One step at a time
through difficult uncertainty
we navigate ups and downs.
Watch as eagles soar,
stand in wonder at mountains
firmly rooted, standing tall.
Embrace this fullness of life,
a course to learn trust
no matter the challenge.
We live with the good news
blessed in His care,
every day to count.
Photo: Bryce Canyon National Park – mountains extraordinaire. Dedicated to all those facing difficulties looming ahead. A reminder to live in the moment, thankful for every day.
Multiple street corners I tried
army surplus wool blanket
wrapped round hunched shoulders
day old newspapers, my insoles
battered red plastic cup extended
as you rushed by, unseeing passersby
and me, invisible
like the harsh winds you leaned in to
and so I left your world,
ascended to the clouds.
My spirit lives in blue skies
afloat in soft nothingness.
Look up you passersby. See me
reflected in your corporate glass buildings.
But you, marionettes to a status master
strings taut, look straight ahead
rush with dayplanner blinders
unaware of natural beauty,
never mind the street people
dead or alive, we are all invisible.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: (extra)ordinary….beautiful everyday things. Clouds are ordinary occurrences…as are street people in the city.
There’s a place outside my window
I do not often see,
a million miles across the street
where death decries your plea.
‘Tis a purgatorial place
for the once young at heart,
innocent souls now burned by flame
who thirst for life’s restart.
Red yellow fire once licked their skin
left pain in fissures deep
now loved ones kneel in fervent prayer
their young ones here to keep.
Mine is a neighborhood of hope
for children wrapped in gauze,
doctors, nurses, medical care
united in one cause.
View of Shriners Childrens Hospital in Boston, from my 7th floor deck / my living room window. WP Writing 201 prompt: write in the ballad form, using assonance, and relating to the word “neighborhood.” Ballad: dramatic, emotionally charged, 4 line stanza quatrain, alternating stress lines as in 8 syllables, 6 syllables, 8 syllables, 6 syllables; and using an ABCB rhyme scheme. Assonance: subtle repeat of vowel sounds.
She was a primary color kind of gal
young at heart, year after year.
Neon chalk streaks adorned her hair
blue moon ice cream colored her tongue.
She wore bright yellow boots to walk in the rain.
Smiley face balloons attached at the wrist,
always her shadow of choice.
Her happy place
was wearing a clown-face red nose
making you laugh, wherever you met
in a car or a train or a bus or a van
or rocking in chairs here at the home.
We missed her after she died.
But the old man now in her room
wakes every day with a smile,
seeing the large crooked rainbow
painted wheel-chair height,
directly across from his bed.
Phyllis Groat, Billy Behr and Timmy Drew
Francis somebody with Jimmy Fisher
and Mary Buckley too.
Black robed nuns that seemed to glide
feet and hair a mystery
rulers that reached a mile.
Lunch time stools swung in and out
from tables that disappeared
into Mary blue block walls.
Holy card for first place prize.
Priests mumbled Latin mass
and girls watched holy backs.
Third grade fell out of mother’s drawer,
a stained photo stuck between dried up pens
and a Tupperware orange peeler.
Three days after we buried her
in a Catholics only plot,
she made me remember
what I deliberately forgot.
Photos: 3rd grade class photo mentioned was tossed….but these were also in the drawer. Me in my 3d grade Immaculate Conception School navy blue uniform and my first communion picture. I actually won a third grade competition to see who could learn the altar boy responses in Latin first (our third grade boys were lagging in this important task — it was thought this would spur them on). Silly me – I thought if I won I could be an altar boy. See that word? “Boy.” Nope. I did win a gold embossed holy card of St. Francis of Assisi and the boys all went on to assist with Mass. Memories…..
And the sun shall break forth,
blush clouds pink then shift
seep tinges of deep warm reds.
A lonely gull sits sentinel,
witness to the changing palette
as waves stir the sands.
And somewhere a newborn cries
seeks her mother’s breast
as seedlings sprout in a monet garden.
For this is a new day to claim
cause and determination for joy
because we can.
We touch, we live to love
this day another,
thankful
together.
Sunshine and rainbow rain
banana popsicles and lemon-tart-ade.
Bumble bees with yellow jackets
dandelions and buttercups.
Short sleeved jammies that snap shut
jump on beds and never nap.
Oh how we’ll miss these special times,
the sunlicious days of summer.
I stand here, you there
separated by a chasm of disbelief.
I know me, I feel me.
Who then, are you?
You must be from another place
or time or universe.
When I turn my head away,
will you laugh at my derision?
Will you reach out,
pat my back and mutely say
There there, you’ll be alright.
Are you sympathetic to what I see?
My memories are inside of me,
hidden to the outside world.
I do not wear them for all to see.
Why then, do you?
Photo by Torli Roberts
Come prowl the streets with me
this night of the macabre and strange.
Ghouls, skeletons and witches brew
street lamps flicker, shadows dance.
Don your mask and walk with me
on all hallow’s eve.
…and I shall flourish my paint brush
great swaths of cerulean blue
splashes of fuchsia and lemon yellow
not sepia and certainly not grey
and it shall be a glorious day!
lillian the home poet 