I love this photo by dear friend, Alison Hofer. I think of the many times I’ve picked dandelions like this, and blown them into the wind……
She holds the watering can in hand
too late for dried wispy dandelions
swaying in the slight breeze
seed pods gnawed by nature.
Loosened tendrils float slowly
through thick humid air
like memories and dreams
slipping beyond her grasp.
Shadow of Mine
We walk, you in front of me
one created flesh and bone
the other born of sun
elongated faceless gray.
Seamlessly
we stroll the beach
arms out wide now close in
darkness plays with light.
I stop you stop
your head turns as mine
we follow a gull’s flight
as it rises from the sea.
If I turn and reverse my course
will you dance behind me
like the kite that zigs and zags
when its master loosens his hold?
A Prose Poem? Never created in this form before — sort of like a short story, but shorter and more musical? And so begins the Cherished Series.
Uncle Jim
We hadn’t seen each other in more than twenty years. Now, here I am, watching him peer out of a torn screen door in a mobile home park. I feel his thinness in our hug.
He leads me into the kitchenette where a yellow Tupperware pitcher of pink lemonade sits on the table. There are two metal glasses, one red and one purple. The sticky cardboard can, on its side in the sink.
He listens for a while, to the latest stories about my kids. Do you have any pets? Before I can answer his eyes glance down and he starts talking about Cindy, the black lab he had for so many years. You remember Dickie, my second wife? Well, she just didn’t like dogs and so I couldn’t….. and his voice trails off. This seems like a nice park I say, filling in the silence. Oh I love the dances and the bingo parties. All the ladies want to dance with me since Dickie died. But I’m not up to any of it so much anymore.
It took an hour to walk the small grocery store. We came back with ten cans of soup, applesauce packs, a quart of nonfat milk, some Comet and three chicken pot pies.
On my way to his place I was thinking it would be nice to see Uncle Jim in his twilight years. But it’s dark going home and I never did see any fireflies lighting up the sky.
I sit rocking beyond dusk
eyes closed, lips parted, catching
the soft scent of nearby lilacs.
Eyes within this face of mine
cannot see me, but painfully
know my averageness.
Hours later your hands meander
the lines and hollows of my face
and somehow, my beauty is unleashed.
Spending February in St. George, Bermuda was, as they say, food for the soul. The waters are truly iridescent. We were fortunate to see a bright parrot fish on one of our many hikes. When I got my camera out, it was gone. Gone — but remembered as I wrote the poem below. Post Script: Once spring has truly arrived in Boston, I’ll change my Photo page to the amazing Bermuda coastline.
Parrot Fish
The water so clear he can see
the parrot fish glide in and
out among the rocks
and Sargasso sea grass.
Eyes shaded, he tastes the salt air
and looks out at the layers of blue
from navy to azure to sky melting
into sea. Slowly, he remembers.
Her eyes. Pools of iridescent aquamarine
with feathered lashes opening and closing, half shut.
The blue so deep he wanted to dive into the pool,
possess it, feel the coolness on his skin.
Gazing downward again, the bright crimson
parrot fish is gone. Escaped. Riding the waves
as foamed breakers leave ridges in the sand’s
edge. And once again, he is left behind.
Before my rejuvenatement, I was crazed in an all-consuming job — well, being honest — I let it be all-consuming. I used to blame caffeine for my hyper and frenzied approach to life.
So here I am, drinking the same amount of coffee, savoring it rather than gulping it, and mea culpa to the goddess caffeine. Slowing down, my body – not my mind, has made all the difference.
Mornings at Sixty-Seven
Eyes open unbuzzed awake
see him next to me half-covered
grey hair matted with sleep.
Legs stretch with pointed toes
while arms uncoil overhead
the body lumbers out of bed.
Breakfast made and savored
rich aromatic espresso beans
fingers smudged tasting newsprint ink.
At sixty-seven,
my mornings have elongated
into the sublime.
Have you ever just escaped the craziness of the world by tent camping? It makes you realize how little we really need to be happy.
All We Need
We travel at a hurried pace
away from a stoplight-elevator-world
toward those long-planned
six nights and days.
The tread wheel flattens
heart rates slow
as the green meadow comes into view
scattered clumps of butter-cups and violets.
Personnas molted, we sit
and breathe deeply
the kind of gut-breaths
that expand the good parts of your brain.
Coffee gurgles over the fire
lit by one match
branches, twigs and
scraps of yesterday’s paper.
The one we quickly scanned
standing up at the glass table
gulping from mugs
with ergonomic handles.
With long swishing swallows
of aromatic elixir
we watch our six day world
through the thick mesh of a tent flap.
Rain starts to fall
quietly in that all day soaking way –
so we laugh
and clink our tin cups together.
Like the fall season, she was prepared
to leave this life in a flamboyant flourish,
decked out with dew-drop tears
upon her rouged and wrinkle-veined cheeks.
The more I look at this one sentence poem, the more I understand how the words we choose can reveal so much about who we are.
This is indeed how I see the world — not in black and white, and not just in the shades of gray between those two choices. I love colors: their variety, life, warmth, and depth. How they can blend and blur. So look below and tell me, how would you answer the question?
Prism
When I’m asked How do you view the world?
I squint a bit under the bright lights
looking for the crimson of her scarf
and answer “Through a kaleidoscope.”
We all have them, right? Secrets can be delicious or debilitating, wonderful or horrific. So here’s the question to think about. At some time in our lives, have we all had both?
Secret One
A secret so sublime
you long to swirl it
relish it slowly
like the first pour
of fine red wine
as it coats the glass
anticipation heightens
the tasting as divine
as the telling.
Secret Two
A secret so potent
like anger
wind-whipped current
roaring through
the sea wall of your mind
unrelenting persistent
batters forward
again and again
through rock hard edges
until released in spews
shattered feelings spent.
lillian the home poet 