When it’s very still
and my soul’s at rest,
I see shadows nearby,
An ethereal background
hovers . . .
seemingly through them.
As if a thinning fog.
Shadows of people,
all of them gone.
But here they stand,
their profile or back to me.
My brother, leaning in.
My father with wavy hair.
My mother, skirts lifted,
swaying to music I strain to hear.
Time intrudes and eyes focus,
reality presents itself.
Wedges its way into my mind
until I question what I saw.
But everybody sees shadows
on bright sunlit days.
They dance beside us,
follow, or lead the way.
So who is to say these shadows,
appearing to me when I am alone
are not at least as real
as those we see on sunny days?
Perhaps these shadows also lead me.
I’m hosting Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and folks are invited to post any poem of their choosing. These photos taken this week in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod….and they got me to thinking about shadows.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Cold nose whiffs coffee
perked over campfire.
round chipped mug.
Leaf canopy dew-drop glistens,
lake shimmers with rising sun.
Fresh morning, new day
breathe it in.
Wherever you are this morning or next, city or lakeside, campground or home, breath in life and live! Photo from Pixabay.com
We walked quietly through Hiroshima’s Peace Garden and the Peace Museum, listened closely to the story of Sadako Sasaki. She was two years old when Enola Gay flew over Hiroshima. Although she was outside the perimeter of its immediate target, she was diagnosed with leukemia seven years later. An after-effect of the bomb’s widespread toxicity. During eight months of hospitalization, she folded 1,000 paper cranes, many made from small labels off her medicines. In Japanese culture, the crane is symbolic of good fortune and longevity. Sadako was nine when she died.
In 1958, people from all over the world, sent chains of 1,000 paper cranes, to the dedication of the Children’s Peace Memorial. It commemorates Sadako and the thousands of innocent children who died as a result of the atomic bomb. We smiled at the beauty, patterns and bright colors of paper cranes on display. We looked upward to the widespread arms of the beautiful statue.
paper cranes in my window
blessings soar each day
The crane has come to represent peace and hope and today,is one of the most popular figures created in the art of origami.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Frank asks us to write a “haibun to commemorate Hiroshima…to focus not on despair of nuclear holocaust, but on hope born of rising from the ashes. ” Photos are from our recent visit to Hiroshima: the colorful display of paper cranes; the beautiful Children’s Peace Memorial Statue; paper crane chains I made that now hang in the window of my study; and a photo of me with Kenji. He was an exchange student from Japan in my senior year of high school, 1965. I had not seen him since then and was so excited to reconnect in Japan. He gave me the beautiful origami paper I used to make the cranes. A very special trip indeed.
Reason for title: On August 6, at 8:16 a.m. Japanese time, the world’s first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The city holds a Peace Memorial Ceremony each August 6, to console the victims of the atomic bombs and to pray for the realization of lasting world peace. Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes is a wonderful children’s historical novel written by Eleanor Coerr, published in 1977.
Haibun: A Japanese form of poetry that includes 2 or 3 succinct paragraphs of prose followed by a traditional haiku.
I dreamed of holding stardust in my hands.
Wondering who you were inside of me,
moving softly as my belly expands.
Some being, ethereal? Feathery?
Then you abruptly kicked. Staggeringly.
Doubts, questions, fears, realities unfurled.
How to protect you enough in this world?
Then you, pushing. Pushing until you’re through.
Angry. Squalling. Blotched face. Legs fetal curled.
But once in my arms, my stardust I knew.
Today Frank is hosting dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We continue to explore the Dizain — a particular form of poetry that includes 10 lines, each with 10 syllables, and a rhyme scheme of ababbccdcd. There is to be a “turn” in the poem after line 5. For me, as always with forms, and in particular forms with a set rhyme scheme, it is a struggle to have the meaning of the poem come through without calling attention to the form. Although folks at dVerse have been working with the Dizain for a bit, this is my first attempt. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come try your hand at a Dizain! Photo is from pixabay.com
Kitchen counter line-up:
sealed mason jars
filled with stewed tomatoes,
green beans, chunky apple sauce,
Harvard beets and pickled too.
Freezer shelves of season’s best.
Umpteen zuchinni breads,
apple pies and butter corn.
Blueberries, tagged in bags,
waiting to grace a cold morning’s stack.
Fresh mown grass, delicious scent.
Orange tiger lilies, shasta daisies,
farm cats mewling with swollen teats.
Sheets flap in hot summer breeze,
fireflies dance as sun departs the scene.
My Marengo memories . . .
ah, sweet Iowa summer daze.
Photo from our Iowa garden many years ago! Posted to dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. We lived in Marengo, Iowa from 1970 through 1974 and then Iowa City until 1997. Had amazing gardens! Learned to can and freeze much of our homegrown vegetables and fruits. Somehow, our zucchini plants seemed to explode and we ate zuchinni bread all winter long! Lavonne Heitman’s recipe for freezer butter corn was delectable and oh those bread and butter pickles that took up so much refrigerator space! Our apple trees filled many a frozen aluminum pie tin. Blueberries graced sourdough pancakes on cold winter mornings. One year, I even canned homemade ketchup! Fireflies were always the magical part of Iowa summers – sorely missed in Boston. Ah sweet Iowa memories! Deserving of the title, Heartland!
Somewhere above the sun
Mor Mor, Far Far,
Grampa and Gramma Hallberg,
Florence and Milt
smile so proud,
knowing they live on.
Three generations strong
to laugh, love and care.
“Far Far” is my father’s father in Swedish; “Mor Mor”, my mother’s mother. Photos from this past weekend’s family reunion in the Adirondacks. See previous poem for fun pics!
Quadrille (44 words sans title) with prompt word “sun” written for dVerse.
We are family,
not by blood lines but by love –
beneath the window
of an unsuspecting lot.
Ashes mixed in dirt
under nondescript bush.
long since moved away.
Current tenant leans out,
shakes rug as dust balls fly.
Leg lifted, dog pees,
unaware its daddy’s spot.
Occasionally, in summer’s sun,
butterflies grace his unmarked grave.
She left today.
Someone else packed her things
boxed up lamps, books.
But they had no idea
how to fit memories
into the moving truck.
So they left them all behind,
Shared with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. While dVerse take its summer hiatus, I will continue to share my somewhat poetic thoughts here….and invite you to read, like or dislike, comment or not, as you wish. Sometimes the muse strikes, even in the midst of a beautiful summer day!
Lost too soon . . .
gathered in pews
memories spill from pulpit.
Amazing Grace reverberates
voices swell in unison.
Hear us missing you,
lost too soon.
Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya prompts us to “Cry Me a River” — write about a song that brings us to tears or makes us melancholy.
Photo from Pixabay.com
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth, you are weeping for that which has been your delight.