Dear Iowa,
It was osmosis.
City girl absorbed red barns
waving cornfields and fresh plum jam
tractors spewing dust from dawn
drop-in neighbors and party-line phones
sheets flapping on backyard lines
towns without stop lights
and churches with hats.
Neon lights are not fireflies.
Lillian
His family never knew.
That night, five years ago,
insomnia muddled mind,
he walked along the path,
curly black hair shining
iridescent in the silver moon.
Tangled tree legs pulled up roots,
parted slowly, limbs askew,
pointed sharply at the pond
never seen before.
Black water shimmered glossy,
pulled him closer, closer still.
Something winged, unseen,
flapped loudly, beat its wings
pulled him forward, forward more
toward the black pond, now a hole
pulled him forward, falling now
spinning vortex claimed his soul.
They searched for weeks,
never looking up.
Saw the new boy,
curly black hair,
on the prowl,
slingshot always in hand.
Never saw the raven,
flying round the steeple
iridescent, black,
beneath the silver moon
seeking divine intervention
to reclaim its human form.
Photo Credit: dimitri c
Prayer beads grasped in hands
tears falling, fingers trembling,
she prays for her sons.
As of Nov. 14: Dedicated to Paris
Photo Credit: Nico van Diem
Like a dust storm
swirls of grey, dark, darker still.
Whirl of words stick to skin
broken twigs, stabs of blame.
Misery clings to eye lids,
sneers and looks of disdain
seen in every moment of wakefulness.
Like sheaves of wheat broken in the gale
she droops, snaps, folds in to herself.
Years of neglect wrought this reality.
She disappears, marginalized,
haze floating on the wind.
Mouth open, silent howls, she succumbs.
Responsibility acknowledged by no one.
Acrid pain swallowed,
she chokes on life.
Margaret and Kathleen: forever nine years old. Not ones to hold the chalk while others hopped from square to square, they’d met St. Peter at the gates, request in mind.
“Emissary,” was their word for the day that December first. They listened attentively as Sister Mary Kelley used it in a sentence. Henry raised his hand and at that moment, they began to smell the smoke.
And so it came to be. Fifty-seven years later, these cherubic emissaries hovered, waiting by the grave. Soon, a small child would take their hands and be escorted from this world to the next.
100 words. Photo by J. Hardy Carroll and used as this week’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers. Dedicated to those who lost their lives in Chicago’s Our Lady of the Angels Elementary School fire, December 1, 1958.
Red and white stripes unfurled
Old Glory flaps in the wind,
her grommets clank
straining against steel pole.
You loved the flag, its simple beauty.
You lived the flag, patriotism in your soul.
The greatest generation, and you a woman,
a Naval Commander among them all.
People should know your name.
Short in stature, you stood tall
turned boys back into men
healed so many, traveled so far.
Directed nurses, ran the floor,
turned painful rehab into hope.
War time compassion
in the midst of blood and missing limbs.
So many times we sat at your table
ate lemon meringue pie
and rolled the Yahtze dice,
treasured photo above our heads.
You and Admiral Nimitz, side by side.
One hero, honored, known by many.
The other, slipped through time
a silver haired, kind old woman.
Behind one door in a hall of many,
skill and will still intact
you urged your aging friends
Use it or lose it! You’re not dead yet.
You gave again, feet matched spirit
oxford shoes on dirt floors
eighty years old, cross and caring
African clinic, ignored by many.
You can do it, lean on me.
One foot at a time. Move!
And you did
and they did too.
The wind stops, clanking hushed.
Flag quiet. I stand still, missing you.
Commander Frazier, our Aunt Flo.
I remember that faded photo,
just one moment in your glory days.
Photo: U.S. Naval Commander Florence M. Frazier, 1915–2010. On the occasion of her 90th birthday, touring a ship in Charlestown Navy Yard wearing military cap. She was saluted by many that day.
Admiral Chester W. Nimitz was Commander in Chief of the U.S. Naval Fleet in World War II.
Half-pulled shade, headlights dance
in the space before the sill.
Thoughts of nothing and everything
bounce inside my head.
Days gone by reappear, faces blur then clear
generations meld one to the next.
Eye-open dreams change scenes quickly
acts play out in milliseconds.
Like a thousand moths flitting round the light
ideas, words, pictures, feelings, here then gone.
Time moves forward on a nearby shelf,
illumined dial ignores my stalled state.
I watch you beside me, face up, eyes closed.
You wear the night so well, sleep looks delicious.
I match my breath to yours, slow syncopation
like snow flakes falling in the dark of night.
No sound. One by one, breath by breath
and finally I drift.
Cars travel dirt roads
on hot sultry summer days,
dust clouds trail behind.
Cornfields stretch for miles.
Farmers perched on green machines
rumble through the rows.
Keepers of the land,
they rose before the sun
to feed you and me.
Haiku trio. Photos: corn from our Iowa garden many years ago. Tractor: by Loretta Humble.
Memories shimmer
stretched taut
like a spider’s web.
Tubes, wires,
stainless steel
monitors with beating blips.
You lay there in that present space
but somewhere far away.
Then, like a marionette
whose master dropped a string,
your eyes jolted open
and you returned to me.
No photo. Thankful for every day.
Have you seen the moment?
When the sun, in all her glory
becomes maker of the glorious.
Beyond warmth,
she turns light rays into magic
magnified by two.
Image maker supreme
in smooth-as-glass mountain tarns,
upon a building’s see-through wall
or in the garden’s sculpture pond.
The beautiful is embellished,
shines double delight.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Ornate. Photos: Mt. Rainer at Reflection Pond in Mt Rainer National Park; The Dale Chihuly glass displays in Denver Botanic Gardens; reflection of Trinity Church in Boston’s John Hancock Tower; Stan Hywet Gardens in Akron, Ohio.
lillian the home poet 