Wishful wisps.
Virus estranged.
Missings:
children, grands,
outdoor smiles.
Streaming scenes of was,
wanting was to change to is.
Ole Man Winter
soon to close doors,
shutter windows tight.
Shut-ins, we dream of release.
View from our window yesterday morning. Snowed from 7 AM to 4:30 PM in Boston.
It was the big band era, lots of brass.
Billy whalin’ on the drums
while Johnny waited for his riff
makin’ the saxophone swing.
And me, standin’ on the riser
my long arms waitin’ too.
“Wing span of a hawk,” mama said.
Just the ticket for a trombone man.
Yeah, I could slide that brass,
hear the notes strong and clear.
No strings or keys,
just that long smooth glide.
And Mabel at the mic,
feathers clipped in henna dyed hair
sultry voice in the sweet spots.
Hips, always swingin’ to the beat.
Never made it big like Glenn,
but we had our gigs.
Glass of gin between sets
and smoke swirlin’ round our heads.
They’re all gone now.
Pawned my Tbone long time ago.
But sometimes, while I’m sittin’ here,
I can put myself back there again.
Close my eyes imaginin’ and start to sway,
feel Mabel lean in real close like she did.
I wheel this chair around a bit
and I can feel us back there again.
Swingin’ to that big band sound.
THIS POST IS BEST IF READ ALOUD!
Rewritten a bit from an older post. Shared at OLN by reading aloud at our online dVerse pub event. dVerse is a virtual pub for poets around the globe – except that once a month we have a live Zoom-like gathering where we read aloud a poem and can actually see and hear the creators of all the words we’ve been sharing for so many years at this amazing virtual pub.
I am oceanically mesmerized.
Sitting on rippled sand,
slowly sifting granules
through my fingers
through my toes.
Waves splash, crash,
dash against shoreline’s rugged rocks.
Salty spray, misty on my skin,
lost in thought,
time labors not.
I stand, then saunter farther down shore.
Discover limestone formations,
arced frame through which I stare.
Architecturally designed by nature,
window open to bluest of blue seas.
This is Bermuda,
beautiful indeed.
Written for MTB (Meet the Bar) Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the world. Today Peter is hosting and asks that we consider and emphasize sound in our poem. For example, we can use onomatopoeia (the word sounds like the object described); alliteration (repetition of consonants); rhyme; and rhythm.
Photo taken four years ago when we wintered in St. George, Bermuda. No photo-shopping in second photo. The water is truly those amazing colors!
Caldron nearby
she is the enigma,
silver flowing garb
white hair plaited high.
Index fingers encased in wax,
flame extinguished
by gust from fleeing bats.
Eyes heavenward, pointing skyward
she seeks illumination.
Answering nay, consumed by clouds,
lunar glow dims and disappears.
Tear soaked cheeks
dried on thinnest cloth
sHow dwindling faith . . .
consumed moon
pearls from tissue
candle salve
skulls of saints
spiritual songs
her crooning voice cracks
this hallowed eve.
This burial ground,
last chance
to find her gods.
All sounds, all hopes
cease.
Pleas unanswered
she returns to abysmal cave,
forsaken and alone.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura hosts and refers us to the American Poet, Samuel Greenburg. His “…feverish tubercular episodes gave him a verbal recklessness that lent itself to surrealism.” In The Pale Impromptu, written in 1915, he strings words together in indentations and to Laura, they appear like charms on a bracelet. She has listed for us twenty-one of these “charm” phrases from The Pale Impromptu and asks us to use five of them in our poem. I’ve attempted to use his form as well as five of his “charms” which are italicized for easy recognition. My apologies to Laura and Samuel Greenburg if I’ve not explained this very well.
Photo from Pixabay.com
Compass magnetized to truth,
lead me to serenity.
Through brazen brambles
toward path with verdant ferns,
emerald grass and sentinel trees.
Close to streams unseen but heard.
Soft swishes, trickles too,
psalms in salient tranquility.
Guide me through morass
into a land of grace.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the world. Today De is hosting and asks us to include the word “magnet” or a form of the word in our poem that is exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo taken a number of years ago on trip to see our niece in Ohio.
Autumn brilliance beckons
quiet walks feed my soul.
Chain link fence meant to impede
gives pause.
Adorned by copper hued leaves
between and through metal links,
the mundane
turned stained glass window.
I sigh . . .
before walking on.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where today, Sarah asks us to write a 3 to 12 line poem choosing one group of three words from a list she provides. I chose feed-copper-quiet.
SO INTERESTING! Each group of three words marks an actual place in England (feed-copper=quiet is the exact location of the National Art Gallery in London). Sarah tells us “The developers of what3words have divided the whole world into 3 metre squares and allocated each of them a combination of 3 words. The idea is that if you are lost and in need of help, you can use these words to pinpoint your location exactly.” I went to the site and found the three words that pinpoint exactly where I live. Interesting concept! Our poem is just to use the three words – it does not have to incorporate the actual place the words refer to in the mapping scheme.
Photo taken on a BC walk in Andover, MA.
BC means Before Covid — as in last fall.
From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time. Up close, we see now, he should not be here.
He sits alone at the same corner table every day, all day, playing solitaire. Narrating his rational plays, he slaps down cards so hard the table shakes. His sane voice, loud above the moans and snores of others. They sit slumped in wheelchairs or on upholstered couches with protective plastic seat covers. Some have spittle hanging from parched lips. Between hands, he talks to the teenage aide standing nearby. “I lost again. Nobody wins here. Did you see that string of clubs?” She nods, bored with her job. “I want my Science magazine. They didn’t renew my subscription!”
How was this man, an inconvenience to someone, surviving here? We will definitely report this hellhole to authorities.
Written for Monday’s Prosery prompt at dVerse.
Kim hosts today, asking us to include the line “From across the room, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time” in a piece of flash fiction, exactly 144 words in length. The line is from D. H. Lawrence’s poem Humming Bird.
Image in public domain at Pixabay.com
Five dogs stayed impatiently
on a park bench, sitting dutifully.
“She’s coming by soon!
The bitch makes us swoon.
Stop posing us so photogenically!”
Photo taken on yesterday’s walk along the Charles River.
In the darkness before dawn
we await so much.
Equality, justice,
civility, health.
I feel the arms of hope
reach out to comfort us.
Envelop our earth’s girth,
wrap ‘round this country’s soul.
In the darkness before dawn
we know in our hearts
the sun always perseveres.
It rises phoenix-like,
breaks through tumultuous clouds
strikes down darkness
and births a new day.
Photo: a recent dawn in our beloved Provincetown.
Winds ripple
wind chimes sing
I sit basking in autumn sun.
Winds howl
news spews discordance
I cringe in easy chair.
Storm breaks
Covid strikes hard
I blink in disbelief.
Where is the calm
as sirens scream cross seas?
God help us all.
I am usually a Pollyanna…..but these times can test our frame of mind and make us feel the gloom and doom. I choose to write out my feelings. It is a way to rid me of those I do not want to harbor. Having done that, I now shall smile with hope. May we all somehow do our part to brush away the storms that seem to surround us these days; and pray for those who are caught up in them and suffering in these times.
lillian the home poet 