Author: lillian

Low Tide Morning

lillian6 Comments

IMG_0161

So many seaside two-weeks
in this place with you.
This time, different.

crack….crack……crack.
Roused awake, I leave our bed
step outside to the dawn’s cool.

Jetty exposed at low tide
long and hard, a battering table
for the single industrious gull.

It hovers, takes aim, releases
crack……scallop shell hits
unyielding rock. Stays firm.

The gull swoops down,
picks up shell, rises, hovers
and lets go, again and again.

CRACK….success.
Morsel quickly consumed,
wings flare to catch the draft and soar.

I follow its path until chill seeps in
bare feet suddenly cold
high tide’s tangled seaweed nearby.

Back with you, under rumpled sheets
my hand hovers, drops down
rests upon your chest, like yesterday.

And yesterday’s yesterday.
Every day, since that day
I feel your every breath.

Inhale, exhale.
Yes, you are here
with me.

Magical Place: cherished series, opus 7

lillian4 Comments

Everyone has a house, but not like 5018.       
We took many a long voyage
at that address, sailing the seas
within basement walls.

Grampa was a Swedish immigrant
young idealist and painter by trade.
He sailed across the Atlantic
right into the heart of America.

Years later, he painted the scene.
Ceiling sky cerulean blue
dipped to meet the walls’ horizon
forever brightened by invisible sun.

Gulls soared in place
their cries imagined real
through misshapen clouds
fluffy white, no rain in sight.

Waves rolled with white caps
dabs of paint that never splashed.
Life preserver, hung lifeless
unused and not quite round.

Dry mops swabbed the decks
while lookouts watched for land
till dreaded words Time to go home
drifted down from too real stairs.

We abandoned ship to heed the call
packed into four-door cars
rode through busy honking streets
back to everyday landlocked homes.

Vivid Bermuda

lillian3 Comments

Drums pulse.
Whistle blasts methodical pace
soon frenetic.  Eyes open wide
as Gombeys march
then run, then leap into view.
Vibrant costumed anonymity.
Histories joined
African, British, Native American
collide in exuberant dance.
Speed increases, blurs.
Cacophony of primary colors
whirl, jump high, bend low.
Wordless loud stories
of ancestral slaves.

In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge, how do you illustrate Vivid?

Will He Know?

lillian4 Comments

She wondered
as she tapped the frame slightly askew
replaced the dirty coffee mug on his Chilewich placemat
shuffled the mail so her bill was on top
and turned their bathroom faucet handle just enough
to let the water drip in slow motion,
will he know she’s still with him,
not quite yet a fully embodied angel
in that other world?

Written from a writing prompt in my June Challenge Course: write within a constraint, IE a one sentence poem.

Portrait Etude

lillian9 Comments

She was a collector.

Shelves crowded with knick knacks,
salt and pepper shakers, silver spoons
Avon bottles and beanie bags.

National Geographics on every table,
grampa’s pipe still resting
in the Illinois shaped tin ash tray.

And that was just downstairs.
Climbing up the wooden creaking stairs
revealed a musty attic world.

Windows, long sealed shut
looked down on a weed covered yard,
sidewalks where she drew hop scotches.

Cobwebs bruhsed aside,
we found two trunks, rusty latches
opened decades of memories.

Grampa’s morning coat and grey ascot,
folded atop her yellowed wedding dress,
fragile lace-edged mutton sleeves.

A seed pearl hat pin firmly afixed
to a Juliet cap with fragile tulle veil,
so delicate still.

And there, below the clothes,
the small white leather bible,
wrapped in once white supple leather gloves.

The final layer,
a stack of valentines
tied in faded ribbon.

Their loving epitaph etched
in a tombstone seven miles away,
more alive here
in this trunk of memories.

Emptiness Beside Me – cherished series, opus 6

lillian16 Comments

photo 1

We looked like that.

Proud nine year old, awkward
holding three month me, a treasure
until five years later
pest to your teenage hormones.

You, proud new daddy
me, awkward gawky sister,
new aunt in braces
and lollipop bra.

You, my tuxedo handsome usher
black shiny shoes on white sheeted aisle.
Me, excited oh-so-young bride
barely noticed your proud eyes and smile.

You, father of five
tee ball games and packed full car.
Held your newborn niece,
gentleness on your face.

No photos last time
you so cold and me so flushed.
In front of multitudes
you absolutely still, I wept you.

Pictures stopped. Not you with me,
no you with anyone.
Not in anger, joy or silliness,
just stopped.

Death’s reality lives
in happy photo albums.
Same people, changed by age,
with no you.

photo 2-2 photo 1-2

My brother, nine years older than me. Lost suddenly, too soon at 51.
“Not to worry” he’d say on the phone. Love these pictures. Love his family.