Perception
can be
may be
is
or is not
reality.
Life’s challenge?
To know
the difference.
Author: lillian
Blur
Last day of challenge to write a poem every day during April, National Poetry Writing Month. FYI: will be taking a hiatus from the blog until Monday, May 4. Taking a trip to visit family and slip into my mom and grandmom roles. Please do join me again on Monday!! Happy weekend to all and congratulations to all my fellow poets who completed the NaPoWriMo challenge!
Blur
She lives on a merry-go-round
senses dulled by blurred vision
maniacal calliope music
takes her nowhere every day
mired in circle sameness.
She chose the blue horse
its golden mane rich in gilt
matched her lust then shocked
her as its cold cylindrical pole
ignored her calls to stop.
He rides two steeds behind her
eyes wild, hair disheveled
desperately out of synch
up down to her down up
gains no ground moving still.
Hot desire fuels
his mad useless pursuit
anchored by metal plates
bolted to the wildly
spinning floor.
Summer’s Delights
NaPoWriMo April 29 and Photo Challenge to share a photograph that captures motion and tell the story behind it. Several summers ago we were delighted to have our daughter and grandchildren join us for a weekend in Provincetown. Oh the joys and innocence of childhood!
Summer’s Delights
Apple tree blossoms in curly hair
knocked off their branches
during the morning climb
by scraped and knobby knees.
Sidewalks with white chalk not snow
crooked squares and wiggly numbers
smudged by hop scotch jumps
and dripping lime popsicles.
Seaside escapades scented by Coppertone
childhood tag at water’s edge
joy forever captured in portraits
of red-brown freckles on sun flushed cheeks.
Come Walk This Lane
NaPoWriMo Day 28: no prompt
Come Walk This Lane
We travel the road with smiles and song
two seniors, a little girl, and giggles galore.
Slowed by aging knees and cataracts
our steps hesitate on uneven ground.
Her six year prance, skips and tugs
a young colt straining against its reins.
Hands seasoned with brown age spots
grasp fingers fresh from popsicle licking.
The wheels on the bus go round and round
segways to Knock knock. Who’s there?
Elephants! Suddenly we’re swaying
makeshift trunks and holding tails.
Beware! Silliness is contagiously infectious
in close proximity to grandchildren.
Enjoy!
Live life
savor love
delectably delicious!
‘Tis Spring!
Skipping out the door
a spring to my step
’tis the season!
Loss
NaPoWriMo April 25. Without Prompt.
Loss
Eyes droop heavy
tear salt encrusted lashes
stare forward unseeing.
Throat gags trying to escape
the cloying flower scent
preserved in artificial cold air.
Silent screams inaudible
smothered in the cacophony
of shushing hushing voices.
Hands folded, cold
should be warm in mine
swinging down our lane.
Comprehension dawns
sun shines out of synch
with the ending of our days.
Woods’ Desire
NaPoWriMo April 24, without prompt. Spending February in Bermuda, we walked many miles on the Old Railway Trail. So many sections were almost mystical – nature can be that way.
Wood’s Desire
The forest seldom traveled
seeks company and joy
trees stand sentinel proud
light rarely allowed upon her ground.
Winds decide to grant her wish
push aside branches high and low
create slivered space amongst the leaves
open pathways for morning sun.
Leaf filtered, bright and spritely shapes
suddenly dance upon her darkened floor
awakened shadows without selves
companions until the calm.
Ode to Puttering
NaPoWriMo day 23 without a prompt. With a shout-out to Lisa Dingle’s Just Ponderin’ blog for mentioning the word “putter” which got me to thinking, then reminiscing. Words do that, right?
Ode to Puttering
Dawn to dusk wage earner kind of guy
one business suit, five starched shirts
Monday-Tuesday
Wednesday-Thursday-Friday
cubicle confined.
Suit shed
like a snake-wriggled-from-skin
sloppy slippers, baggy pants
uniform is no form
Saturday Sunday putter time.
Basement workshop sets him free
Skippy jars stuffed and ready
screws and bolts, drill bits, nails
epoxy glue and old television tubes
scraped sandpaper sits by stained soft rags.
Puttering
that practical art
relax to see to do
replace a blade, splice a cord
refinish renail a peglegged chair.
Dad the doer, mom the asker
knick knack shelves, built-in whatevers.
Puttering, like Jack Benny and Lawrence Welk
a lost art from today’s rush and run, buy and toss
and buy again kind of world.
The Drawer
I didn’t know
it would make memories rollout
like that twirling lottery cage
that stops and releases balls as you
hold your breath and hope for magic.
She died
and left me to create the magic
sorting through a junk drawer
stuffed and crammed
with years of tuckaways.
lillian the home poet 