corn-on-the-cobify me . . .
tomatocize me.
Plop raspberries on my fingertips
only to pop one by one,
into my eager mouth.
It’s garden fresh
summerliciousness time!
Photo from our family reunion last week.
In the good ole summer time . . .
Author: lillian
In the midst of rain
I sit in the early morning
near rain dappled leaves,
contemplating . . .
Even in the midst of showers
or thunder storms,
the sun shines.
It is simply obscured by clouds . . .
but it will reappear.
Video taken last week at our family reunion in Warrenton, VA …. from the porch of our rented farmhouse.
The Gathering
Love and laughter abound
from youngest to oldest, three generations.
Memories shared, stories told, memories made.
The circle of love goes around and round . . .
. . . we are blessed to still be aboard.
Thankful for every day.
All photos from last weekend….and what a joyful time we had at a marvelous VRBO farmhouse in Virginia!
Give me some . . .
gloriosity
sunshineeeeness
popsicles, fudgsicles
sprinkler dashes
tasty juicy tomatoes
sweet butter dripping corn on the cob
kernels stuck between my teeth.
That’s summerliciousness!
That’s our grandson who is now 14 and ready to start high school next year. Most joyous photo I’ve ever seen of someone eating corn on the cob! Happy summer everyone!
Abandoned . . .
. . . from another time.
Seemingly parked
in a god-forsaken place.
Resting place to rust,
deteriorate more.
This image.
Or someone’s once loved one
sent to somewhere
that is out of sight,
out of mind.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and directs us to twelve images at Glenn Buttkus’ photography site, South Sound Minimalist Photos. Glenn is not only an excellent photographer, he is a fellow dVerse poet!
We are to use one of his twelve photos as inspiration for our poem. I chose photo #7: Old Rusty Truck which Glenn describes as “The isolated Model T truck bears the weight and pride of a hundred years of rust, becoming prairie art and sentinel.” Interesting how once the photo (or the poem) is set to paper/blog, the interpretation is in the hands of the viewer/reader. I saw the photo as quite sad and hence this poem.
Messy? Who me?
Summer’s delight.
Ice cream time in smudgekin’s world,
that’s a toddler’s chocolate delight.
Chocolately face and fingers too,
lick by lick by lick
by drip by drip by drip.
Slow salivating yumminess
then nose-in-cone finale.
Mama says “look at me!” Click.
Then clean-up time.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where Mish is hosting and asks us to use the word “smudge” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo from Inside Source.
Come Walk with Me
Lilac aphrodisiac, scent my world.
Your goodness blossoms
blessed with sweet delicacy.
From palest to deepest shades,
side by side on Lilac Lane.
Each alone exudes the beautiful,
together you blend as one scene.
I walk slowly, senses awakened.
Serenity wafts, and in the moment,
all is good in my world.
Images from our walk at the Arnold Arboretum in Boston a few weeks ago – to see Lilac Lane – and from Pixabay.com.
Reflection
To love,
the risk is vulnerability.
To not is loneliness.
Loneliness,
quite different
from being alone.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today we are asked to include the word “risk” in a poem. This is one of my most favorite images by Klimt.
No Escape
I couldn’t sleep. Walking the streets I came upon a small sign: Séance Sessions. Ten dollars.
“Letting go. Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end to this labyrinth called life. In reality”, said the medium, “you were here before your time and you will reappear many times after your body succumbs.” The lights suddenly flickered. The charlatan’s fingernails dug into my palms. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as her mouth moved in synch with Jim’s booming voice. “You killed me. I shall never forget. You shall suffer all the days of your lives and . . .” The medium’s body lurched forward. Her head crashed onto the table. She was obviously dead. I could see the dagger I’d carefully buried in my garden, sticking out of her back. Sirens began to wail.
Prosery is a form created by dVerse. One line from a poem must be inserted into a piece of flash fiction, word for word. The punctuation may change but the word order must replicate the line as it appears in the poem used for the prompt. The flash fiction must be 144 words or less, not including the title.. No Escape is exactly 144 words.
Sweet Apples
Three apple trees.
Due date approaching.
Branches loaded with fruit,
over-ripe ones on ground
sickly sweet with buzzing bees.
Fresh picked apples brought inside,
peeled carefully, cut in halves,
sliced after cores are tossed.
Seasoned with cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg
they’re left to sit, making their own juice.
I move the rolling pin over the dough,
stretching it carefully into shape, leaning in
as close to counter as my swollen belly allows.
And then I feel it. Shirt lifted, I look…..
our soon-to-be little one is rolling too.
Crusts placed gingerly in aluminum pie pans
spicy scented apple mixture poured into tins.
Butter pads scattered on top, then top crust placed.
Crimping dough I smile, remembering.
Yesterday I folded sweet little undershirts,
cloth diapers, and placed them just so
on shelf in second-hand bassinette.
Pies made, into the freezer they go.
All the preparations done, we wait.
Iowa’s winter won’t seem so harsh this year.
We’ll have that heavenly apple aroma
as one of our pies bake,
and we’ll be holding a tiny baby boy or girl
ever so closely in our arms.
Immediately our apple trees came to mind from when we lived in rural Iowa. And then memories came flooding back. These were the days when we went to the dr. to find out if we were pregnant. And the only gender reveal was when the baby was born. Our daughter was born after I’d frozen our apple pies for the winter – she’s now 46!
lillian the home poet 