banana popsicle me
sticky fingers and chin
hopscotch me
chalked up sidewalk
and banged up knees
fireflies me
off and on orbs
in my back yard
beach me
squiggly toes
in wet rippled sand
remembering
sweet days of youth.
Cherished
Blessings
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Hindsight
It was only a tree
in Mrs. Jester’s yard.
Can’t recall her,
just the skinned knees
and Lily the Spy.
I peered through apple blossoms
deciphered shape shifter clouds
ate raisins from a little box
and colored crayon clues,
until she hollered
Supper Time!
Childhood Memory
Navy blue jumper
white Peter Pan collar blouse,
ICS grade school uniform.
Hand reaches into font
presses damp sponge,
wet hand crosses self.
Holy now,
I skip into the sun.
Written for Misky’s Twiglet #15, “rushing waters.” A twiglet, the shorter the better, is a phrase to prompt a flow, thought or memory. Yep, that’s me in third grade!
Helen Cecile
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
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 . . .
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!
