The flat smooth spatula
dips in sweetness
slowly connects with layers
methodically swirls its thickness
then dips again, rises again
and moves in circles
across the top of delicious.
Author: lillian
….and the Desolate Shall Not See
Night comes earlier to the dark of soul.
Blind to the stars
the universe appears as India ink
dripped from the Master’s quill,
one unending amorphous black blot
across the everywhere sky.
Repercussions
Drowsy day snippets
up too late
trying to find some words
pen in _ _ _ _
words flit in _ _ _ out
eyes a _ _ _blurred
mind foggy too
time to give _ _ up
and j_ _ _
take a _ _ _
zzzzzzzzzzz……..
Calligraphy Girl
Penciled eyebrows arched in surprise
bright red lips and stiletto heels
short white gloves like her mother wore
and always a billowing skirt,
crinolines attached for extra flounce.
She struts through life to decorate the scene
takes center stage to raucous applause.
Shoes come off, skirt removed
she twirls it above her head
three loops, then let sail
caught by the lucky wide-eyed man
sitting in a front row seat.
Each movement choreographed
her legs curve round the rope.
She ascends high and higher still
seeks the spotlight’s heat,
craves this life,
to dangle and curl
high above the circus floor.
Outside In
Stainless steel body and lid
small glass knob at top
black cord with electric plug
wake-up percolates
like ideas
poets play with words
children plot make-believe
imaginary friend or foe
hands slap high-fives
or hit
metal basket filled with grinds
crushed to bits, tampered down
tempered up with heat
bubbles clear then dark
then darker still
anger boils over
outside glassed in walls
balance shifts in hand
to pour the pot
pungent morning elixir
eyes wide shut
as outside
the world explodes.
I”ve taken a different approach to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Inspiration. Although there are many things that inspire my living and my love (family and my spouse of 45 years at the top), it seems that my morning cup of coffee beside my journal, at a carved-out early time in the AM, inspires my words. And so, a photo of my coffee and the words it inspired this morning.
Lesson Learned
Double-dutch
two ropes twirl like egg-beaters
and I watch
on the outside leaning in
sway to catch the rhythm
wait for that right moment
when the aperture appears.
Take the chance, slip right in
jump one foot, then the other
double-time to the beat
conquer these ropes
or not
misjudge the opportunity
and I’ll be the one
twirling, standing still.
What’s in a Shoe?
They sit behind closed closet doors
in back of the shoe rack, gathering dust.
Two-toned in black and white,
four inch heels to elongate the leg
toes so narrow their tips turn up
after years of emptiness.
Ground-in talc mottles the inside
used oh so many times to smooth the sole,
pressure points etched in long dried sweat
from happier bare legged days.
Witness to her previous life
they sat primly crossed in corporate talks
hid behind podiums and knelt at pews
clicked down hallways, sat quietly grieving
in cold rooms filled with overwhelming floral scent,
danced at weddings and stood higher still,
tips of heels up off the floor
for a lifetime of New Year’s kisses.
These Spectators, aptly named
sit waiting to see the sun again.
Season Temptress
Flirtacious, sultry summer
sizzles then rains cool
young men strut shirtless
female bosoms tempt their eyes
summer slyly bares their lust.
I do enjoy the Tanka syllabic form: 5-7-5-7-7.
Gives a little more leeway than a haiku:
when 17 just won’t do.
Rough Shod
She was the argumentative sort,
preferring a corrugated path,
emery boards not allowed.
Tell Me Do; Tell Me You
She grew up in a poker face house
curtains drawn, emotions stuffed
inside walls, inside heads, inside everywhere.
Except anger. Sometimes it came flying out.
After a lull. Unexpected.
So loud, it shook the rafters.
No wonder she flew the coop,
using that old vernacular.
Married, with kids, she broke the mold.
Babies babbled, inside and out
sometimes screamed, mouths wide open
no plugs, pacies or binkes allowed.
I love yous and table talk
campfire banter, tell me true
talk it through to eyes that listen.
She insisted on a barcode kind of world
emotions easily scanned
on an every day conveyor belt.
lillian the home poet 