Cherished

To be blessed is to . . .

lillian9 Comments

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.

Prosery for today . . .

lillian20 Comments

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.

Recipe for My Son and Daughter to Discover Their Family Tree

lillian21 Comments

Discover with me your family tree.
Ignore online apps promising filigree.

Instead, help me decorate my Christmas tree.
String tiny lights round and round with glee.
Stand on tip toe to place Grampa’s ribbon rose
at the very top, where it always goes.

Hang wooden orange giraffe
beside spunky little brown horse.
Decades ago they made you laugh,
hanging above your crib, of course.

Be extra gentle with the pink glass bell,
fragile as a thin egg shell.
Your grandmother’s as a small child,
looking at it, she always smiled.

Add red ornament with letters painted white,
Lillian spelled out, still brings delight.
Made by my teacher in first grade,
her love for students proudly displayed.

Treasure these ornaments year after year
so many belonged to family so dear.
Behold this memory filled Christmas tree,
see and touch your ancestry.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Grace provides us with the last prompt for 2023 as we will now be on hiatus until January 1. She asks us to write a culinary rhyming recipe poem.

While we do indeed have a number of recipes handed down from generation to generation in my family, I’ve taken a bit of poetic license and written a poem with a “recipe” for my adult children (now 47 and 49; I’m 76) to discover their ancestry/family tree by looking at the ornaments on my Christmas tree. Just a few are mentioned in the poem. There many more including a fragile airplane that was on my father’s tree when he was a little boy. You can see it in the photo, next to my mother’s pink bell. There are ornaments made by my children’s babysitters; two painted by my father; some made by neighbors from the house where we raised our children; some made or given to us by aunts and uncles; sadly some given to us by relatives now gone from this earth. There are ornaments made by our kids when they were 4 and some when they were in grade school. There are ornaments collected from family vacations. It is what I often call a memory tree. Almost every ornament has its own story. In a way, they are the ingredients, melded together and on display, that enable us to reconnect with our family every year, no matter the distance or time that separates us; no matter if they have left this earth and only reside in our hearts.

Whatever holidays you celebrate, I hope they are joyful and shared with loved ones. I also wish everyone a happy and healthy New Year.

December Walk

lillian31 Comments

Love.
Snow mist
nature kissed.
Evening stroll
through quiet street.
Bells chime afar.
Carolers’ voices carry
through neighborhood.
Candles glimmer, lights shine.
Thoughts turn to memories.
Eyes tear from cold
or yearning.
Family members gone
still cherished,
warm my spirit
this time
of year.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn asks us to use the word “snow” in our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image created on Bing Create.

A Prayer at Day’s End

lillian38 Comments

As the sun sets on this day
may we pray to remember
the good that surrounds us,
the good that can be.

Help us to find our way
to a kinder world.
May each of us
contemplate sameness.

Our sameness. Our humanity.
May leaders from all countries
all religions, all ethnicities,
strive for gentle caring.

May we look in the mirror
eyes and hearts open,
and find each other.

Written today for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. In today’s world, with so much strife, division, and warring factions, I thought it important to offer this prayer.

dVerse will go live today from 3 to 4 PM EST. Folks from around the globe are invited to post a poem and read it aloud or simply to come and listen. A link will be provided at 3 PM EST HERE to join us on video and audio for one hour. We will do the same on Saturday morning from 10 to 11 AM EST. Would love to have you join us. The more the merrier!

Photo from sunset in San Diego some years ago. The photo feels peaceful and serene to me….and somehow the sun and the rolling hills in the background remind me of hope for a new day.

Spire

lillian5 Comments

Suppose I spin
summit rejuvenatement
reverberate insanely
peek into everland
see paradise
enlightenment
stop spinning
rest in peace
irrevocably
stop

Written for dVerse where Bjorn presents us with quite a challenge – to write a poem using the following rules: 1) Select a title of one word containing not more than 3 vowels and 3 consonants. 2) Try to find as many words that are using only the letters in the title. 3) Combine this into a poem of your own. 4) Do not use any punctuation in the poem. The rules comprise a poetic form created by Canadian poet Christian Bök known for his experimental work. “Rejuvenatement” is a word I created when I rejuvenated (never say re-tired).
Image by Merlin Lightpainting from Pixabay

Time for the Truth

lillian45 Comments

We are the baby-boomers, celebratory births
conceived and born after World War II.
We lived in our all white world,
walked to elementary school in Mary Janes
and white lacey ankle socks.

We were the oblivious ones
riding from Chicago to Florida.
Family vacations to grandma’s
excited to buy Orange Blossom eau de cologne
and praline candies at rest stops.

