Living my life as a perennial? Lily of the valley, that would be me. Closest to forever I ever would be.
Lily of the valley, that would be me, planted beneath our family tree. I ever would be blooming and seeing generations to come.
Planted beneath our family tree. Closest to forever, blooming and seeing generations to come, living my life as a perennial.
Written to fulfill the prompts for for day 18 of NaPoWriMoand for Meet the Bar Thursday at dVerse the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Prompt for NaPoWriMo today is to write a poem where “the speaker expresses the desire to be someone or something else and explains why.”
Prompt for dVerse today is to write a Pantoum: a poem of any length written in quatrains and using the prescribed line directions below: Line 1 Line 2 Line 3 Line 4
Line 5 (repeat of line 2) Line 6 Line 7 (repeat of line 4) Line 8
Last stanza: Line 2 of previous stanza Line 3 of first stanza Line 4 of previous stanza Line 1 of first stanza
When I was very young time meant having fun. The road ahead of me . . . well I couldn’t see the end much less fathom the turns, detours, or optional routes in the long journey to come.
A septuagenarian now, closer to eighty than seventy, my memories are glued in scrapbooks. From early marriage days to birthdays and holidays, newspaper clippings, and recital programs.
Wedding albums, birth announcements. Photo albums filled with tent-camping vacations, early grandparenting days, family reunions, scenery shots from cruising days.
There is no doubt about it, time is a glutton. It eats up seconds, months, and precious years. But if we could stop it, collect special events, and put them in a bottle, the question is, at what point would we do that?
What would be the ripple effect? Which moments might be lost, what aspects of human development might be missed in that stutter moment between stopping the clock and starting it again? Can we really judge what is significant enough to stop everyone’s else’s world to save our own?
And just as important to consider, how many bottles would we need?
Written for NaPoWriMo day 17 where the prompt today is to choose a song, and write a poem whose title is the name of the song. Time in a Bottle was made popular by Jim Croce.
What if every dawn illuminated hope? What if every house was a home? What if words had only positive meanings? What if gross only meant twelve dozen? What if thirst only happened to plants? What if everyone holding hands produced a circle of love? What if politicians had no power over a woman’s womb? What if simple soap and water could eliminate prejudice? What if war was only a card game? What if every dawn illuminated peace?
Written for NaPoWriMo day 14. The prompt is to write an anaphora: a poem of 10 lines where each line begins with the same word. Photo is from Cape Cod some years ago.
Namrah soared through night skies, finding his way back to the Pepperdine home. He’d not returned for many years. He’d spent that time in Europe, delighting so many children, guiding them through star dust fields until they grew beyond what adults called their pretend years.
Namrah is not an imagined creature. He appears at night, silver wings softly flapping, golden beak tapping upon a child’s window. He hums softly, the reverse of a lullaby tune, waking them from the deepest of sleeps. They climb upon his back, fingers entwined in crimson feathers, flying past Venus into the glorious galaxy. Namrah tells them wondrous tales and listens to their dreams.
Once the elders agreed Namrah was ready to join the fleet, Jarrad Pepperdine had been his first assignment. He remembered Jarrad’s soft brown eyes, opened wide as they flew. The whispered secrets he’d shared and how carefully he listened. His job was to instill everlasting wonder and hope in children, understanding that far too soon, they would inevitably part. Tonight, Namrah breaks every rule he agreed to long ago, returning to the Pepperdine’s street, hoping for a glimpse, if not a visit, with Jarrad, the adult.
Written for Day 12 of NaPoWriMo where the prompt today is to “write a poem that plays with the idea of a “tall tale.” American tall tales feature larger-than-life characters like Paul Bunyan (who is literally larger than life), Bulltop Stormalong (also gigantic), and Pecos Bill (apparently normal-sized, but he doesn’t let it slow him down). If you’d like to see a modern poetic take on the tall tale, try Jennifer L. Knox’s hilarious poem, “Burt Reynolds FAQ.” Your poem can revolve around a mythical character, one you make up entirely, or add fantastical elements into a real person’s biography.”
Namrah is a wonderful creature I wrote about frequently in the early days of this blog. Go to the search function on this page and plug in the word Namrah and you’ll find some very early poems about this wonderful imaginary friend. Have not written about him in many years so very fun to revisit him.
Praises to the table, the one our family gathered round. You held court with meals, never minded spilled morsels. Gained rings in the process from sloppy milk glasses.
