Cherished

Blessings

lillian67 Comments

When the cacophony of news blares deafening dreadful,
‘tis time to still one’s feet, one’s hands, one’s mind.

Seek the beautiful, but for a moment.
Listen to stillness and you will hear the quiet.

Contemplate the beside you ~
     the chair upon which you sit
     the cold-hot water you may choose to drink, to draw
     the texture of cloth which warms your skin
     the view through glass panes that alternates,
     day to night to day again
     the love you carry within your heart,
     from those who have held your hands.

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe.

Then slowly rise and move deliberately,
into the good.

IMG_4655

It’s Tuesday and that means Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Paul is hosting and tells us about a book, Anam Cara, by Irish poet/philosopher John O’Donahue, which includes a number of “Blessings” poems. Paul asks us to write a blessing, adding “and may our words create ripples in the pond of the world.”  Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come soar with us! Photo taken a number of years ago on our Baltic cruise.

My Dad

lillian49 Comments

My dad was a quiet man. He wasn’t an exuberant fan of any pro or local sports teams. But I do remember him sitting on our fake leather hide-a-bed couch, watching Cubs games on our blonde console TV. Televisions in those days were cumbersome pieces of furniture. My mother stacked Readers Digests on top of ours.

I never saw my dad swing a baseball bat, but he wielded a mean croquet mallet. It sent many a competitor’s wooden ball sailing into our neighbor’s yard. And rather than joining the popular winter bowling leagues, he stayed late after work, one night a week, competing in a checkers club. He also loved pinochle and rummy. He taught me all these games, using very few words. And he never let me win — until I really did. I never participated in sports. But I did become a high school and college debater. I wonder how much the man of few words had to do with that?

tall oak canopy
acorn roots itself below
reaches for new heights

IMG_5328

Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn asks us to write about sport. A haibun is a piece of prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. Generally, the haiku must be about nature.

 

The Bed

lillian55 Comments

We fancied ourselves antiquers in those days. In reality, we bought used furniture at farm auctions, garage sales, and dusty second hand stores.

In its day, it was called a sleigh bed. We spied the slightly warped high headboard and frame propped up against a wall, and bargained for a price we could afford. Back home, our daughter was fast approaching the age to move out of her crib into a “big girl bed” and my parents were with us for a visit. We enlisted my father’s help. He sanded then painted the headboard white and stenciled it with blue tulips and red hearts. Our daughter slept with that design above her head long after my father died. Until she left the nest and began her college years.

robin gathers twigs
nesting haven grows crowded
wind tussles emptiness

IMG_5274

Grace is hosting Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Haibun: one or two paragraphs of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. She introduces the Japanese tradition of kintsugi, asking us to write about finding beauty in broken pieces or imperfections. Photo: headboard from the side. This is my daughter, many years ago, being awakened by a surprise birthday party from her friends.

The Old Lamp Lighter

lillian33 Comments

Lamplighter of yesteryear
resides light years away.
Nightly strolls relocated,
he illuminates the stars.

Written for dVerse where I’m hosting today, asking folks to write a poem that contains the title of a Billboard Magazine #1 hit recording from the year they were born, or their early years of growing up. The Old Lamp Lighter, recorded by Sammy Kaye and His Orchestra, 1947. Below is a drawing my 10 year old grandson did for this post.

FullSizeRender

 

Helen Cecile

lillian48 Comments

Discombobulized,
she was like that.

Wound up tight tremors,
taut sprockets of the mind.

Spring-like nerves compressed
temper flares spewed.

Church hands folded, twitched, 
flailed by noon.

Even keel sailing
turned runaway train.

Expect the unexpected,
she was like that.


Kim is hosting today’s quadrille ( a poem of exactly 44 words, not including the title) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to use the word “spring.” Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! 

Nahed Enid’s Growing Garden

lillian1 Comment

Were you waiting for me?

Back corner of her studio, smiling
gathering dust midst jewelry displays
shadow boxed art.

Did you jiggle a bit?
Swing your beaded cord braids
glint a wink from googly metal eyes.

Functional Art the sign said.
Amalgamation of discards
someone’s this and something’s that.

Old charms (you do), hair fobs
paintbrush skirt and flower heart
forever wire smile.

You caught my eye that day
and here you are with me
forever now my muse.


Written for prompt in my online poetry class with Holly Wren Spaulding. We are to write a poem of address – as in addressing someone or something. This is a wonderful piece of art work entitled Growing My Garden by Nahed Enid: bought at Nahed’s studio in at the Dockyards in Bermuda. She makes me smile every morning as I sit to write and read. 

We toured . . .

lillian24 Comments

36,000 square feet
2,500 photographs
900 artifacts.

Stared. Imagined inside
dark train cattle car.

Craned necks looking up
vintage portraits, village faces.

Gaped at 4,000 shoes
haphazard heap, all sizes.

Sat at the end,
exhausted by 36,000 square feet
2,500 photographs, 900 artifacts.

Gruesome cold history
what was, compiled
artfully displayed.

And then . . .
her arm around the elderly man
stumbling, sobbing
short sleeved shirt, indelible ink.
I know, Papa, I know.


Written in response to an online 21 day course I am taking, day 7 prompt. I took my first poetry class two years ago from Holly Wren Spaulding and am enjoying working with her again. We toured the museum the first year it opened. Seeing this elderly man, a holocaust survivor, at the end of our visit shockingly reminded us of the holocaust’s reality. Photo  from the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC. Posted for OLN Thursday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop in to imbibe some words from creative folks across the globe!

Iowa Haibun

lillian43 Comments

Rural Iowa and fifteen acres of land. Three rusty metal cross-bars hold taut clothesline flapping white sheets and cotton diaper cloths. I stand on tip-toe, reaching high to pick low-hanging fruit. Branches sag with their weight. Nearby, the garden waits. Beet greens wilt, red-veined, atop vegetables grown too plump beneath the soil. Feathery dill goes to seed as crazed zucchini plants maze through cukes and pumpkin patch.

In the distance, I see dust rise before I hear the car. George is returning from city life to our quiet country home. A space to live simply on the land.

rolling hills of green
beribboned by dusty roads
corn silk dries in sun

It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Toni is tending bar and speaks to us about the Japanese tradition of foresting — simply walking through the woods, unplugged, relaxed, listening and smelling what is true. Our Haibun must be one or two tight paragraphs of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. She asks that we write about a time we simply enjoyed the out-of-doors or a natural place. She wants us to relax with our readers — offering a post of calm.