city in repose
a mirage these days
can we turn back the clock
i don’t understand
when calm and love
made their exit from the scene
or were they a mirage too
Photo of Boston taken July 4, 2016, looking down the Charles River at sunset.
Life
i am…a frog?
like a pollywog
but continual
constant metamorphosis
life’s playpen journey
never habitual
every step negates that
sister, wife, mother,
teacher, painter, dancer,
sometime-poet
daughter
daughter is missing
from the list
pollywog always
pollyanna mostly
metamorphopolly
named wrong
should be polly
could be…
because
i am…
we are…
you are…
a becomer
photo credit: Hyunhee Park
City Life
Steaming, sassy, sultry,
she rules the hood.
Stares defiantly.
No mercy.
Sidewalks, front stoops
hallways and flats
simmer under her glare.
She dares you to be cool.
That sweltering summer sun.
Scentalicious
Backyard lilac walk-about
honeysuckle and new cut grass
leaves piled high, burning bright
apple-pie-oven and baking bread
grandma’s wrinkled talcum skin
gingerbread men and cinnamon
outside pine tree brought within
season by season,
scentalicious all
Written for dVerse Poets’ Pub with Grace tending bar today. Today’s Poetics asks us to write a poem about scent.
New Day
Reminded not too long ago that life is transitory, I begin each day in a slow deliberate way. After padding into our galley kitchen in slippers and robe, a morning ritual begins. Paper cone unfolded, fits inside the top half of a glass carafe. Five carefully measured tablespoons of fresh ground beans are placed inside. Two and one-third cups of boiling water held aloft, I pour just enough to saturate the grounds. And then I count. One-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three. Moist grounds aerate thirty seconds as I lean in to inhale. Water held aloft again, ever so slowly poured, counterclockwise. Dark liquid foams and slowly seeps into the glass carafe. Filter empties, save wet brown clinging to its sides. Paper sieve discarded, I pour steaming hot elixir into a white ceramic mug. Anticipation rising, I pad my way to the study and sit for that first sip. Eyes closed, savoring the taste and scent. And now, journal and pen in hand, I write. Thankful for this new day.
Coffee beans grown in hot sun
roasted to robust, slowly brewed,
nature’s wake-up call.
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse! Today Toni asks us to write a Quotidian. Quotidian means daily — refers to something that happens daily or that we use daily.
Stuck
Some days
are like spinning tires on gravel.
The doing is there,
but the moving is not.
Photo credit: Nick Cowie.
It’s in the Doing
Once,
I wished
on a star.
Another time
a four leaf clover.
Eyes squeezed shut, breath held tight
twenty-one birthday candles
blown out from one huge sucked in puff.
But I’ve come to learn as I grow old,
it’s not in the wishing that dreams come true.
Written for dVerse Poet’s Pub. Today, Victoria asks us to write an etheree, shaped by syllabic lines from 1 to 10. First line 1 syllable, second line 2 syllables, third line 3 syllables etc. up to the tenth line of 10 syllables. Quite fun to do!
Passage
You carried me
over the threshold…
alice found crazy hats
and a tea party…
stalactites dripped slowly
until they began to fall…
fissures…
apertures…
this time
you cannot be
with me…
door to something
somewhere…
and I must
pass
alone.
Tending the bar today at dVerse’s virtual Pub for Poets. It’s Tuesday Poetics and I’ve asked folks to write a poem relating to the word “door.” Although I provided a number of photos for possible use, writers can also use one of their own. This one was taken at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts a few days ago – a space you enter wtih three walls, ceiling and floor covered in mirror or mirror-like materials with beads and jewels hanging from various areas. Looking back at the photo – it seems a passage to another world — perhaps an afterlife? Who knows? You’re invited to visit dVerse and pop through some doors with a group of wonderful writers!
Fini
extinction has become
a way of life
push ‘em back, push ‘em back
way back
thieves in the night
spread into the world
Serengetti, oceans blue
chrysalis and hives
letter writing, long white gloves
walking unplugged and fountain pens
family dinners, darning socks
rotary dial and porch talk
push ’em back, push ’em back
way back
civility disappears in spews
listening usurped abducted
mouths agape without ears
warnings ignored
das Ende, el fin
fine, mwisho
push ’em back, push ’em back
way back, yeah team
NaPoWriMo Day 27 — using day 26’s prompt to write a poem with a refrain. Confession: I was a high school cheerleader. “Push ’em back, push ’em back, way back” was used when the other football team was getting too close to the goal line. That “refrain” popped into my head and then I started thinking about all the things that have disappeared in my lifetime — far too many to mention here. And I realized, extinction has become a way of life — how strange to put those two words together! “the end” is offered in different languages. It is after all, a worldwide problem. Thought the Japanese word for “the end” was quite interesting, containing the English word “wish.”
In Response to Mary Oliver [2]
most of the world is time
when we’re not here,
not born yet, or died –
I am infinitesimally small.
Those who knew me at birth
cared for me, walked with me,
left this earth too soon by my count,
melded into the universe.
The sun however,
still shines upon me
although days are shorter
and final miles fewer.
At my back,
the sun projects my future,
step by step in front of me
a syncopated seer.
Shadowed possibilities
become realities,
one foot forward
into the new.
In front of me
she warms my face
till glances backward
see my past,
following me,
stepping where I was
but a moment before,
a speck of time
a dab of humanistic paint
upon a pointillist canvas,
soon to intersect
with those before my time.
Written for dVerse Tuesday Poetics. We are to respond to a poet in dVerse, or a poet of our choice. We may or may not use an actual line from their poem. The first line here is from Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine by Mary Oliver. In Response to Mary Oliver [2] is two because when I started writing poetry in February 2015, my first attempt was a response to another poem by Mary Oliver — rewritten in January 2016. I enjoy her writing — and she is a kindred spirit in terms of being a Massachusetts resident from Provincetown, where we spend two glorious weeks each fall. Today is also used for NaPowWriMo Day 26.
lillian the home poet 