O Tannenbaum, holding warm memories. Mother’s eggshell thin glass pink bell, father’s fragile airplane ornament, each almost one-hundred years old. Brother’s handmade Santa with sparse cotton beard, seventy-seven years old. Family long departed from earth, always here this beautiful season, illuminated on my tree.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where today Lisa asks us to write a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, that includes the word “warm” – or a form of the word.
Yes, our Christmas tree is up! And always hung first on the tree, are my three most precious and fragile ornaments: the pink bell was given to my mother’s parents when she was born; the airplane was given to my father when he was about five; and my brother made this Santa Claus when he was in first grade. He was nine years older than me and tragically died of a massive heart attack at age fifty-one – before either of my parents died. All three have been gone for many years. I always hold my breath when I open the box to see if these ornaments have made it to another year. Many other meaningful ornaments on our tree – I actually call it our memory tree. The Unicorn marionette was made by my daughter when she was eight, forty years ago. The orange giraffe with white bird on its head, to the right of the unicorn, was a wooden piece from the mobile that hung on my children’s crib: daughter now forty-eight and son now forty-six. There’s a traditional red ball ornament that has Lillian printed every-so-neatly on it, made by Mrs. Boomer, my first grade teacher. I’m now seventy-five. And so it goes. That’s a cream-colored garland I crocheted many many years ago. I love putting up my tree.
I was with her when she died, only positive memories in my mind. Holding her hand, leaning down close, my mouth so near her ear.
Faith and love seemed to rush in overcome all doubt as I said, “Go toward the light mom. Daddy’s there, he’s missed you.”
Her eyes opened. She smiled at me – and then she was gone. What was the sound I heard before that last breath?
Not a death rattle. A sigh? A wooshing? Surely the machines near her. Or perhaps an angel’s wings? Helping her soar to another universe.
A place to reunite with my father, her son, her sisters and brother, her mother and father. A place with no pain, no loneliness.
I hope so. I truly hope so.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We were asked to use the word “wing” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I got so carried away in the emotional writing of the poem, that I went way over the 44 words. So posting it today for Open Link Night. Photo is one of my favorites of my mom, taken at my nephew’s cabin.
sipping chardonnay cold, crisp, oak tinged mysteries celebrating love
once more round the sun older, wizened, holding hands thankful every day
gathering blessings from days past and those to come sun still shines at dawn
Image from Pixabay.com
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today Punam asks us to consider wine or whiskey or any beverage, and somehow incorporate that beverage into our poem. Go here for a better explanation of the prompt.
To my readers: Since October 13th, I’ve been going through the “process” of cataract surgery. In the scheme of things, it is a piece of cake. However, I’ve found it difficult to read and work on the computer – hence my participation in dVerse has been limited and I’ve not responded to other posts as I usually do, or to comments on the poems I’ve sporadically posted. I am happy to say, I am coming out on the other side of this process – and the results of the surgery are, to me, miraculous. I see colors in their brightest hues. I see print on my computer that is clear and straight. I look out the window and the world is no longer blurry. I am without glasses for the first time since I was twelve years old and am now half-way through my septuagenarian years. I only wear inexpensive “cheaters”, otherwise known as readers when I want to read or write. All of this to say, age brings cataracts to almost everyone. It is one malady that can truly be reversed. One type of anti-aging procedure that really works. I don’t mind silver hair (a nicer way of saying gray) or wrinkles or crepey skin or the inability to do some of the physical things I used to do in my forties or sixties. But I did mind seeing a blurry world. And that is over! All this to say, I’m back to my writing and back to dVerse!
When the world is a blur we reach out. Grab a hand we trust to steady ourselves. In today’s world the question becomes, whose hand can we trust?
Must we ride a mad bull, bucking twenty-four/seven careening through disasters, red flags hurled at us? Deafening roars blocking out the rational in a cacophony of noise?
Some days I seek the easy chair, slump contentedly, eyes closed, listen to nothing, just breathe. I know you are in the next room ready to provide the steady hand. You are the reminder, there is good in this world.
We stood on the deck of our cruise ship, warm and comfortable, having just eaten our fill for breakfast in a beautiful dining room. The night before, we’d had wine with dinner and our choice of four entrees. We were returning to the ship’s home port in Florida, to then return to our highrise condominium in Boston.
The Captain’s voice was clear and strong over the loudspeakers. “There is a small boat of refugees on our starboard side. We have alerted the Coast Guard and will hold our position until they arrive. We believe in safety at sea for all. This will not impede our itinerary. We will arrive at our home port as scheduled.“
A small boat bobbed in the ocean, the people barely distinguishable except to see they were crowded in what looked like a rubber raft. It looked so low in the water, as if it was barely staying afloat. When the Coast Guard arrived more than an hour after the announcement, our ship moved away quickly. We only saw the Coast Guard approach the refugees. We never knew what happened to them.
cherry tree blooms pink robin sits in feathered nest mole burrows in darkness
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Mish asks us to consider the word “shelter” in our haibun: two or three succinct paragraphs of prose that are nonfiction/autobiographical, followed by a classic haiku.
Photo is from November 2021, when we took a cruise in the Caribbean. It was sobering to see in reality, what we’d read about in newspapers and heard about in the news.
Rise up this morn, ingenue divine. Sing joy unto the skies for youth, for energy and love. Live now to dance in flower laden fields. Soon enough petals shall shrivel upon their stalks, energy depleted. But love, if tended well, will never desert you.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Monday, August 22nd is Quadrille Monday. Linda asks us to write a quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) including the word “morning” or a form of the word. If you look carefully in the first line of Ode to Love, morning is there, albeit broken in to two words.
Apologies to dVersers!I am on a cruise until September 2nd and have very little access to the internet…and when I do, it is intermittant. Therefore I am unable to read your posts to dVerse prompts. Do not feel the necessity to read or post comments on my poems during this time since I can rarely reciprocate.
PS: Poem before this one on my blog, includes photos from our first cruise to the Norwegian Fjords. We are on back-to-back cruises and have just begun the second leg, our Best of Scandinavia cruise.
Schooldays, schooldays, good old golden rule days . . . familiar words from a song my mother sang to me as she tucked me into bed. Generations later, I sang these words at bedtime to our young children, and then again to their children.
As a septuagenarian, I’ve been entrenched in schooldays from when I went to kindergarten until I rejuvenated (never say retired) in December 2012. Schooldays were part of my life as a student, a parent of school-aged children, a teacher, and finally as a university administrator. Whether we lived in rural Iowa, or a city, August always signaled summer’s end. More importantly for me, it was the harbinger of schooldays to come. Depending on my age, it could mean cutting up brown paper grocery sacks to make textbook covers; or shopping for new crayons, knee socks for my uniform, #2 yellow pencils, new Bic pens and notebooks, or a new sweater set. Later it signaled filling out a new lesson plan book, or noting upcoming meetings in a day planner. At seventy-five, back-to-school ads on television bring back memories of August days gone by.
sweetcorn season done seed corn soon to fill silos school bells ring again
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and asks us to write about what August means to us. We can use any poetic form we choose. I decided to write a haibun.
Haibun: a poetic form that includes one or two succint paragraphs of prose followed by a haiku. The prose cannot be fiction. The haiku must include a seasonal reference.