You listened without judgement. Heard the hijinks of Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, knock-knock jokes, teacher complaints, family disagreements, high school gossip, vacation plans, college choice deliberations, and joyfully sung table graces.
You welcomed guests who crammed in extra chairs. More elbows leaning in, more spills, raucous laughter. Birthday party guests and gangly teens who occasionally kicked your legs.
Now in another house but still in the family, serving another generation. From toddlers punching playdough to kids’ paints slopping on your surface, you still stand proud after all these years.
Written for day 9, NaPoWriMo. The challenge is to write a poem every day in April, which is National Poetry Writing Month.
The NaPoWriMo challenge today, takes a page from the famous poet Pablo Neruda. His poetry, translated to English, is treasured by many. Among his poetry are a series of Odes. An ode is a poem written in praise of a person, place or object. The challenge today? “Write your own ode celebrating an everyday object.”
Photos are of our family table over the years….could not find any when our kids were infants or toddlers. We sure celebrated many a birthday at this table! The table has been at our daughter’s home since her children were very young. They grew up at the same table their mama and uncle did. Last two photos are of our daughter’s and son’s children sitting at the table in more recent years.
There are certain phrases we hear so often we just naturally assume they’re true, or at the very least, in our experience we never hear them as new.
All through our married life we always had dogs, as in two, because everyone knows “two is easier than one” is true.
You’ve heard that well worn phrase, “they fight like cats and dogs.” We always assumed adding a cat to the mix would result in a myriad of scrappy conflicts.
So it was with great trepidation, we agreed with significant hesitation. Buckling under to our daughter’s frustration we agreed to her pleas, with much consternation.
We added a cat to the mix expecting a storm of scrappy conflicts. Blossom was a Siamese kitten so cute, we were all quickly quite smitten.
And weren’t we incredibly surprised when our fears were never realized.
Lyra stretched out her long Shepherd frame, Blossom circled round, staking out her claim. Lyra settled in for a nice long nap and Blossom curled up, at home in her lap.
Written for NaPoWriMo Day 8. The challenge is to write a poem every day in April, National Poetry Writing Month.
The prompt at NaPoWriMo today is to “write a poem that centers around an encounter or relationship between two people (or things) that shouldn’t really have ever met – whether due to time, space, age, the differences in their nature, or for any other reason.” Photo is of our very large German Shepherd, Lyra, and our Siamese kitten, Blossom: taken many many years ago when our kids were very young.
have some aches and pains but able to walk and reach dishes on the second shelf. Enjoy a good book sleep beside the love of your life and have family that cares, said the septuagenarian.
To be blessed is to be with your forever family who plays fetch for hours on end, lets you get on the couch with them . . . occasionally, and get kibble treats for just sitting still, said Zoey, the dog.
To be blessed is to enjoy sunshine filtering through your leaves provide shade to a couple’s picnic beneath your branches sport reds and burnt oranges in the autumn season mourn the dropping of leaves and skeleton shivers knowing your resurrection will come next spring, said the seventy-six year old Metasequoia.
Written for Day 5, NaPoWriMo where the prompt is to “try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio of very different things would perceive of a blessing.” The line “to be blessed” and the idea for my poem is taken from the poem used to illustrate the prompt, “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog” by Alicia Ostriker.
*There is indeed a Metasequoia tree planted in the Arnold Arboretum of Harvard University in 1948. It is one of the oldest and first of its kind to grow in North America in over two million years according to the City of Boston official website. The photo, however, is of a tree in Boston’s Public Garden taken during an autumn walk several years ago.
One of four children, her parents died before the age of sixty from massive heart attacks. Her two sisters did the same; as did her brother. She buried her youngest sister on her own birthday and did the same with her only son, who died at fifty-one, also from a heart attack. Her husband died at seventy-three, from complications following open heart surgery. She defied familial medical history and lived to eighty-one, her own heart having been broken many times. She was my mother.
When they called, I rushed to her side. Congestive heart failure finally took its toll. “We’d like to operate,” the doctor said. She quietly shook her head. “I’m so tired, Lillian.” I held her hand and she smiled. But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face. I whispered, “Go and find dad, mom.” And she did.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Lisa asks us to use the line, “But that smile was the last smile to come upon her face” in a piece of prose, no more than 144 words in length, sans title. The line is from the poem Ballad of Birmingham, written in 1968 by Dudley Randall. My mother, Helen Cecile Petitclair Gruenwald died in 1998. I had the privilege of being at her side as she transitioned to another world. I remember it clearly.
lillian the home poet 