Cherished

‘Tis True, Mr. Wordsworth

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Daffodils interrupt doldrums
break through badgering news.
They brighten my day,
my thoughts, my views.

They do indeed flutter and dance,
providing a joyful scene.
They grace the banks of the Charles,
greet me with bright ruffled faces.

They are sunshine
atop green leafy stems.
How can I be lonely
as they smile at me?

NAPOWRIMO Day 17. Prompt: Write a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet. My poem is in response to William Wordsworth’s famous poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud. See below for his complete poem.

Photos taken two days ago on my walk along the Charles River, from the Boston side. (Cambridge, Harvard and MIT are on the other side).

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Message of Sunrise

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There is a calming
an acute listening
as I sit enveloped in darkness
waiting, watching.

Darkness dissipates.
Low-lying orange-red layer
ombres into blue-black sky.
Then . . .

. . . ever so slowly . . .
a sliver . . . an arc . . .
an entire glowing orb.
Nature’s metaphorical reminder.

Even in the darkness
hope does rise
and become
reality.


NAPOWRIMO Day 16. Prompt: write a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught you or told you.

Images are photos I’ve taken over the years at our beloved Provincetown at the very tip of Cape Cod. Same rental, on the ocean, for 25 years. Sunrises from the deck never disappoint.

Where Does Love Go?

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Family of four,
both mother, father gone now.
Their love still lives on
in the way their children love.
Circle of love unending.


A Tanka written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Kim asks us to write a poem using the title Where Does Love Go and answer the question within the poem.

Go to https://lillianthehomepoet.com/2026/03/24/a-haibun-family-tradition/ to understand my personal meaning for the Circle of Love. Image from Pixabay.com

Tanka: a Japanese poetic form of 5 lines with the syllabic count of 5-7-5-7-7 Some say it’s a haiku that keeps on going!

Mary Alyce and I

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We were
two third-grade girls who often roamed
through a nearby overgrown plot of land.
In our minds, the vast Old West.
That mound of dirt about half-way in?
Boot Hill where we’d tether our steeds.
We were certain the Lone Ranger rode these parts.
We’d gallop many a mile in those days.
We’d capture bad guys with unholstered guns
using only one index finger and thumb.
After a long day of protecting Dodge City,
when the sun was about to set
we’d adjust our cowboy hats
and mosey on home
to Martin Avenue
in Waukegan,
Illinois.



NAPOWRIMO Day 13. Prompt: Write a poem about a cherished landscape. It could be your grandmother’s backyard, your schoolyard basketball court, or a tiny stip of woods near the railroad tracks. At some point in the poem, include language or phrasing that would be unusual in normal spoken speech – like a rhyme or syntax that feels old fashioned or high-tone (“mosey on home”).

True story from my childhood days. I have no idea what ever became of Mary Alyce.
AI image made from Bing Create.

She was my mother. . .

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“He went to sea in a thimble of poetry.” 
Opening line in the poem Poet Warning, by Jim Harrison.

Wynken, Blyken and Nod
my childhood friends,
lived in the well-turned pages
of mother’s Child Craft Poetry Book.
So many friends who made me smile.
The Old Lady who lived in a shoe,
Miss Muffet sitting primly on her tuffet,
Old King Cole and Jack Sprat too.

We laughed about the crazy cow
who jumped over the moon.
I lived in those pages then,
where no one yelled at anyone.
Sitting on mother’s lap
I’d hug my yellow teddy-bear
smeared with mother’s lipstick,
so at least, it always smiled at me.

When mama took out that book
I knew she’d take me
to magical places.
And for those moments
her love for me was real and clear.
So calm, so comforting,
so warm, so fun, so motherly,
in those make-believe lands.

And here I am, decades later
near to being an octogenarian,
wondering why I write poetry.
I’d forgotten this side of her,
so many other memories crowding in.
I live by the words, “no regrets”
always have and always will.
So I am thankful to remember
this other side of who she was.



NAPOWRIMO Day 12. Prompt: Write a poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.

Image from an illustration in the book, which I still have. Published in 1947, the year I was born.

The Pall of Grief

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As if struck by lightning
or a slow moving deluge,
watching life’s last curtain call
aches like hell.

Grief envelops like low-lying overcast sky.
Why is the air so thick? So heavy without you.
How can I still feel your embrace?
Death takes so much more than life.

That biblical allusion, the Valley of Death.
More like a chasm with unending depth.


NAPOWRIMO Day 10. Prompt: Write your own meditation of grief. Try using Brock’s form (from his poem “Goodbye”) as the “container” for your poem: a few short stanzas, wtih a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given.

Image made on Bing Create.

Street Art in Chile

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I believe this is us forever dear,
painted image on a neighbor’s wall.
We hold hands in permanence,
street artist’s portrait of love.
His rendition, always young.
No furrowed brows from worries,
no age spots upon our arms.
He sees us somewhat oddly though,
large heads upon small bodies.
But we do lean in, faces touching,
projecting forever togetherness.
Feet dangle above his painted ground,
hovering above reality’s sidewalk.
He’s placed us in suspension here. . .
and I can imagine, my love,
this was us so many years ago.
How did he know?



Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today, and folks are invited to post one poem of their choosing, no required format, topic, or length. OR they may post to the optional prompt I provide which includes three photos of street art I saw in Valparaiso, Chile some years ago. The one above was one of my favorites.

AN INVITATION TO YOU: I’m also hosting our LIVE session (audio and video) on Saturday, April 11, from 10 to 11 AM EST. Please consider joining us! You may read aloud a poem of your choosing, or just come to sit in and listen! We are indeed a global group with folks from Australia, Trinidad Tobago, Kenya, the UK, Pakistan, Sweden, and across the US often in attendance. The more the merrier! If you’d like to join us, go to https://dversepoets.com on Saturday a few minutes before 10 AM EST, and click on the link provided there.

Appropriating Charles Dickens

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It was the best of times . . .
USAID shut down caused
global humanitarian crisis.
It was the best of times . . .
ICE agents wreak havoc,
innocents shot and killed.

It was the worst of times . . .
Cataract surgery
reveals brighter world.
It was the worst of times . . .
Family reunion brings
laughter and love.
It was the worst of times . . .
Sunshine always glows brightly
behind the clouds.


NAPOWRIMO Day 7 Prompt: Write a poem using a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.

Image by cliffoa from Pixabay