Reboot. Rejuvenate.
Retired? Poor phrase.
Never intended to tire again.
Released from to-dos and alarm clocks.
I revel in the autumn of my life.
Photo from a Boston 4th of July celebration with the Boston Pops on the Esplanade, soon after my rejuvenatement.
Day 25, National Poetry Writing Month. Prompt from Toads, where we are asked to write about a reboot, a renewal, that is meaningful to our lives.
. . . sun peeking round cotton-puff clouds.
I wander meadows flush with buttercups
trees rustling in breeze.
Leaves gleam myriad shades of green.
Sitting cross-legged, eyes closed
hands prayer-folded to chest
soothed by buttercups,
undulating tall grasses.
Serenity . . .
RRRRiiiinnnnnggggg!
RRRRiiiinnnnnggggg!
Scene shifts
I grudgingly answer call.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where it’s Quadrille Monday and the word to be used within the body of our exactly 44 word poem (sans title) is flush.
In this Covid-19 era, I find myself doing yoga and meditating every day. This morning the telephone rudely interrupted me – motivating this post. Stay safe everyone!
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Photo from Pixabay.com
Jello is this.
It has color. Except aspic.
And this.
It has sweet.
It is granular life.
Granular metamorphosis.
It has fear. Shivers afraid.
But laughs in wiggles.
It is granular life.
TOAD readers: My error! I did not understand how to link days 1, 2, and 3 prompts so here are the links:
Day 1: https://lillianthehomepoet.com/2020/04/01/april-fool-not-i/
Day 2: https://lillianthehomepoet.com/2020/04/02/chalked-to-you/
Day 3: https://lillianthehomepoet.com/2020/04/03/the-nuts-and-bolts-of-it/
Day 4 of national poetry month. The prompt from Imaginary Garden with Toads is to write a poem in the style of Gertrude Stein’s TENDER BUTTONS. I’ve chosen to write about jello, attempting to create a metaphor for life while at the same time, writing a factual description of this food. Challenging prompt!
Published in 1914, Stein’s TENDER BUTTONS is divided into three parts: Objects, Food, and Rooms. It avoids any use of gender specific pronouns. It is considered a masterpiece of verbal cubism and a failure at the same time. Here is an example directly from Stein’s text:
cuticles freshly nipped, filing complete,
pomegranate red lustered.
Fingernails tap on table top
tat-a-tat-tat, tat-a-tat-tat,
waiting for him to call.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse where the prompt word was “red”. Image from Pixabay.com
Follow a meditative path
out of stress, anxiety, and fear.
Open your heart to blessings,
lean into possibilities.
Serenity is after all, ours to achieve.
It’s National Poetry Month and across the globe, people will take up the challenge to write one poem every day in the month of April. NAPOWRIMO challenges us to write a self portrait about an action that is a part of who we are. Imaginary Garden with Real Toads gives us the word “fool” as a prompt, since it is April 1.
Thus I’ve written an acrostic poem (first letter of each line spells FOOL) about meditation, which I find particularly helpful in these challenging times. Every morning I am on the yoga mat: meditation, stretches – all to wonderful calming Zen-like music. It is a quieting space I deliberately enter into and treasure. It centers me for the day.
Photo taken last summer in Provincetown, Cape Cod.
Embrace the darkness, my dear,
keep hold my hand.
Listen to the quiet.
Many have come before you,
many shall follow.
Breathe slowly, slower still,
until your body dissipates.
Darkness will become light
as we soar into the cosmos
feeling peace among the stars.
Written for dVerse, for both Monday’s quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) which required the word “keep” and today’s Poetics which asks us to write in someway about black/darkness. Photo from pixabay.com
I shall not go quietly.
Monocolors about to shift
enabled by passing time.
A last hurrah.
Flashing reds and golds
kicking up my heels,
swirling dervish as I let loose.
Revelry earned by business suits,
years of accountability
must-dos and many don’ts.
I shall dance the can-can.
precisely because I can
and am.
My name may not be Autumn,
but watch me go out
in a blaze of glory.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Bjorn asks us to write using metaphor. Photo cropped from one in Pixabay.com.
She felt herself slipping away. Nerves frazzled. Lashing out. Pieces of herself seemed to be missing. She couldn’t remember where she used to live – she just knew this wasn’t it. She remembered taking the train to work, having a nice big desk with an ink blotter. She wore hats to church. And gloves too. Now she was in some kind of housedress, sitting in a room with people she didn’t know. Well, maybe that one over there. She looked familiar. It’s like being inside a Chinese puzzle box. But just your head. Someone gave her a poetry book today. Or yesterday? “You will love again the stranger who was yourself.” She got that. Her body was a stranger attached to legs. Her brain was across the room in the orange sherbet jello mold. Those cream cheese curds. I’m the stranger. To you and me.
Prosery written today for dVerse where Kim is hosting. Prosey is a new form for dVerse and prompts appear every second or third Monday. We are given a line from a poem, in this case “You will love again the stranger who was yourself” from Derek Walcott’s poem Love After Love. We must include the exact line in a story (prose) of 144 words or less. Photo from Pixabay.com
Arboreal cobwebs.
Ethereal threads glimmer in sun,
intricate patterns
cling leaf to leaf.
Familial cobwebs.
Wisps of the past,
displayed on tables
ready for yard sale.
Charlotte’s cobwebs.
Eager youngsters
admire the spinning,
imagination’s delight.
Gray matter cobwebs,
clammy uneasiness.
Disturbed cluttered thoughts
provoked by age,
exasperated by twenty-four-seven news.
She asked me,
what makes you tick?
Early morning cuppa Joe
rockin’ rhythms and ocean waves
fireflies and city lights
tap shoes and flying kites.
Talking to my husband dear
crosswords and travel plans
Rockette kicks and hiking sticks
lemon-anything and JP Licks.
I’m a happiness junkie,
unabashedly adorned
in rose-colored glasses
wearing hope on my sleeve.
Photo from a good number of years ago. Appeared on the jumbotron at the Boston Pops 4th of July concert — in the days when we got in line at the crack of dawn to insure a close up spot on the Esplanade. This year, we’ll be content to watch it on tv.
Whatever your political persuasion, hope you’ll kick up your heels a bit on Thursday and celebrate the freedoms we enjoy. And to my Canadian friends, hope you enjoyed yesterday, your Canada Day!
lillian the home poet 