We had no idea Black families
used The Green Book for the same trip.
Dog-eared pages marked “friendly” towns.
Listed cafes, motels, and gas stations
where Negroes were welcome.

We didn’t know anybody named Jim Crow.
As young kids, we blindly sipped
from white-only fountains,
sat where we wanted
at diners along the route.

But we know now, or do we? –
How many of us
have seen or read the children’s book,
Ruth and the Green Book
by Calvin Alexander Ramsey?

How many of us have read
The 1619 Project?
Written by Nikole Hannah-Jones,
winner of the Pulitzer Prize
and a #1 New York Times bestseller.

What are we afraid of?
We may not be Bible readers
but we’ve all heard John 8: 31 and 32.
“The truth will set you free.”
Now is the time the truth be told.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn is hosting from Stockholm, Sweden and asks us to write a poem in the “collective” voice — we, our.
Given the movement so rampant in parts of the US to ban books, I thought it important to write this poem. If you’ve not read either of the books I mention, they are well worth the read.

Quoting from the Calvin Alexander Ramsey at the end of his book:
“In 1936, an African American living in New York City named Victor Green wrote a book to help black travelers. He made a list of all the hotels, restaurants, gas stations and businesses that would serve African Americans in his city. There was such a high demand for his book that he decided his next edition would include other towns in other states, as well.

The Green Book was sold for a quarter in 1940 at black-owned businesses and at Esso stations, which were among the only gas stations that sold to African Americans. Esso was owned by the Standard Oil Company, which eventually provided funding and offices for Victor Green. The Green Book quickly became very popular and helped many businessmen on the road, as well as the families who needed and wanted to travel by car.

By 1949, the price of the Green Book had grown along with its size – it cost 75 cents and was 80 pages. It covered all the United States, Bermuda, Mexico, and Canada!

In the 1950s and early 1960s, civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. brought national and international recognition to the injustices suffered by African Americans. Jim Crow’s days were numbered. On July 2, 1964, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Bill into law. Among other things, this act made it illegal for hotels, restaurants, and gas stations to discriminate against customers.

Victor Green published the final edition of the Green Book that same year – 1964.”

Illusive Time

lillian27 Comments

My kaleidoscope memories,
colorful because they feature you and me.
Time before you
sepia toned, indistinct.

Like a deeply embedded sliver
tender to the touch,
fear festers
as you sleep beside me.

I need
longer days
and many many more,
to continue being us.


Written for dVerse where today it’s Quadrille Monday. Kim is hosting and asks us to include the word “sliver” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

Image by Dmitri Posudin from Pixabay

. . . for Char . . .

lillian30 Comments

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory –
Percy Bysshe Shelley, English Romantic Poet (1792 – 1822)

People say, watching someone transition
from all knowing, to sporadic dementia,
to full blown Alzheimer’s,
is like watching someone disappear.
It seems to me,
there could be another perspective . . .

She saw our bodies, our faces.
But in her eyes, we were shadows.
In the beginning of the end
the mist would eventually lift.
She’d remember our names,
laugh with us as we reminisced.

But the veil fell and we lost her,
and she lost us.
We no longer existed in her world.
But the music . . . sweet notes, harmony,
songs she loved.
These she kept in her heart.

Some days, we’d find her singing.
Her voice clear and strong.
Her face animated.
We dared not interrupt
lest she stop
and simply stare confused.

She’s gone now, gone from this earth.
In her last days of lying still,
eyes closed, lights dimmed,
unaware of nurses nearby
or family by her side,
occasionally she’d smile.

I have no doubt
angels were hovering nearby,
humming a lullaby only she could hear.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Tuesday Poetics and Merril asks us to write a poem about a transition in time we may have experienced or that we’ve thought about. She provides the poetry lines from Percy Bysshe Shelley at the top of my poem, as a bit of inspiration. They made me think about the lasting power of music for those who, for example, suffer from dementia and Alzheimer’s disease.

I was reminded of Tony Bennett’s last concert with Lady Gaga, when he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. He had trouble remembering many things but as soon as he heard the music of the standby songs he sang and loved for so many years, and was in front of the audience, all the music came back to him. The YouTube video is of him singing at that last concert.

On a more personal note, I learned several days ago that an old college friend of mine recently died. We were sorority sisters and she sang in our college choir and for all these years, in her church choir. Like Tony Bennett, I know from last year’s Christmas letter from her husband, that although her memory problems were increasing, she was still singing in her church choir. At her funeral, which I was able to watch in a recording, the pastor said her life was a song….and he had no doubt, God was singing a lullaby to her in her final days.

** the scene within the poem is fictional