Heat, sun, sweat.
Summer, like passion
burns deep.
Love
Portrait Etude
She was a collector.
Shelves crowded with knick knacks,
salt and pepper shakers, silver spoons
Avon bottles and beanie bags.
National Geographics on every table,
grampa’s pipe still resting
in the Illinois shaped tin ash tray.
And that was just downstairs.
Climbing up the wooden creaking stairs
revealed a musty attic world.
Windows, long sealed shut
looked down on a weed covered yard,
sidewalks where she drew hop scotches.
Cobwebs bruhsed aside,
we found two trunks, rusty latches
opened decades of memories.
Grampa’s morning coat and grey ascot,
folded atop her yellowed wedding dress,
fragile lace-edged mutton sleeves.
A seed pearl hat pin firmly afixed
to a Juliet cap with fragile tulle veil,
so delicate still.
And there, below the clothes,
the small white leather bible,
wrapped in once white supple leather gloves.
The final layer,
a stack of valentines
tied in faded ribbon.
Their loving epitaph etched
in a tombstone seven miles away,
more alive here
in this trunk of memories.
Darkened Eve
She sat on the porch,
rocking back and forth
on the glider built for two.
The man in the moon,
her only companion
this anniversary night.
From a writing prompt: Experiment with the “said” and “unsaid”…..leave the reader wondering in the wake of the poem or text.
Love Becoming
Gateways to the heart
change through the seasons.
Youthful romanticism,
tempted by pastels
sweet scented carnations
valentines in pink envelopes
a rosebud mouth.
Passionate eroticism,
eyes seek carnal depths
lips’ open invitation
rose petal paths
and pulsing tempos.
Love divine, a decoupage,
years layered on years
passion and comfort
within familiar folds,
your skin next to mine.
Photo from a walk in St George, Bermuda.
Love Dawns, Envelops Still
What dreams lie within your mind’s eye
lying beside me this autumn’s eve?
Your chest almost imperceptibly rises
and flutter falls, like the owl’s eyes
staring strong and wise
flicker at a moth passing by the moon.
Soft sibilant sounds escape barely open lips
too soon years before, taped tight
received life-sustaining intubated air
machines whirred fear, invaded dreamless sleep.
My lids droop heavy, sleep demanding time
your dreams rest safe, secret till the morrow.
Our morning rite awaits, repeats these many years
Put down the paper dear, and tell me last nights’ tales.
Veil of sleep lifted by sun’s insistent rays
like my bridal veil, pushed back by eager fingers
you sought a promise kiss before God’s altar.
Not deep like later.
Kisses given one thousand times one thousand
over a world of tomorrows. Today we sit content
in time-withered bodies
wizened you beside my wisened self.
Amazed always, that you chose me
my soul complete, enveloped still.
In response to the Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge: what does “envelops” mean to you? Photo taken at dawn in Provincetown, Massachusetts.
Enjoy!
Live life
savor love
delectably delicious!
Monday’s Promise
April is National Poetry Writing Month. NaPoWriMo 2015 is a challenge to write a poem every day in April. Today’s prompt: write an aubade – a morning poem….perhaps about love, perhaps about Monday.
Monday’s Promise
Last night’s shooting star
carried my wish
streaking across the sky
someone listening
outside our universe
promised me
tranquility and love
in yesterday’s tomorrow.
Meander
I sit rocking beyond dusk
eyes closed, lips parted, catching
the soft scent of nearby lilacs.
Eyes within this face of mine
cannot see me, but painfully
know my averageness.
Hours later your hands meander
the lines and hollows of my face
and somehow, my beauty is unleashed.
Waiting
This winter, our month stay in Bermuda was many things. Lush comes to mind and is certainly evident in many of the photos I took (flowers, and the luscious fruit of the loquate tree). Sitting on the porch in the warm morning sun, letting my mind wander – the idea of waiting came to mind.
Waiting
she sits on the garden porch
deep purple morning glories
framed by loquat trees and palmettos
hands on her filigreed watch still
its mechanism stopped and exhausted
like her it was twisted and turned daily
eyes closed straining to see
his face in her lid covered darkness
head tipped backward upward
toward wispy clouds
imagining finger like threads
of white embraced by blue
it seemed in her mind
the perfectly timeless time
to feel his face
his hands
his breath
as the wind touched her body
and stroked her hair
lillian the home poet 