Life

Bridges

lillian3 Comments

At this age, spectacles sit precariously,
the bridge of my nose their perch.
Magnify life’s past,
forks in the road, hillsides with ruts
sea side suns and city life,
so many bridges forged.

Looking ahead, the distance is less.
Tread slowly the tunnel etched on the map,
transition away from and into the dark.
Or seek light, transition forward
cross o’er the bridge and soar slowly,
glide through the transom and savor the view.

bridge 1 bridge 2  full bridge    bridge 3

Photos of Zakim Bridge in Boston, MA.  Poem motivated by Daily Post Photo Challenge: Transition. Bridges, of many kinds, transition us from place to place.

Parameters

lillian6 Comments

You said twenty miles as the crow flies.
On a hot still day, with a tail wind
or through an electrical storm?
Your six minute cardiac arrest,
like a lifetime. Until it wasn’t.
Birthday note penned in blue,
seventy is the new fifty.
Like a wilted brown-edged rose
is a pink rose bud? Hardly.
Sun rays pierce gathering clouds
as blackness sits beside my pane.
Quoth the raven, nevermore.
Or evermore? Never sure.
And there is a world of difference,
but how do I measure that?

stockvault-clock-128824

Motivated by a Fall Poetry Apprenticeship Week 7 assignment: consider a misunderstood or misquoted line of a poem, or something you misunderstood or misheard. 

 

Insomnia

lillian7 Comments

Half-pulled shade, headlights dance
in the space before the sill.
Thoughts of nothing and everything
bounce inside my head.
Days gone by reappear, faces blur then clear
generations meld one to the next.
Eye-open dreams change scenes quickly
acts play out in milliseconds.
Like a thousand moths flitting round the light
ideas, words, pictures, feelings, here then gone.
Time moves forward on a nearby shelf,
illumined dial ignores my stalled state.
I watch you beside me, face up, eyes closed.
You wear the night so well, sleep looks delicious.
I match my breath to yours, slow syncopation
like snow flakes falling in the dark of night.
No sound. One by one, breath by breath
and finally I drift.

snowflakes-1479963

Decision Time

lillian9 Comments

traffic jam

Lines and lines of cars move nowhere
tempers flare, boxed in, horns blare
appointments fester in my mind
hands clamped on wheel,
like talons on prey.
I crave, I need, I must have space.

Foot to brake, pump and pump again
peck my way, inch by inch
peer through smog and fumes
find a seam, create a crack
desperately seeking blue.
I crave, I need, I lust for air.

What if I quit?
Leave it all behind.
Try new wings, not a migratory line.
Free form, to soar, to find
real, life affirming air.
I can, I should, I will.

We are Present

lillian8 Comments

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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.

Pass Me By No More

lillian22 Comments

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.

2 - 1

In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge:  (extra)ordinary….beautiful everyday things. Clouds are ordinary occurrences…as are street people in the city.

Miracles at Shriners

lillian25 Comments

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.

IMG_1306

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.

Mrs. Jester

lillian11 Comments

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.

Rainbow02

 

Memories in Black and White

lillian8 Comments

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.

uniform      communion

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…..