Author: lillian

October 14, 2013

lillian5 Comments

Six minutes a widow.
The sun kept shining,
the clock kept ticking,
but your heart stopped.
Absolutely stopped.

I remember my screams,
ambulance sirens.
They rushed you away from me.
Ushered me into a private waiting room.
I waited for forever it seemed.

Then that humming, beeping room.
Monitor glowing with moving lines.
Lines becoming peaks and troughs and blips.
Shroud-like sheeted, eyes closed.
Your face obscured by ventilator and tubes.

My God, so many tubes.
Family somehow there, tethering you to earth.
Doctor talk. Jumbled words to me.
“. . . his brain . . .may not wake up…not the same..”
No. No. NO.

Forty-eight hours later
your eyes popped open, staring fear.
Nurse told you firmly, wiggle your toes.
Move your right hand, now your left.
Moments of sheer joy.

We came home end of that week,
you, the real you, cognitively you.
But we were changed forever.
We live life more slowly,
love more deeply,
thankful for every day.


Written for dVerse , the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitted for possible publication in their anniversary anthology.

That Portrait

lillian19 Comments

Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones.
Tired eyes glance sideways,
energy depleted. Joyless.
Her exquisitely shaped lips
rouged deepest red.
Closed, not pursed, yet somehow gentle.
Dark tendrils hang beside her face,
drooping as if exhausted.
Indigo headscarf appears torn.
Disheveled from constant wear
or symbolic of war torn life.
Blues bleed pale into background.
Not thickened red of blood
but bleeding nonetheless.
One lustrous pearl earring hangs coldly,
boldly iridescent in a palette of darkness.
Did she really wear it for the sitting?
Or is it the artist’s one defiant stroke?

Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Image from Pixabay.com

Want to hear and watch poets from around the globe read a poem aloud? Come join us as I host dVerse LIVE on Saturday, June 21st from 10 to 11 AM Boston time. Last time I hosted, we had folks from Sweden, Pakistan, all across the US, Kenya, the UK, Australia, South Africa, and Trinidad Tobago! Come read a poem of your own or just sit in to listen. We’re a friendly bunch. The more the merrier!

To join us LIVE on Saturday, June 21st from 10 to 11 AM Boston time, just click here and scroll down to the LIVE LINK. Hope to see you there!

In a Photographer’s Terms

lillian13 Comments

Everyday wide apertures:
newsprint, television, radio.
Second or third-hand glimpse of another’s plight.
Photographers know
wide apertures provide shallow depth.

Until that day, that’s what I had.

That day, strolling the cruise ship’s deck,
my privileged promenade
was suddenly interrupted.
What I’d read about, heard on the news,
appeared off port side.

A small boat bobbing, barely moving.

Two oars slapped white caps.
In and out and in and out. Out of sync.
Six? Eight people? Dark shapes,
even in bright sun, crowded together.
Struggling, no doubt praying, not to capsize.

Our Captain’s voice suddenly blared.

“There is a small boat in distress.
Our assistance has been refused.
We will remain here until the Coast Guard arrives.
This will not impede our schedule.
You will arrive in Miami on time tomorrow.”

Narrow apertures give a deeper depth of field.

My eyes saw, stared, teared.
Refugees risking everything
for what they deemed would be a better life.
My heart ached at the scene
as did many looking on.

That night we did, as all aboard our ship did.

Enjoyed dinner served on linen tablecloths,
toasted our last night at sea.
Danced late into the night.
Slept on a king-sized bed
and flew home the next morning.

But I’ll never forget what I saw.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Dora asks us to “write a poem that conjures a veiw (whether from our travels or everyday life, whether from desire or expeirence) that is colored by the emotion of the moment.” Photo was taken from on one of our cruises that sailed roundtrip from Miami, Florida. It was a good number of years ago but I’ve never forgotten this heartbreaking experience.

Moving On Without

lillian2 Comments

Out of reach.
Shiny brunette hair ~
     with squinted eyes, grey is silver.
Unstoppable energy ~
     spurts are good, naps are nice.
Confidence on stiletto heels ~
     comfort is better.
Faded memories ~
     photo albums roll back time.

