Dawn awakens
morning senses
spring delicious.
Author: lillian
This Holy Place
NaPoWriMo Day 11: no prompt.
The candle is lit.
Her resolute hand
sparks bright yellow flames
as gold iconography shimmers.
Statuary bears witness.
Tears spill sadness
as hearts laid open
silently name their fears away.
Well worn kneelers
impress needlepoint cross or dove
on bared knees of any age
bent in supplication.
Tourists shuffle
up and down aisles
whisper loudly
ignore the calligraphy hush.
Believers turned gawkers
their occasional donation
a tip for service
we pay for with our souls.
Moonwalk
NaPoWriMo day 10: without a prompt.
Nostalgia. Reminiscence. As we age, these words come into play. And sometimes, like me, you go back to revisit your childhood haunts.
They warned me
but I still tried to moonwalk.
You remember that smooth
walking backwards to Billie Jean?
This time, I glide back
for a one day return to where I began.
The house at 144 is there. Paint peeling,
flecks of grey-white decorate the yard.
Rusted poles, frayed clothes line
bereft of flapping sheets.
I meander down a one-way
and circle back searching
for the corner shop. Marble topped
counter with stools where we perched
to share chocolate or cherry cokes
and carefree cheerleader talk –
now your friendly neighborhood
hardware store. Without those silver
keys to tighten clamp-on skates and
rush down Washington Street so fast
we didn’t need my brother’s Radio Flyer.
Next door sits a Dunkin’, eclairs filled
with counterfeit custard. Past blurred
in the too-large magnifying glass
of my mind’s eye. The moonwalk was
and still is, well beyond my grasp.
Ode to a Dying Leaf
NaPoWriMo Day 9: Write a calligram: a poem or other text in which the words are arranged into a specific shape or image.
leaf
misshapen
shriveled once green
donned vibrant red disguise
to ward off lurking decay
fallen tendon of skeletal oak
hardened veins stand out from brittle flesh
dull brown age spots on blackened stem
curled like death’s beckoning finger elasticity gone
your smallest pieces granular near dust
hearkened back unto your mother soil
tomorrow’s wind will hurl you
to another place
or unthinking footsteps
will grind you
into
no-
thing-
ness
Prism + Palinode
Day 8 National Poetry Writing Month Prompt is to write a palinode: defined as when a poet retracts a statment made in an earlier poem. Prism was previously posted under One Sentence Poems. Posting these just under the wire today.
If you’ve not seen my Sunrise Return to Sweden, published this morning — please do scroll down and take a peek — one of my favorites.
Prism
When I’m asked, How do you see the world?
I squint a bit under the bright light
looking for the crimson of her scarf
and answer, Through a kaleidoscope.
Palinode
As she slips through the crowd
not acknowledging me again,
I clear my throat and add,
But mostly as a labyrinth.
Sunrise Return to Sweden
Four years ago, we took a Baltic Cruise, including a day in Stockholm. My husbands’ family is very Swedish. His grandfather, Hjalmer Siegfried immigrated in 1906, at age 22. Painter by trade, he decorated the basement walls to look like the USS Sweden, the ship that brought him to Ellis Island — complete with ship railings, sky, and sea gulls. Some visitors actually got seasick after a Yule drink of homemade glog. Well, honestly, I don’t know if it was the simulated ship or the grain alcohol in grampa’s glog! Criuise highlight? The VERY early morning glide through the absolutely quiet and rustic archipelago, leading into Stockholm. Island after island….stunning! NaPoWriMo day 8 entry, without prompt.
Sunrise Return to Sweden
I stand mesmerized.
Dawn awakens serenity’s beauty
rippled patterns glisten on black sea
gulls hover over softly churning wake.
Moving patterns of white wings
against dark greens and grey rock edges
the occasional light house turns its eye
wood frame homes nestle in their woods.
The ship slowly glides in dark waters
through Sweden’s archipelago
guardian isles to myriad lines of ancestry
protector from the city’s growing girth.
A lone call from among the gulls
pierces still air, a stark welcome
primitive in nature, surely heard before
by our grandfather and his and his and his.
The Table: cherished series, opus 2
Celebrate National Poetry Writing Month NaPoWriMo Writing Prompt Day 7: a poem about something that has value or worth.
Cherished items, people, and places live in our memories. And because we lead transient lives, their meaning and clarity can evolve over time. Old photos call forth recollections.
The Table
She found the table at Marshall Fields
in nineteen forty-nine, and pictured
her family at exactly half-past six each night
four plates, four forks, knives and spoons.
White oak, the Illinois state tree
with tight growth rings
durable, resilient, and
carved with artisan’s care.
Emotions buffed artfully into lustrous patina
over years marred by scratches, chips and burns
tuna-noodle-pea casseroles set forgetfully upon the wood
and forks slammed down in anger.
Keeping up with Rita, Gwen, and Claire
teflon pans and a formica table-topper
emotions erupt on modernity as leftovers
disappear in a single swipe of the hand.
Monday’s Promise
April is National Poetry Writing Month. NaPoWriMo 2015 is a challenge to write a poem every day in April. Today’s prompt: write an aubade – a morning poem….perhaps about love, perhaps about Monday.
Monday’s Promise
Last night’s shooting star
carried my wish
streaking across the sky
someone listening
outside our universe
promised me
tranquility and love
in yesterday’s tomorrow.
Reptilian Style
Sometimes you just have to chuckle when an idea pops into your head. Like when you’re walking down the street and you see someone with neon purple hair, and then two blocks later, someone with a fushia head! Perfect for a One Sentence Poem!
Reptilian Style
Like a chameleon,
she changed the color of her hair
to blend in with the new décor.
Phraseology
The power of words – made into phrases – dependent on circumstances…
Words to a baby small
said with a grin
scooping mashed somethings
from a dripping chin.
All gone.
Long buried
dark transgression
in the almost unreachable
back room of my mind.
All gone.
Brother sudden, father slow,
mother slower still.
My lips whisper:
now – just me.
Almost – all gone
