a futile attempt to control the Mediterranean Fruit Fly. I’ve not seen any fruit flies — so perhaps it has done its job?  Reminds me of a chameleon…although these are its permanent colors.

 

Ship’s Log

lillian24 Comments

Asail for Jamestown, weather struck an evil chord.
Young ones lashed to timbers, screamed in terror.
Women, hands clasped, lay flat rolling with the pitch
prayers heard by gales of wind, sent from hell.

What reef was that below? That jarring impact?
Yesterday’s aquamarine, myriad shades of blue
now boiling black sea wall, impossible to climb
sails reduced to shreds, precious cargo lost.

Legs like spindles flailed in white caps
wide-eyed heads and struggling arms schooled
instinctively to shore, collapsed on sand
knowing not this somewhere land.

Awake at dawn, miraculously all ashore
but up and down the sands, bits of her, everywhere.
She is beyond sail. But we are not.
We are a hearty group, this the royals knew.

There are no Others here. No conversions
or wars divert our attention. We live
amongst fowl and fish of many shapes
and harvest abundant cedar trees.

Birds, unused to four limbed walker-talls,
never learned to fear. And so we pet and grab
and spit, until their raucous calls, cahow cahow,
forshadow their impending doom.

We are users now, building for tomorrow.
Tall cedar limbs bend and crack as they grow less
our hopes grow more. The sails shall rise
and we shall once again, ride atop these seas.

1610 ~
The time has finally come. Farewell this land
your gifts to us immeasurable.
And I wonder as I write, who next
shall see this beautiful isle
beneath the skies that never end.

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Photos from Bermuda — the myriad shades of blue!  Written for dVerse..Kelly tending bar at dVerse asked us to write a narrative poem, somehow including a bird — in commemoration of Harper Lee’s recent death, author of To Kill A Mockingbird.  This is (with some liberty) the story of Bermuda’s discovery — totally by accident. The island was uninhabited when discovered. Sadly, the cedar timbers once so plentiful, are all but gone. And the Cahow, once thought extinct, is now making a comeback with help from naturalists here.

Ganache

lillian45 Comments

Ma cherie, mon amour, au naturelle
like dew drops upon rosebud petals,
champagne bubbles tickling my nose.

Sweet crème fraiche atop fresh picked berries,
whip cream dollups daubed scoop by scoop
on thick chocolat pâtisserie.

Quite simply put, my dear,
you are my ganache.

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Quadrille (44 word poem) for Monday’s dVerse, and today, De Jackson our bartender at the pub, asks that we include the word “bubble.”  Photo Credit: Enrica Bressan.

What Was, Never Was

lillian40 Comments

Devout small child, sought cave
lit by red-orange candle flames,
mysterious grotto somehow carved
into side of large gothic church.

Dark stone curved inward
away from gold tabernacle,
winged angels and all the saints
beside mother Mary, gowned in blue.

Solemn under flickering shadows,
knees on kneeler, eyes squeezed shut.
Surely god listens, even to the young
deep within this special place.

Why did I return after decades away?

Priest stands at makeshift altar
watches people, back to tabernacle,
shining not. Statuary stands about,
coarse in detail. And there. . .

dim plastered niche. Grey stones layered
upon layer of faux black, some askew
like mislaid bricks. Yellowed plastic electric
candles flutter, dull and duller.

This off-to-the-side
push-a-button prayer place
is not, and never shall be
what was for me.

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Written for Wednesday Poetics, dVerse Pub for Poets. If you’ve not checked it out, this is a wonderful virtual spot — great group of folks — and always interesting challenges. Today, Mary tends the “bar” and talks about rooms, citing some wonderful poetry, and asks us to write about a room we remember. I did return to this place of my childhood some five years back. I wished I had not. So many things seem so large and magical when we are young. Somehow with height comes a different perspective. Photo Credit: Therese Branton.

Before the Dawn

lillian47 Comments

Much has been written about the dawn of a new day. For me, it has always been the moments before that, which stir my soul. When dark shadow clouds and navy blue-black sky meld into india-ink black sea. It is all a scrim, a gauzed blanket that lies above and beyond with no horizon line.

The shoreline blurs, smudges, like a charcoal master piece. There are no browns, only shades of ebony and beginning blue. It is a delicious hush. Before the sun begins its slow ascent from underneath somewhere, slowly tinting edges into floating worlds of pink and violet, revealing solid lines and building shapes. Before that color of pales, there is only the unseen, blurring barely to the discernable. In that moment of suspended darkness, there is the presence of hope.

Clouds before the dawn
shadows undulate with hope
darkness woos my dreams

Written for Dverse Poets’ Pub Haibun Monday — this week Grace asked us to springboard from one of three given quotations.  I used the following: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” – Mary Oliver  A Haibun is prose, followed by haiku and usually underscores nature and some higher truth.

Scissor Me You

lillian9 Comments

Two young blades were we
all shear joy
making lacey hearts
and peek-a-boos too.

Red crayons broken,
black marker now dry
we’re older, less sharp
and rusted with age.

In synch through the years,
our curves more rounded
our pace less quick,
we still meet at the heart
you and I.

We make each other
our valentine.

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Photo credit: Julia Freeman-Woolpert

Victorian Love

lillian12 Comments

It was a summer of letters,
you there, me here.
The days of thinking slowly,
rolling words around
until they landed just right.

The days of ink to vellum
and a blotter for splotches,
hand heavy with emotion
or tear drops of missing.
And sometimes our words crossed

like a wind shift, dropping seeds
too early to be devoured or take root.
That summer of letters,
so many years and memories ago,
carefully bundled with dried lavender
tucked away in the back closet shelf.

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Photo Credit: Alex Drahon