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!
Stainless steel body and lid
small glass knob at top
black cord with electric plug
wake-up percolates
like ideas
poets play with words
children plot make-believe
imaginary friend or foe
hands slap high-fives
or hit
metal basket filled with grinds
crushed to bits, tampered down
tempered up with heat
bubbles clear then dark
then darker still
anger boils over
outside glassed in walls
balance shifts in hand
to pour the pot
pungent morning elixir
eyes wide shut
as outside
the world explodes.
I”ve taken a different approach to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Inspiration. Although there are many things that inspire my living and my love (family and my spouse of 45 years at the top), it seems that my morning cup of coffee beside my journal, at a carved-out early time in the AM, inspires my words. And so, a photo of my coffee and the words it inspired this morning.
Double-dutch
two ropes twirl like egg-beaters
and I watch
on the outside leaning in
sway to catch the rhythm
wait for that right moment
when the aperture appears.
Take the chance, slip right in
jump one foot, then the other
double-time to the beat
conquer these ropes
or not
misjudge the opportunity
and I’ll be the one
twirling, standing still.
They sit behind closed closet doors
in back of the shoe rack, gathering dust.
Two-toned in black and white,
four inch heels to elongate the leg
toes so narrow their tips turn up
after years of emptiness.
Ground-in talc mottles the inside
used oh so many times to smooth the sole,
pressure points etched in long dried sweat
from happier bare legged days.
Witness to her previous life
they sat primly crossed in corporate talks
hid behind podiums and knelt at pews
clicked down hallways, sat quietly grieving
in cold rooms filled with overwhelming floral scent,
danced at weddings and stood higher still,
tips of heels up off the floor
for a lifetime of New Year’s kisses.
These Spectators, aptly named
sit waiting to see the sun again.
Cast your nets wide
let them float o’er time and place.
Savor the brine, its salt upon your lips
antithetical and sometimes complimentary,
to the sweet taste of last night’s wine.
Trail fingers in cool waters
seek star fish and arcing dolphins,
even as sharp-edged crustaceans
fray threads in knotted lines
threaten to disrupt the catch.
Rainbow parrot fish flirt in and out
maneuver through teeming waters.
Beauty thrives, even as leering eel
lurk in darkness, seek their shelter
within life’s disparities.
Sea glass, that human toss-away
tumbled to smooth artifacts
pleasurable to feel, caress, collect.
Dark waters today,
sun kissed tomorrow.
Even the barnacle, crusty and hardened
clings to the worm-holed hull
holds years of secrets in its blight,
another treasure caught
within our thread bare cache.
Her youth was filled with dreams
but dreams need words
when you rise from bed.
Fireman, policeman, chairman of the board
man-hours too stiff with ill-fitting pants
workman’s comp beyond her grasp.
Now, in the waning years of life
eye sight dimmed with time
she finally began to see
the power of the word.
lillian the home poet 