The house,
filled with yesterdays.
Sirens in the night
its newest memory.
Frayed rug askew
on cold oak floor.
Empty mirror
waits for her return.
Death
What Death Lies Here
The tall waving grasses are always green
in this blessed and hallowed place.
Tombstones crumble, long passed souls embrace
‘neath palmetto fronds, while angels pray unseen.
And one lone cherub, an alabaster figurine
guards still the lad beneath her, quiet in grace.
The tall waving grasses are always green
in this blessed and hallowed place.
The sea nearby crashes waves of aquamarine,
spews salted grits of sand through air to stone efface.
Sacred words, names and years, all but erased
yet bones and dust beneath, feed this earth serene
the tall waving grasses are always green.
Gayle, in dVerse, asked us to create a Rondel: 3 verses (2 quatrains and a quintet). It must have a refrain: Lines 1 & 2 are repeated in lines 7 & 8; and line 1 must also be line 13. The rhyme scheme must be ABBA ABthen-line-1-and-line-2 ABBAthen-line-1. The challenge is to have the form “disappear” within the meaning of the poem. Photos: from our walk yesterday which included meandering through St. Peter’s cemetery, established in 1854, located atop a hill in St. George’s Bermuda.
…and the waters shall flow
We will cross the bridge tomorrow, following bagpipes and the hearse.
Ancient stones shape two arches and guide the current’s flow. Last week’s storm brought a rush of silt and murky waters. Today the river is clear and calm. I see fish moving in and out among pebble mounds. The sun moves slowly across the scene, leaving shadows in its wake, but I remain on its golden side. My gaze moves to the road beyond. And I know, although I cannot see, the plots are there, just around the bend.
Heron waits, ready to pluck
fish flow ‘neath ancient bridge
life moves through to death.
Written for dVerse, a Pub for Poets….Haibun Monday #6. Gabriella Skriver shared several of her photos and asked that we choose one to motivate our writing for today. I loved this bridge one. A haibun begins with short compact prose and concludes with a haiku — the haiku cannot be a duplicate of the prose, but must be complementary. Generally, a haibun in the true sense of the form includes elements of nature and moves to an inimitable truth.
In Response to Death
I shall be more than a visitor upon this earth.
Cities and countries stabbed with green push pins
in a yellow brittle map upon the wall.
Dog-eared journals full of must-sees checked off in red.
Christmas cards sent round the world
Best Wishes from lillian embossed in gold.
When I die, my life shall not flash before me
like quick bold lightning, jagged and gone.
I shall keep everyday images seared in my heart.
Eraser smudges on valentine red, paled with years.
The familiar slant of my daughter’s hand,
scribbled note stuck on refrigerator door.
The love of my life, head bowed, dozing in his chair.
Our white house, its wide open yard
where we chased fireflies on warm Iowa nights.
Visitors tread imprints upon the ground
disturbed, then gone with the slightest breeze.
My death shall leave my laughter and my grin
my dancing spirit and my quirky ways,
some of me in those I leave behind,
having lived and loved upon this earth.
For today’s Poetics on dVerse, the Poets’ Pub, Mary asked us to write a poem in response to another poet’s work. I’ve chosen to respond to Mary Oliver’s When Death Comes. You’ll notice that my first line cues off her last line. History: I wrote the first “edition” of this poem as my very first assignment in a poetry class I took in February 2015. Mary Oliver’s New and Selected Poems Volume One is the first poetry book I ever bought. This Pulitzer Prize winning poet, motivated my first attempt in the start of my poetry writing. This new version is quite quite different. I like to think I’ve improved in my creative writing attempts over this past year!
Funeral
Gathering place after.
Buffet of chatter and remember whens,
mourning turned noon nosh.
Black suits balance white plates
as coffee urns pour and pour
like earlier tears during amens.
You always could draw a crowd.
Moments
Wayward cells grow
the shy speak, the far come near
love surrounds as body dissipates
defiance gives way to destiny
present dissolves from gift to waiting place
angels kneel, ushers ready to rise,
battle almost won.
His tears, moist on her parched lips
she rattle sighs
and her spirit soars.
Ravens’ Pond
His family never knew.
That night, five years ago,
insomnia muddled mind,
he walked along the path,
curly black hair shining
iridescent in the silver moon.
Tangled tree legs pulled up roots,
parted slowly, limbs askew,
pointed sharply at the pond
never seen before.
Black water shimmered glossy,
pulled him closer, closer still.
Something winged, unseen,
flapped loudly, beat its wings
pulled him forward, forward more
toward the black pond, now a hole
pulled him forward, falling now
spinning vortex claimed his soul.
They searched for weeks,
never looking up.
Saw the new boy,
curly black hair,
on the prowl,
slingshot always in hand.
Never saw the raven,
flying round the steeple
iridescent, black,
beneath the silver moon
seeking divine intervention
to reclaim its human form.
Photo Credit: dimitri c
The Meeting Place
In my dreams
I often float to Neverland.
No fairies or pirate boys,
just a place where memories live.
Images once trapped in sepia tones
slip through the web of synapses.
The loving dead come visit me
as if to soothe my soul.
Their smiling faces calm me
into a deeper, softer sleep,
assure me, whisper to me
happiness exists here, on this side too.
Morning Aperture
Boundaries between this world and the next
blur as I stand in mist
feet upon the earth, arms raised
billowness seeping from the sky.
I tip my face into the hovering cloud
spirit worlds surround me
and you are here,
my cheeks moist from your caress.
Slowly, sadness comes with warmth
as sun clears the air, blues the sky
eyes tear to realize
I am grounded, and you
are truly gone.
In response to Daily Post Challenge: Boundaries. Photos from dome car ride near Anchorage, Alaska.
A Dream Too Sad
In the misty dawn,
at the abyss of my dream
limbs shudder,
charred pleas in ebony.
Seedlings lie in state,
interred by ash.
Plundered by flame,
the earth crackles for foolish men
and soft rain begins to fall,
her tears for grandeur lost.
lillian the home poet 