Sun beams broadly,
watches innocence frolic
on Cape Cod shores.
Arms akimbo,
children leap
through shallow waves.
Water splashes,
tickles skipping, kicking feet.
Laughter punctuates the scene.
If I could, I would capture this joy.
Carry it in a bottle with perforated lid
and sprinkle it on the world at will.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Lisa tells us it’s time to play at dVerse!
Photo at Provincetown; our grandchildren many years ago.
You’re skywriting now,
in stardust and bright moonbeams.
Still, we’ll miss you here.
Glenn Buttkus. Jun 14, 1944 – February 17, 2023.
Born in Seattle, Washington in 1944, he was a movie buff and an amateur thespian through high school, community theater, and college productions. He was accepted into the U of W’s BFA Professional Actor’s Training Program in 1970, then in its third year of existence. He worked in Regional Theatre in the Northwest for a few years, and then relocated to Los Angeles. In 1977, he took a job at an agency for the blind that was located near Hollywood, and he found a new love: special education. He returned to college, getting his MA in Education and worked with blind people for thirty years. (from m.imdb.com)
Glenn was a frequent contributor to dVerse and other online venues. His was a powerful voice at our OLN LIVE sessions. He is already missed.
Image clipped from his last appearance at OLN LIVE.
Rosary tied to box spring
beneath where my father slept.
God, have mercy on him.
He did not worship You,
but lived You in relationships.
I was taught Papal invincibility
as priests preyed on youth.
They forgave others
behind confessional screens,
required rosaries for penance.
My father,
God rest his soul,
more a father than them.
He didn’t need a rosary,
but many of them did.
Explanation: When I was away in college, I received a phone call from my mother. They’d just had a new mattress and box spring set delivered. And the strangest thing, she said. When they went to remove the old box spring, they found a rosary entwined in the bottom of it. Did I have any idea why it was there?
And then I remembered. When I was in Catholic grade school, learning my catechism, I feared my father wouldn’t go to heaven because he didn’t go to church and he wasn’t a Catholic. So I sneaked into my parents’ bedroom, crawled under their bed and tied a rosary to the boxed spring, on the side of the bed my father slept on. Imagine the indoctrination that happened to make me think that and go to that extreme to save him. I was probably in third or fourth grade when I did this. I just couldn’t understand, I suppose, how such a good man as my father, wouldn’t be allowed in heaven.
Image by Richard Revel from Pixabay
We walk quietly through hushed forest.
Tree tops shimmer-emerald in bright sun.
Shaded lower branches,
more soft-hued green.
Leaves wave in gentle wind.
Sunray flickers through foliage,
forms mosaic patterns upon our faces,
upon our soft smiles.
We slowly walk deeper into calm.
Birch trees, conifers, cypress,
scent of damp pines.
Ancient sentinels of passing time.
Powerful strength towers above
as delicate ferns and wildflowers
thrive in earth beside our feet.
We revel in balance before our eyes.
In the midst of raw beauty, we embrace.
Feel strength course through our beings.
We will be back again and again,
witness to the healing of this place.
Dedicated to Rob and Kathy. Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today, from 3 to 4 PM EST, poets from around the globe will meet LIVE, wth video and audio, to read aloud one poem of their choice, to visit with each other and lend their support to the creative endeavors of all. Come join us HERE and then click on the link provided for Thursday’s live session!
Can’t join us on Thursday?
We’ll meet again LIVE on Saturday, from 10 to 11 AM EST. Join us HERE and then click on the link provided for Saturday’s gathering!
Photo from Pixabay.com
“How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.”
Valentine’s Day,
definitely the time
to answer that query.
One, two, three, four . . .
forty-seven, forty-eight,
fifty-three wedded years.
Seven dogs we called our friends,
two children, nurtured and loved,
five wonderful grands.
Strolling Singapore’s orchid gardens,
admiring Japan’s cherry blossoms,
walking atop the Great Wall.
Meandering beside Lake Michigan’s shores,
through London’s fog, Alaska’s snow,
Bryce’s hoodoos, Yosemite’s trails.
From Iowa to Sweden to Australia too.
Easiest answer to that question?
So many ways over so many years.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, on Valentine’s Day, Sanaa is hosting and asks us to write “plainly” about love.
Photos top row, left to right: summer 1974, pregnant with Abbey, our first child; at the Great Wall outside of Beijing; in Japan enjoying the cherry blossoms. Bottom row: in an underground cave in Bermuda about 8 years ago; and finally, us here in San Diego just seven days ago, February 7th, celebrating our 53rd anniversary! Thankful for every day.
“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways” — from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet 43.
Born in May these many years ago,
amongst lily of the valley
and gaiety of tulips bright.
