Sweet pink petals, primrose nestled ‘midst greenery. Worry not, I shall not assail you. I shall take you with me, memorized, not plucked or bouqueted. Summer breeze ruffles your fragility. Nearby lilac’s scent floats round you and your color seems to deepen. Like a young woman’s blush at her first lover’s caress. Sweet pink petals, what is it in you that stirs me so?
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Photo taken today in the gardens that surround our building. These may not be roses, but they motivated this poem.
What’s happened? How can I be a Russian Nesting Doll? Shrinking. Shrinking. Travelers were we. Recently returned from China, South Korea and Japan. Walked the Great Wall. Reveled in Mt Fuji and cherry blossoms. Sailed the seas. Viewed sunsets and sunrises across waves. Escaped Boston’s winter in San Diego sun. Two months walking Balboa Park, La Jolla coast. Seafood galore. Joyfully we planned for our 50th anniversary to meet our children and their children. Long weekend in Washington DC. Laughter, love, and more love. Then Covid-19 raced across our land. And yours too. Told to stay at home we are minimized. I exist on a much smaller plane. Just me here in these few rooms. But at least I am with you.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Laura asks us to “conjure a room or rooms in the literal, functional, metaphorical, imaginary, or fantastical sense.” I am struck by how the Covid-19 has shrunk our world and decreased our living space….our “living rooms” so to speak. And thus this post. Image from Pixabay.com
It seems to me, there is a map to our lives. Imagine that we can draw it on a grid. Each cell is a day. Cells filled in with bright colors are to-dos and pay-attention-tos. Some neon need-tos are so intense they cause a glare. Blank cells appear in chunks. Free days. Times to play, cogitate, and just be.
My early years were chock full of free days. But ultimately, they almost disappeared. The grid became so colorful, it was blinding. Full of responsibilities, accountability. Children to raise. Professional ladder to climb. Even in those few empty cells, vacation days, I found myself calling in to the office; answering emails. The job tinted even the blank chunks on my grid.
Now in rejuvenatement, never say retirement, filling in the grid is largely my choice. And as I look at it, I suddenly begin to understand, the map of my life is not all my own doing. The socioeconomic term “privilege” comes to mind. Circumstances of birth, ethnicity, geographical location – all have affected my life and enabled me to come to this point where the grid is much easier on the eyes. And in these days of Covid-19, I understand even more, how blessed I have been.
for the lucky ones summer yields bountiful crops – others slowly starve
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Kim asks us to respond, in some way, to the image above, “Broadway Boogie Woogie”, created by Piet Mondrian, displayed at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. Haibun: 2 or 3 paragraphs of prose followed by a haiku that includes reference to a season.
Alien-532 was born into the black sky. He witnessed creation of earth sun, man and his mate. His was a world of no light, no death. A crowded dark portion of the cosmos ruled by Alien-1, who did not acknowledge the sun. From birth, Alien-532 was different from his kind. He did not possess endurance, their one supposed trait. He dreamed of light and human touch. And so he fled toward earth and sun. But it was not to be.
Alien-1 caught him and declared his punishment. You shall forever have human form, but no living matter. You shall exist only under your beloved sun. You shall walk behind or in front of every human ever to be born, but never love.
To this day, his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream, even as day exists. Alien-532 is forever darkness, even in the sun.
Written for dVerse where it’s Prosery Monday. Prosery defined: a work of prose that is 144 words or less, and includes a given line of poetry, exactly as it is written. Bjorn is hosting and asks us to include the line “his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream” from Maya Angelou’s poem Caged Bird. Photo from Pixabay.com
He fancied himself a loner.
Enjoyed solitude.
Cabin deep in woods.
Gardener. Hunter.
Private well and still too.
Voracious reader, simple cook.
No need for wife.
Too troublesome,
would probably snore too.
Social distancing?
Should be a snap,
except for that damned guy.
Stood in his way or followed behind
whenever the sun warmed up the day.
Written fordVerse, the virtual pub for poets where on Tuesday, Bjorn asked us to write a poem that somehow relates to solitude, and Thursday Frank asks us to write a 14 line poem.
Handstand acrobat.
Mainly small time gigs,
circus tents in rural areas.
Environmentalist at heart.
Some thought her silly
giving up two weeks of pay,
assisting farmers in their fields.
Strange sight though,
legs in the air.