Loved ones miles away,
some forever gone.
Living with empty spaces.
Closets of clothes, clocks ticking,
rocking chair, couch, kitchen table.
All are there but emptiness fills us.
The question becomes
what is within our reach
and how do we gird ourselves
to move on, step by step,
as we are left behind.


Dedicated to dear friend, Mary Nilsen.

Grateful . . .

lillian22 Comments

You are my sunrise
as are friends, family,
birthdays, holiday celebrations,
graduation festivities
hot fragrant coffee
smiles from passersby
crescendos in concertos
hugs and kisses
toddlers stomping in puddles
charitable donations
springtime flowers
random acts of kindness.
Sunshine, a constant,
even behind the clouds.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m tending the pub and asking folks to include the word “sunrise” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

In all the chaos across our world, the sun still rises every day, even when it resides behind the darkest of clouds. For me, that is representative of hope – the idea that love and goodness are always present – even in the stormiest of times. Sunrise photo taken in Provincetown, MA – at the very tip of Cape Cod.

Mountaintop Tale

lillian26 Comments

Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight,
delectable scents float ‘cross starless sky.
In wild flowered mountain meadow they lie,
hearts entangled, breathing as one.
Alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder
their floral bed this night.
Their dreamscape, their anniversary quilt,
embraces their love, embodied again.

When dawn rises, their spirits must dissipate.
Soft sobs and dew drop tears float upon the wind
as each becomes, once again,
solitary luminous clusters.
T’will be one year hence, before they meet again.
Anniversary of that storm laden night, decades ago,
when they stood upon this very summit,
thunder roaring disapproval of their match.

Looking out across the abyss,
alit by lightning’s garish flash,
they defied their families’ opposition.
Hands clasped,
deepest kiss still fresh upon their lips,
they leapt into the arms of eternity.
Premature extinguishment of life, the gods ruled
punishable every night but one, in every coming year.

Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight,
delectable scents float ‘cross the starless sky.
One night in every year, for centuries on end,
they may live and love again.
Lie together, in wild flowered mountain meadow
amidst alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder,
hearts entangled,
breathing as one.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting OLN and will host dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM, New York time. We are free to write a poem of our own choosing OR use the quotation “Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight . . .” from Pablo Neruda’s poem A Lemon. The quotation is actually longer, I’ve only used this portion of it for my poem.

If you’d like to join us for the LIVE session on Saturday (video and audio), May 24th , just click on this link at 10 AM New York Time…..and you’ll find a link to join us! We’d love to have you read a poem of your own….or feel free to just sit in. We’re a very friendly bunch!

Image by mcmrbt from Pixabay

I Can’t Believe It

lillian18 Comments

I have no skills for flight or wings. To skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself, I’d much rather do that.

I grew up next door to Amelia and her sister, Pidge. We climbed so many trees together. I’ll never forget the day Amelia said she was sure I could fly. So convincing was she, that I lept from an apple tree with arms outstretched. I held a grudge against her for a long time after that debacle.

All these years later, here I am, happily married, still in Atchison. I follow Amelia’s adventures and marvel at her courage. She’s world famous while I’m best known for my prize-winning apple pies. In summers, I always enjoy canoeing on Lake Warnock. Sometimes I stop to stare up at the sky and think about her. Imagine my shock today, when I heard the awful news.


Written for Monday Prosery at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.

EXPLANATION. I’ve inserted myself into history in my flash fiction, pretending to be a neighbor of Amelia Earhart in her early childhood days.

HISTORY: Amelia Earhart (1897 – 1939) and her sister, Muriel (nicknamed Pidge; 1899 – 1998) were born and raised in Atchison, Kansas. There is indeed a Lake Warnock in the town. In 1928, Amelia Earhart became the first female passenger to cross the Atlantic by airplane. In 1932, she became the first woman to make a nonstop solo transatlantic flight and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. On July 24, 1937, she disappeared over the Pacific Ocean while attempting to become the first female pilot to circumnavigate the world. She was declared dead on January 5, 1939.

WHAT IS PROSERY? For this form, we take a line of poetry and place it into a prose piece. The prose can be fiction or non-fiction, but it must be a piece of prose, not poetry. It can be no longer than 144 words, sans title. We are not permitted to insert words into the given line, but we may punctuate it. We must acknowledge the line, the work, and the poet.

