Knees creak.
Arms once firm,
crepe in thinning skin.
Hands stiff in morning
show off puffed blue veins,
like highways on ancient road map.
Grey hair brittles,
mine still thick, yours not so.
Burgeoning cataracts blur our pleasure
but still we embrace life and love,
changed as it is.
Rain gushed from heavens
thunder, lightning
pandemic hell turned purgatory.
Boxed in by walls. Boxed in by zoom boxes.
Snows came, windows frosted shut.
Our spirits glazed as seasons passed
seen from shuttered window panes.
Cities crawled. Inequities laid bare.
Sparse masked figures hurried to tasks,
six feet apart. A grave distance indeed.
Hope impossible to grasp by stifled hands.
Optimists whispered. Hang on, hang on . . .
. . .after all, tomorrow is another day.
But optimists were far and few between.
Tomorrow is another day wore thin
because it never was.
Addendum. Recovery.
Release for those us who survived.
Smiles visible but leery. Freedom, sort of,
for far too many to openly grieve.
Freedom for the privileged
while far too many across the globe
still parched, still weary
still covid devastated . . .
. . . another day . . .
still impossibly too far away.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to consider lines made famous by movies. She provides many for us and asks us to include one of them in a poem.
I’ve chosen “After all, tomorrow is another day.” from Gone with the Wind, 1932.
Waltz with me, take my hand.
Hear the gulls call to us
fly o’er us, soar for us
dance for us on the sand.
Oceanside, hand in hand
me touching, you wishing
souls in tune, now kissing
three-stepping, lusting fanned.
You’re so strong, hold my hand
dance with me, past the sun
dance with me, past the clouds
through the stars, never land.
Oh my dear, damn this waltz.
Pen down now, poem be done.
Quick-step me, quick-step me!
Now . . . now . . . now . . . never to cease.
Now. . . Now. . NOW!
Ahhhhhhh . . .
release.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late to Thursday’s post – Bjorn hosts and asks us to consider the waltz in poetic form. For example, the waltz is usually danced in 3-beat measures: 1 – 2 – 3, 1-2-3. I’ve tried to have three beats throughout, so for example, the first line is “waltz (1) with (2) me (3), take (1) my (2) hand (3)”. Tricky. I’ve given it a go and ended up with a waltz on the beach that turns quite bawdy! FYI: the quick-step is another ballroom dance, quite opposite in pacing and attitude than the waltz or tango for example. Image from Pixabay.com
She writes of the sacred land,
red earth cherished by Creek Nation.
Moencopi Rise, Round Rock,
Four Corners, a dreaming place of bears.
Her words are songs of praise
to ochre soil, parched sand,
grey rocks, and dust spattered plants.
Her faith in the whole,
revealed in full and sliver moon
steady and flickering stars.
Prayer is manifest
as horses gallop through hills.
Words written in linear lines
paint images revered by generations.
Her poetic spirit soars.
An eagle spreads its wings,
magnificently embracing
the bluest of skies.
She is those who were before her,
caretakers of Mother Earth all.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Late for the Tuesday Poetics prompt given by Laura. She asks us to consider poems to a poet. I decided to write an ode to poet Joy Harjo.
JOY HARJO is a member of the Creek Nation. She is a screen writer, poet, and teaches creative writing and Native American Literature at the University of Arizona. She has received the New Mexico Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts, a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Native Writers Circle of the Americas, and the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. Harjo served as United States poet laureate from 2019-2021, and was the first Native American to serve in the position.
Image from Pixabay.com
She always yelled at him
before her grand entrance.
“Harry, crank up that wind machine!”
Then she’d wind up those hips
get the feathers quiverin’
and strut out on stage,
fans strategically placed.
She wanted to entrance the blokes,
not wound their swoonin’ heart.
Sally Rand, born Helen Gould Beck, was an American burlesque dancer most noted for her ostrich fan dances and her balloon bubble dances. She was mot active from 1925 to 1979.
Diapers, bedtime stories,
Christmas stockings.
Driving them to lessons,
reading report cards.
Wound up like a top
I whizzed through the arcane.
Now in my golden years
I think back and realize.
I should have paid more mind.
The arcane was indeed
the miraculous.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and ask people to include the word “wound” or a form of the word in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Notice that “wound” is a homograph. There are two pronunciations and each has a different meaning: He suffered a wound in battle. VS She is wound up like a top. Folks are free to use either pronunciation/meaning or both! If using both, their poem must still consist of exactly 44 words, not including the title.
Photos are of our children who are now 45 and 46! And yes that’s me, about forty years ago!
What’s one year more?
I am NOT a dinosaur!
I’m thrilled to turn seventy-four,
let me give that an underscore.
Some decry growing old,
equate grey hair and wrinkles
with creeping mold,
and simply cannot be consoled.
Not as nimble with a few pains?
Hands mapped in purple veins?
Come on people, grab the reins!
What more could you ask for
than to celebrate one year more
with your family and people you adore?
So I’ll put on my tap shoes for a loud dance,
blow out the candles at the very first chance.
Then I’ll give my husband a meaningful glance
and celebrate seventy four with a night of romance!
Written for OLN – Open Link Night – at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. OLN means we can choose any one poem to post today – no specific prompt, form, rhyme scheme, or length. And since today is indeed my birthday, I wrote this little ditty. I do believe it is a privilege to grow old. I continue to be thankful for every day.
Seascape rhythmic swells,
sonata in blue.
Harmonic melody
carried by balmy breeze.
Percussion added
as sea foamed waves lap shore.
Time signature ever changing,
sand grains shift and ripple too.
I sit mesmerized,
all this balm to my soul.
Smile serenely, softly,
as unconscious movement of tongue
reveals salty upper lip.
Apt coda to this masterpiece ~
nature’s wondrous symphony.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah asks us to consider “blue” in our poetry. Photo is from our time in Bermuda a number of years ago.
April showers can be dour
but they have a special power
bringing to us May-time flowers.
Now outside, no need to cower,
fling off masks and smile for hours!
In celebration of the new CDC announcement and Governor Baker’s announcement regarding masks outdoors!
She crossed a bridge with the utmost faith
knowing her husband, gone so long,
and her Lord would be on the other side.
We who wait in this waystation
bid her farewell and rest
and we move on as we must.
Sometimes a bridge is like a catapult,
a sudden bolt from here to there.
Others seem miles long
as we cross treacherous waters,
painful steps, unsure of where they lead,
straining to make the span longer still.
I stand outside tonight,
staring at the stars above our universe.
I wonder and I hope.
Peace and unconditional love
must surely have met you
as you knew it would,
when you crossed over to the other side.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Merril talks about bridges and asks us to either write a poem in a particular form, or to somehow write about bridges. This poem is dedicated to my sister-in-law Starr. We lost her on April 10th. She and I were planning on my visiting in July….it was not to be. I shall miss her. I do miss her.
lillian the home poet 