I am like the crocus
enjoying first rays of spring sun
in the midst of winter’s final stance.
Assertive, I push forward
first to appear,
even when slicked with chilling frost.
During coldest of times
I burrow in found comfort.
Your arms, ready to enfold me.
Like Mother Earth,
you are my home
in every season of the year.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa asks us to “become the embodiment of winter. Tell us what you feel during this season.” Crocus Me is where my muse took me!
NOTE: HOPE you will join us this Thursday, Jan 19, from 3 to 4 PM EST for OLN LIVE . . . OR . . . for the first time, on Saturday, Jan 21, from 10 to 11 AM EST.
You’ll find two links on Thursday’s dVerse: one for Thursday and one for Saturday. Clicking on the link will bring you to a live session with audio and video! Come meet your fellow dVersers and either read one of your poems aloud or just come to listen! The more the merrier! We’re a very friendly bunch!
I was never there, the day everything changed.
When was that? When World War II ended?
When Einstein discovered relativity?
When nine-eleven crashed into infamy?
Or when Harry really met Sally?
Or when you simply ate a peach that summer day,
juice deliciously dripping down your tanned wrist
and somewhere I suppose, a child was born.
Truth is, everything changes
with every breath we take.
Every pivot, every spin, every loping run,
something new becomes.
Nothing stands still. Except perhaps
sentinel mountains in the Norwegian fjords.
Yet even they are marred by subtle granular shifts
as we gaze up at their rugged rockface surface.
Like when we turned around
and our children were adults.
We noticed when their braces came off that summer,
but we didn’t register the daily momentum.
Hell, we just celebrated a New Year
and it’s already old. Even this moment.
It’s now the moment that just was.
Did you blink? Did you notice it pass by?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril gives us a list of podcast titles and asks us to write a poem including two of the titles: I’ve chosen “I Was Never There” and “Pivot”. Image from Pixabay.com
There is a tint of blue
in every Christmas season.
In the midst of Advent purples,
celebratory reds and greens,
in twinkling decorative lights.
There is a hint of blue
despite carolers and tinseled trees,
cookies and gingerbread houses,
marshmallow topped cocoa,
mulled wine sipped from Santa mugs.
Spirits hover round
this special time of year.
Loved ones from generations past,
family members miles away,
those made angels far too soon.
Memories mingle in traditions,
attached forever to ornaments,
long treasured decorations,
holiday photo cards and books,
all brought out this special time of year.
This was hers . . .
he made this . . .
she loved this one . . .
I remember when they gave me this . . .
he made this ribbon rose.
There is a tinge of blue
to every Christmas season.
Reminiscences simmer within our joy.
Many are with us round the tree,
in our hearts if not standing near.
Merry Christmas to all!
Life is candylicious with you.
My Hubba Bubba, my Mr. Goodbar.
My Swedish Fish, my Lifesaver.
My Starburst when darkness falls.
You bring a Bit O Honey
to every single moment we share.
Everyday with you is a Payday,
rich in laughter and love.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish is hosting Quadrille Monday and asks us to use the word “candy” or a form of the word in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Do you recognize the candy names in my poem? Hubba Bubba, Mr. Goodbar, Swedish Fish, Lifesavers, Starburst, Bit O Honey, and Payday. Had fun with this one! Photo is from this past June: me and my Hubba Bubba!
O Tannenbaum,
holding warm memories.
Mother’s eggshell thin glass pink bell,
father’s fragile airplane ornament,
each almost one-hundred years old.
Brother’s handmade Santa
with sparse cotton beard,
seventy-seven years old.
Family long departed from earth,
always here this beautiful season,
illuminated on my tree.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where today Lisa asks us to write a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, that includes the word “warm” – or a form of the word.
Yes, our Christmas tree is up! And always hung first on the tree, are my three most precious and fragile ornaments: the pink bell was given to my mother’s parents when she was born; the airplane was given to my father when he was about five; and my brother made this Santa Claus when he was in first grade. He was nine years older than me and tragically died of a massive heart attack at age fifty-one – before either of my parents died. All three have been gone for many years. I always hold my breath when I open the box to see if these ornaments have made it to another year. Many other meaningful ornaments on our tree – I actually call it our memory tree. The Unicorn marionette was made by my daughter when she was eight, forty years ago. The orange giraffe with white bird on its head, to the right of the unicorn, was a wooden piece from the mobile that hung on my children’s crib: daughter now forty-eight and son now forty-six. There’s a traditional red ball ornament that has Lillian printed every-so-neatly on it, made by Mrs. Boomer, my first grade teacher. I’m now seventy-five. And so it goes. That’s a cream-colored garland I crocheted many many years ago. I love putting up my tree.
lillian the home poet 