Pollen dusted knees
moving through acres,
attracting bees.
Quadrille (exactly 44 words, sans title) written for dVerse where today the prompt word is “silly” – or any form of the word. Photo from Pixabay.com
PROMPT FROM TOADS FOR April 30: The final day of National Poetry Month 2020 “A few minutes from now, you will lose all means of communication with humanity. You will not die, but will no longer be able to interact with the world. Whats the last thing you say?”
Entombed in silence,
solitudinously cocooned
in diaphanous gauze,
but nothing to see.
Nor can I hear.
Senses extraneous
when it is only me.
No exit,
only an aperture to my mind.
And so I choose to hum
not aloud, but in my mind.
Hesitantly, quietly,
internally.
Until my head is screaming
screaming that song. What the world needs now
is love, sweet love.
But alas.
It is too late.
And shared with dVerse, the virtual put for poets, where it’s OLN Thursday.
Take a moment – the newcaster is on for just a moment…then comes the video at about 26 or 28 seconds in…..it is incredibly uplifting! I PROMISE you will love it! A wonderful piece to listen to as we end NAPOWRIMO 2020!
My son,
your wedding so beautiful.
You pledged a lifetime of love
to this wonderful woman at your side
and I watched, tears in my eyes.
My son,
I looked on, so very proud of you.
Your compassion, caring,
your talent, accomplishments.
All things good.
My son,
I knew you must leave
cleave unto your love.
I knew that
and I looked on lovingly.
And when the ceremony was done
suddenly, in that crowded room,
just before the photos began
you came to me
overcome by emotion.
You were in my arms
sobbing
and I flashed back.
Holding infant-you to my chest
comforting, nurturing.
And then you pushed back
asked for a tissue,
turned and walked to your wife.
And just like that,
you became a man.
But you’d given me,
that one last moment.
Day 29 in National Poetry Writing Month. Today Toads asks us to write about something that signaled almost the end. This was an amazing moment in my life….one that I remember distinctly and that my son, to this day, has no recollection of. For me, I am still grateful I had this one last moment with him as my young son. And by the way, he is a very happily married man with his bride/wonderful woman by his side and three delightful children.
It must be the masks.
Most people wear one now.
Not to avoid recognition
while performing some illegal act
like robbery or kidnapping.
Rather to avoid being robbed
or being kidnapped
by Covid-19.
I used to walk down streets
see people but not see them,
hear sounds but not listen to them.
Intent on getting to work
or the store
or the whatever.
I plowed on, looking straight ahead.
No mask. No gloves.
I could have stopped to listen,
hear the blue jay in a nearby tree.
Cracked a smile at passersby.
But I didn’t.
I just plowed ahead
to get to that place,
to that thing I was scheduled to do.
No mask. Just oblivious.
Today I walked to feel fresh air.
Gloved, masked, gasping a bit.
Breathing through a piece of cloth
rubber-banded behind my ears,
only my eyes exposed.
I have nowhere special to go
but I crave being outside.
I need to see people. . .
. . . but not coming too close to me.
In their masks. Worse yet, without them.
I gesture SINGLE FILE
as they come toward me.
I listen for footsteps from behind.
Could be someone coming too close.
Round-trip walk from home,
I decide to stop on the bridge.
Leaning over I take a long look.
See a scene I’ve seen so many times
but not really seen.
Trees along the Charles River.
Water rippling from geese swimming.
And then I see her.
Mama goose upon her nest
staring warily at me.
She moves a bit and hisses.
I see new meaning to an old phrase,
one overused today. Shelter in place.
Cracked eggs beside her,
feathers in her beak,
she shifts her body and just for a moment
I see tiny wriggling masses of yellow
trying to escape from beneath her .
Does my mask make me the interloper?
And still I stare and listen and watch.
It must be these masks affecting me.
Seeing what has always been there,
season after season.
People and nature along my way.
I notice the mundane more
and finally I understand.
It never really was mundane.
April 28 in National Poetry Writing Month where the challenge is to write at least one poem per day. This is my second for today.
This one is written for Toads where we are to choose a quotation or an impression from Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird as the motivation for our poem. I’ve chosen the quotation “People generally see what they look for, and hear what they listen for.”
Video is from our walk this morning.
You may want to see my other poem, written for dVerse today. It will take you to the Norwegian fjords!
lillian the home poet 