They spoke to me that day, ice shelves weeping falling into sea. Like hands clapping for attention their loud crack of fissure turned our heads We watched, photographing the majestic. Leaving Antarctica’s Paradise Bay we saw remnants of her tears, ice bergs – some small, some humongous, clogging our way. And yet all we did was maneuver through, oblivious to her pain.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where the prompt Thursday was to use imagery and/or personification in our poem. Photo taken on our 2018 Antarctica cruise. Witness to climate change’s deleterious effects on melting ice shelves causing sea rise. Paradise Bay, silent save the birds and the cracking of shelves as they fell.
This is not a snow globe this is me seeking refuge slipping mentally inside, beautiful crystal orb.
This is not a snow globe but a world disrupted. Lies pummeling us everywhere beliefs shaken, in disarray.
Wellbeing, within our grasp. Shake loose the tyranny. Set it down firmly and stop the madness.
This is a snow globe. Sentries within trust us. When their world is shaken they know we will reset the calm.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we are asked to write an object poem and begin with the words “This is not a ….” We are asked not to simply describe the object, but to relate to it. How does its existence affect me….what does it mean to me….how do I relate to it at this moment. Photo is the snow globe on our coffee table … a Christmas decoration I’ve had for many years. I love to tip it and see the beautiful shimmering “snow” swirl inside.
Known for dabbling in couture, Dora decorated herself like you would your house, mimicking holiday seasons. They thought her daft and could only laugh as she walked down the street in a Christmas wreath, at their annual Easter parade. Her reward? Most Unusual Bonnet.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It’s Quadrille Monday and De asks us to use the word “dabble” in our quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I went for humor today — figure we can all use a little chuckle in these upsetting, challenging and unusual times.
Would-be leader: brazenly denigrated the disabled name-called, disparaged so many. Usurped Lenin’s words, Enemy of the People. And we gasped in shock, watched as he became
our leader. And all could see. He swooned at tyrannical dictators, locked innocent children in chain link cages denied science, endangered earth. Denies a virus its due respect, callous as thousands upon thousands die.
People carried lit torches into the night spit epitaphs at Jews and blacks and browns. This chosen leader praised these folks. They’re “good people” he said and he did nothing to change the tide. And we watched, some ashamed.
Our chosen leader lied and lied and lied again. Some lies repeated so often morphed into truth for far too many, angry people starved for validation. Supremacists lurking in the shadows came out in droves, baited by his words.
Some people dared to say, this cannot be. But others among us, some in leadership roles consumed his lies until they began to take root, fill their mouths like canker sores.
He created his own reality. We watched as too many followed until the fire he lit became a blaze. Destruction reigned over their shocked heads. Death was in their house and they cowered in fear.
We watched with sickening bile on this day of Epiphany. Surely they would now understand. And yet they took their place again, his mouth still incised upon their faces. They spewed his lies for all to witness.
We watch days later, true evil unveiled. Not just him, but scores of others. His sycophants, a scourge upon our land. We wring our hands and pray, where is the justice, oh Lord? Only in us, our voices must be raised.
I’m “filing” this under Cherished on my blog because I cherish this democracy and pray for its preservation. Written on January 9, 2021.
the day of and days after and after that’s leftovers
like youthful kisses I love those leftovers too
the you and me season after season, still savory good.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Sarah asks us to write a response to a poem we’ve read in the past year. Below is the poem I modeled mine after. It appears in jelly roll, a collection of poems by African American poet Kevin Young, winner of the Patterson Poetry Prize and Finalist for the National Book Award. I tried to simulate his form and like him, used a type of music as the title. And yes, that’s my husband and I fifty years ago and obviously, much more recently!
2020 Christmas season begins with a gray, gloomy winter view out my front window. Remnants of light snowfall melt into a muddy mess. Turning from bleakness, I behold the color of Christmas spread throughout every room. Our tall green tree lit with colored bulbs, covered with sparkling ornaments collected for 60 years from travels and special life moments in my family. Red candles in brass candlesticks glow, the scent of cinnamon and peppermint awaken my senses. Alone, missing my family, I close my eyes and they are here.
Redbird in front tree Sings familiar melody Amaryllis blooms.
As I think back on new beginnings in my life, I’m struck by how self-centered or family oriented they all were. Graduations, the births of our children and grandchildren, weddings, birthdays, rejuvenatement – never say retirement. New Year’s Eves don’t really come to mind as momentous occasions – until this year.
As we have in so many years past, George and I watched the crystal ball drop in New York City’s Times Square from the comfort of our home. We counted down the last ten seconds of 2020. But this time, when we hugged in 2021, I was literally overcome with emotion. Tears flowed and I clung to George. I was surprised at the depth of my emotional response until I realized what it encompassed. Hope on a global scale. Hope in the form of a vaccine. Hope that millions will escape misery, ill health, and untimely deaths. This moment in our lives, was a moment shared round the globe. It was so much bigger than us sitting on the couch. We were simply a microcosm of a weary world, rejoicing in hope.
snow pack melts in sun trickle grows to waterfall – like hope rushing forth
Today, I’m tending the bar at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We open 2021 with Haibun Monday. My prompt is to write about new beginnings. Think about how that phrase may relate to you. Perhpas you’re reminded of a new job, new garden growth, a new season. Anything that comes to mind in terms of a new beginning. BUT . . . . . . I remind people that a haibun must meet certain requirements: * 2 or 3 succinct paragraphs of prose that must be true * followed by a traditional haiku. Traditional means much more than simply 3 lines of 5-7-5 syllables. Come join us at 3 PM Boston time and find out what a traditional haiku really is!
Photo: taken on our South America/Antarctica cruise in January 2018. Vincennes Rosales National Park, in Puerto Montt, Chile.
Although this year ends and the next promises hope, far too many can not be joyful. They survive, just barely. Lost jobs. Lost income. They watch the year end without a loved one by their side. Let the new year begin. Let hope live and thrive. Bring relief. Bring safety. Hear our prayer, oh Lord. Help us begin anew.
Sometimes, this time of year, we struggle to stay in the present. Memories intrude ever so gently or sometimes harshly, like a kick in the gut. We may gasp. We may wail. Loved ones lost. No. Wrong word. Loved ones gone. Gone from our sight, our touch, our living space.
Tears they say, are cleansing. A release. Well . . . perhaps. But must we be staid while others carol? Granules of being have disappeared, theirs and thus some of ours. So we reminisce. Sometimes ache as waves of emotion flow through us. Whisper aloud I love you, though the room is empty, save for us.
This Christmas season shall pass and we shall live on. Beyond the celebratory gifts, beyond that sweet gospel of an infant born one miraculous morn. Our treasured memories still intact, just shelved, perhaps a bit farther back. But still there. Always there. Always with us. Available for the taking out, the reexamining, at any time we wish.
Today, we shall step into the sun, feel its rays and warmth. We shall smile through gentle tears. Our tongue shall linger on our lips, taste sweet saltiness, a gift of remembrance. We shall walk another day but we shall always know one truth. The empty space beside us is not indicative of an empty heart.
I am about to celebrate Christmas with our home warmly decorated, and my spouse of fifty years by my side. I am however, cognizant of the many who have lost loved ones in the past year or two…whether to Covid, addiction, cancer, accident, any myriad of other reasons. Many people have difficulty during this season as they face the starkness of their loss. My poem is dedicated to all of you. May you all be blessed with gentle memories, serenity, and a new year that brings hope and health to all.
lillian the home poet 