Out of reach. Shiny brunette hair ~ with squinted eyes, grey is silver. Unstoppable energy ~ spurts are good, naps are nice. Confidence on stiletto heels ~ comfort is better. Faded memories ~ photo albums roll back time.
Loved ones miles away, some forever gone. Living with empty spaces. Closets of clothes, clocks ticking, rocking chair, couch, kitchen table. All are there but emptiness fills us. The question becomes what is within our reach and how do we gird ourselves to move on, step by step, as we are left behind.
Might I take a seat here, please, inside this idyllic photograph? Feel tall grasses brush against bare shins, wiggle toes in flower petals and stems. Gaze at pristeen white barn settled in among the green, all quietly still that day.
I would lie back, eyes softly closed. Breathe in deeply, fresh cool air, untainted by cruelty, division, or derision. Eyes open, I would swim deeply amongst wispy billowing clouds dancing in sky blue patches above my head. Then . . . stretching my arms wide, I would move them up and down at my sides until a gentle flower/grass angel’s wings appear, unlike winter’s icey-cold snowy counterparts.
Rising up, I would take two giant steps away, look down and smile. There is my impression. Where grasses and blooms lie flat, there resides spring’s angel imprinted on the field.
In reality, I hold the photo in my hand. Its freshness, its simple beauty, reminds me of that which once was me many many years of springs ago. Naively unaware, just living in the moment, in those myriads of moments, unaware of bends in the road ahead.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting OLN (Open Link Night). Writers are welcome to share one poem of their choosing, no required length, format, or topic. ALTERNATIVELY, they may use the OPTIONAL prompt which I provide: write a poem inspired by the photograph above.
Picasso’s blue period. Shades of cobalt, streaks of cerulean, periwinkle pops. Hues of humanity brushed on canvas. New Orleans blues strut the streets. Brassy sounds. Bourbon crowds. Indigo girl hopscotches hair flying, double-dutches. Skip-to-my-lou my darling denim clad child. Love you always, true blue.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today and asking folks to include the word “indigo” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image made on Bing Create.
Teaching skills. Helping. Watching. Too soon the dividing line appeared, between the now and what was coming.
Responsibilities increased. Yours not ours. Your departures, more frequent, measured at first in hours, not miles.
Your wings. Expected, prepared for. We marveled and smiled. Waved at you . . . and then you were gone.
Distance multiplied. Time stretched separations. Hairline fractures of the heart, smiling our love through goodbyes.
Parenting children to adulthood. Learning to live through changing times, adjusting to the moving margins.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to write about a poem that somehow talks about margins. She gives many examples of margins. As a septuagenarian with two happily married children and five grandchildren, I thought about living through moving margins as a parent and thus, this poem.
. . . ‘tis a holiday when spring rains refresh the fields when a babe is born into a family of love when a home is infused with the aroma of freshly baked bread when a child chalks a sidewalk hopscotch when peach nectar dribbles down your chin when calloused hands are clasped in repose while the body sits relaxed, belly full, mind at ease. There is a positive sense to the word, most especially when you believe one moment in time can be a holiday if we make it so.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting the pub today. Folks are free to post any one poem of their choosing, OR write to the optional prompt: create a poem that includes the word “holiday” in the body of the poem. Image from Pixabay.com
NOTE: dVerse will be LIVE on Saturday, December 14, from 10 to 11 AM New York time.Click here to find the embedded link that will take you to the LIVE session (audio and video). You’re invited to read a poem of your choosing or just sit in and listen. The more the merrier!
I promise, she shyly whispered, to only stomp in mud puddles when the grumbles grab me. To weave daisy chains when the nervous-nellies strike. To concentrate on blessings like tulips, birch trees, snow flakes, puppies, and sweet juicy peaches. And her guardian angel smiled.
It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. As pubtender for the day, I’m asking folks to include the word “promise” in the body of their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. They may use a form of the word “promise” but a synonym will not suffice. Stop by and see what folks are writing about – I promise you’ll enjoy! Image by ymyphoto from Pixabay
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” Heraclitus
Some years back we found ourselves near the town I grew up in – Waukegan, Illinois. I’d not been there in decades. We decided to take a detour in our planned trip and drive by some of my old haunts.
Sadly, the house I lived in for my first nine years was in a state of disrepair. Rickety porch steps, missing shingles. My mother’s beloved lilac bushes were no more. The downtown where I’d “scooped the loop” in the front seat of an old Chevy was barely recognizable. Not one store name was the same. Most jarring was my walk through the Catholic church I grew up in. How could it be so small? I remembered lighting candles inside a hushed space – a side grotto/cavern made of dark rock. There I stood, inside the grotto, looking at battery operated candles and grey plastic simulated stone walls. After lighting a candle and saying a small prayer for my mother, I decided to end our nostalgic tour. I wanted to keep the rest of my memories intact.
stream rushes surely rocks tumble and change their shape nothing stays as is
Frank is hosting Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. His prompt for today is to “imbue our haibun with mono no aware. Write on any topic that you like as long as your haibun embodies that wistful sadness marking the beauty of transience.” A haibun combines prose and a haiku.Image is a photo I took some years back on one of our vacations.
So many questions I could ask myself. Why this? Why that? Why then? Why now? Why not? Why me?
But those sound too much like regrets. I choose to live my life without regrets.
Regrets indicate a desire for change in the past. One change a ripple makes and then,
life would be different somewhere along the path. Life would be different now. I like my now.
Written for day 25 of NaPoWriMo where the prompt is to “write a poem based on the “Proust Questionnaire,” a set of questions drawn from Victorian-era parlor games, and adapted by modern interviewers. You could choose to answer the whole questionnaire, and then write a poem based on your answers, answer just a few, or just write a poem that’s based on the questions.”
The future is beginning now. When I arrive, I am what was missing before.
Tomorrow always becomes a yesterday. My past was once unknown to me.
Time is after all, a glutton. Best to concentrate on the moment, every time it comes.
Written for NaPoWriMo day 24.
The prompt is to “write a poem that begins with a line from another poem (not necessarily the first one), but then goes elsewhere with it.” “The future is beginning now” is from Mark Strand’s poem, The Babies, published in his Collected Poemspublished by Alfred A. Knopf in 2015. He is a former Poet Laureate of the United States and a Pulitzer Prize winner. Image is from Pixabay.com
lillian the home poet 