THE LINE WE MUST INCLUDE: “I have no skills for flight or wings to skim, the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself” The line is from The Magnificent Frigatebird by Ada Limon.

IMAGES of Amelia and her sister, Pidge; Amelia as a pilot; and Amelia as a young girl.

Are You Out There, Uncle Bob?

lillian7 Comments

Never planned to join the circus,
although there is a hereditary tendency.
My Uncle Bob ran away to the circus,
several times. But he always came back.

Never planned to join the circus,
but what a circus we’re living in now!
Twenty-four-seven news cycle,
clown leading buffoons under the big top.

Never planned to join the circus,
but it’s tempting to become an escape artist.
I’d lose myself in romance novels and Netflix,
or any kind of my own-made cocoon.

Uncle Bob, if you’re anywhere out there,
somewhere in the cosmos,
help us find our way back home again.
Just like you always did.

Kim is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to write a poem “that starts with a surprising hook, which can be one to three lines, but must develop into a fully-fledged poem.”

A bit of explanation: in a few years, I’ll become an octogenarian. I actually did have an Uncle Bob, who every time his wife became pregnant, ran away to the circus. Absolutely true – he had four children so he ran away four times! But he always came back- well before they were born. He was a wonderful uncle and as my childhood memories recall, had a lot of fun with his kids.

PS: here in the U.S., this is no time for any of us to be escape artists. It’s time to speak out, stand up, and resist!

Join me here to rest, to smile . . .

lillian32 Comments

Might I take a seat here, please,
inside this idyllic photograph?
Feel tall grasses brush against bare shins,
wiggle toes in flower petals and stems.
Gaze at pristeen white barn
settled in among the green,
all quietly still that day.

I would lie back, eyes softly closed.
Breathe in deeply, fresh cool air,
untainted by cruelty, division, or derision.
Eyes open, I would swim deeply
amongst wispy billowing clouds
dancing in sky blue patches above my head.
Then . . . stretching my arms wide,
I would move them up and down at my sides
until a gentle flower/grass angel’s wings appear,
unlike winter’s icey-cold snowy counterparts.

Rising up, I would take two giant steps away,
look down and smile.
There is my impression.
Where grasses and blooms lie flat,
there resides spring’s angel imprinted on the field.

In reality, I hold the photo in my hand.
Its freshness, its simple beauty,
reminds me of that which once was me
many many years of springs ago.
Naively unaware, just living in the moment,
in those myriads of moments,
unaware of bends in the road ahead.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting OLN (Open Link Night). Writers are welcome to share one poem of their choosing, no required length, format, or topic. ALTERNATIVELY, they may use the OPTIONAL prompt which I provide: write a poem inspired by the photograph above.

Lessons from the Bard

lillian9 Comments

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
There is a man among us
who struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
leading others who listen blindly.
His words, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing that is truth.

What is past is prologue.
Poets shouldst therefore heed the Bard,
his timeless words meaningful yet today.
There have been many great men
that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them.
But how is one to label this man as great?
Perhaps in the way of Satan’s greatness
controlling some, luring others.
After all, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
Oh what men will dare to do!
Let no such man be trusted.

What of those who follow, whose integrity be lost?
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
There’s small choice in rotten apples.

In these chaotic times,
what is our fate, my friends?
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny
but in ourselves.
For each of us can add to the light,
hold our candle high in windows across the land.
One will become many, and many become a multitude.
In light’s refraction, his rabid followers stagger.
They shall greet fear in their mirror.
Positions no longer secure
as multitudes greet them shouting “SHAME”.
Truthtellers stand in solidarity,
voices raised, we cannot be ignored.
THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!

The Bard penned:
And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; 
And thereby hangs a tale.
Loud enough, persistent enough, we must be the solution.
Hands that right the scales of Justice.
We must take control of the tale.
Destiny be in our hands.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril hosts and asks us to consider fate. She suggests we could, for example, consider Frost’s or Shakespeare’s words on fate. I’ve chosen to refer to the Bard himself, within my poem. All of the bolded lines are quotations from Shakespeare. Let the Bard speak to you in these chaotic times!

All images except the scales of Justice are from recent demonstrations I’ve participated in. The scales of Justice image is from Pixabay.com