Life

What’s in a Shoe?

lillian7 Comments

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.

Sea Farers All

lillian9 Comments

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.

7th Floor Morning

lillian5 Comments

The sun is a recluse today
exhausted from yesterday’s mirth,
dawn abandoned.

Grey blankets a rain-skewed world
as headlights appear
and disappear
through green wet treetops.

Windows shut tight
shades raised, not flapping
coffee brews and I wait,
staring through drips.

Time-deprived street-lights
shine their night-time faces,
as umbrellas bob through a labyrinth
of puddles on cement.

Tired eyes close, barely awake
I sense the city on a rainy morn.
Coffee gurgles, cars slosh through streets
and a wet flag clangs metal grommets
on its cold steel pole.

Twenty-First Century Cattle Call

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I was an Avon lady, in my very early days.
A diehard fan of the Bard that summer,
I fancied myself a Stratford woman.
Today? Well today, here I am.

Lounging in the sun, thirsty and hot
my blue rays turn them green
as I grab a dr. pepper,
antidote to drowsiness.

Stride-rite? But I lean left,
and still seek neverland.
I’ll choose to fly by Wendy’s
every time.

Kate spade dares my counter clubs
and I grimace as victoria’s secret
busts out everywhere.
Target? Not on my back.

The grammatically incorrect hermes
competes with christian dior.
Amen I say to that,
eyes wide shut.

I feel your pain,
branding seared into our hides.

Across the Street

lillian2 Comments

Consumed by work
pinstripe suit sits hunched
fingers click print, delete
legs walk then fold
break time
crystal vase of carnations
on white draped table
lips sip wine, talk at and smile
phone alarm chimes
legs cross the avenue
and return to work.

Consumed with work
hard hats firmly planted
hands pound, lug, drill
bodies climb, squat, and reach
break time
blue lunch bucket snaps shut
legs dangle from ibeam ledge
mouth gulps thermos coffee
foreman shouts warning
legs stand tall
and return to work.

Unexpected

lillian2 Comments

Seven squares sit empty
in front of the number circled in red,
preceded by months of exes. Solid black lines
crossed at the exact middle point.
Belly so big, feet are questionable.
End of season sweet corn devoured,
dripped butter solidified on plate’s edge.
Slab of apple pie about to be devoured.
Fork stops. I stop. Puzzled. Wet.
Not like a dam’s breech,
more like the trickle of a creek.
Not exactly by the book.
Wheels spin, gravel crunches,
rocks spray at mewling farm cats.
Roads rush by.
Do you feel the earth calling you,
my moans stalling you?
Years later, we wait impatiently,
while you adjust lipstick, stalling.
This time, we’re ready.
But you’re not.

 

This is NOT Happening

lillian7 Comments

Two hundred fifty square feet of living space.
One glass wall with city views no one sees.
Jagged zig zags roll on monitors
lightning bleeps across the zags.
Your hands still, bloated fingers slightly curved.
My head hears a migraine beat,
while eyeballs stare so long,
they feel outside my face.
This whirring place makes my skin crawl raw.
Your mouth should be pressed on mine.
Like last night. Or speaking simple words
like this, when, or eggs this morning?
Any words from your mouth,
not taped shut
locked inside an intubation tube.

The Stuff of Broken Dreams

lillian8 Comments

Broken dreams like shards of glass
crushed by careless once-knowns,

left behind on some godforsaken alley
below rusted tracks of elevated train.
Metal wheels scrape on steel
masses of humanity pass overhead
remnants of hope ignored
in their hurried blur.

Not like sea glass
tumbled smooth by life’s surprises
at rest in damp rippled sand
still warm in setting sun.
Collectors approach, soon to stoop, lift

and gently hold pieces of transformed shape
faded colors aged by time
defined and valued by place.

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Broken.”

Life’s Measures

lillian12 Comments

There’s a place outside my universe
just across the street
viewed from my living room window
one elevator and a three minute walk away.

Purgatorial stop for innocent souls
once scourged by searing flames
they claw, stretch, adapt to live
ignore death’s too soon call.

Red yellow flames once licked their skin
lit pain in fissures blackened deep
now loved ones stand and pray
plead for angels’ breath to soothe.

Their passage, mythological in scope
an underworld of white-masked faces
wrap and unwrap shrouds of gauze
each treatment claims a toll.

I sit and stare from comfortable skin
commuter rail late, supper cold
he-said-she-said politics at work.
Tears erupt as eyes seek light.

Suddenly see through the panes
eyes pop open, slapped to senses
you have life, move on and live
as they struggle up from hell.

 

This poem resulted from a prompt in my poetry class, to write about something you see all the time, IE perhaps look out your window, or note what you see on your daily walk to work, something in your house….look more carefully at something you see every day. Photo is actual view from our window — motivation for the poem.