Relationships – Page 28 – lillian the home poet

Snow Angel

December 29, 2015lillian8 Comments

In the midst of the forest, a winter mystery.

Quietly I tread, trail growing in drifts
this midnight walk to escape my emptiness.
One soft breeze, but for a moment,
takes my eyes to the scene.

Wide-winged depression on new fallen snow
sole sign of disturbance this quiet night.
Footprints absent, no tracks, not a soul,
trees stand tall, hushed in veil of white.

An aura of glimmer appears in that shape
lifts slowly, approaches, then hovers
with me in its midst,
that moment of calm, a moment of peace.

Crystals of light narrow to rise
higher and higher, and then they are gone.
Snow mounded where once they lie
and I left in wonder, my eyes to the sky.

snow angel photo by Debbie Shiel

My Hope for All

December 23, 2015December 24, 2015lillian2 Comments

A new born babe
whose being passeth all understanding,
shall bring joy into the world,
familial love magnified
in a humble manger scene.
And generation after generation
will celebrate the light.

Families will give thanks
as the smiles and laughter of youth
remind us on Christmas morn,
every winter solstice, and every dawn,
hope and love are the true gifts.
May we strive to kindle light and kindness
and spread peace throughout our world
on this day, and forever more.

stars

For all readers, may we celebrate the joy and innocent hope that each newborn represents, no matter the place of birth, the status, ethnicity or religion of the parents. And for those who celebrate Christmas, I wish you the blessings of the season. May everyone have a happy and healthy new year!

User

December 20, 2015December 19, 2015lillian7 Comments

Pop beads.
You remember them.
Plastic, in white or pink.
Pop ‘em on. Pop ‘em off,
accessorize or not.
Kind of like he treated her.

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Pop-it beads: a 1950s fad. Anybody else remember them?

…and she shall take up the pen

December 17, 2015December 16, 2015lillian4 Comments

Taste of time begins to dull
ticks of spice turn clockwise gruel.

Ink forms script on pages new
memories writ, the present’s gift.

Black on white shall tell the tale
when life deserts the day.

writing-1245544

The Reader

December 10, 2015December 11, 2015lillian5 Comments

Grocery cart near, she sits
tattered book in lap,
mutters, sometimes yells
talks aloud to no one.

Page eight, crawl through,
into that letter E, straight lines.
They won’t follow, can’t see me.
I fit in this book! FLAT SPINE!

Invisible. I hide in air,
melt on pages with big letters.
Home is no where. Go ahead.
Jump into the story. Whatever it is.
Show them. I AM SOMETHING!

She stands up, unsteady,
lands on top of book,
face first in torn pica print.
And she disappears
from your corner,
into a pauper’s grave.

Homeless_woman_in_Toronto

Photo credit: Wikipedia

Unsettling Found Poetry – Sitting on a Book Shelf

November 27, 2015lillian6 Comments

It is a wicked time.
Pride and prejudice run amok
fueled by devices and desires.
Politicians play the confidence game,
endangered values center stage.

The dreams from my father
seem so very long ago.
Sunday drives in the family car,
unlocked doors, porches with swings.
That used to be us.

Today I watch appalled.
Certain trumpets spew vitriolic words.
In cold blood stories litter newsprint pages,
stained red in televised image
too often unseen by too many.

Let us pray for a still life
with bread crumbs for everyone,
hope we are not racing a timeline
to the end of [y]our life book club.
Amen.

books

Created from book titles found on a Chicago book shelf: Wicked by Gregory Maguire, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, Devices and Desires by P.D. James, Confidence Game by Christine S. Richard, Dreams From My Father by Barack Obama, That Used To Be Us by Thomas Friedman and Michael Mandelbaum, Certain Trumpets by Garry Wills, In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, Still Life With Bread Crumbs by Anna Quindlen, Timeline by Michael Crichton, The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe.

Am I

November 18, 2015November 18, 2015lillian8 Comments

Shrinking I am, walls closing in on me
head in a vise. Eight by ten, five by
seven, four by six, wallet size. A
postage stamp stuck on some
old godforsaken envelope
thrown out. Unneeded,
Your old cameo. I’m
a person with pain.
To you, nothing.
Disappearing.
I am a void.
Am alone.
Am I a
not I
am
Ø

From Her Side

November 12, 2015November 13, 2015lillian2 Comments

Like a dust storm
swirls of grey, dark, darker still.
Whirl of words stick to skin
broken twigs, stabs of blame.
Misery clings to eye lids,
sneers and looks of disdain
seen in every moment of wakefulness.
Like sheaves of wheat broken in the gale
she droops, snaps, folds in to herself.
Years of neglect wrought this reality.
She disappears, marginalized,
haze floating on the wind.
Mouth open, silent howls, she succumbs.
Responsibility acknowledged by no one.
Acrid pain swallowed,
she chokes on life.

This World or the Next

November 8, 2015lillian12 Comments

Memories shimmer
stretched taut
like a spider’s web.
Tubes, wires,
stainless steel
monitors with beating blips.

You lay there in that present space
but somewhere far away.
Then, like a marionette
whose master dropped a string,
your eyes jolted open
and you returned to me.

No photo. Thankful for every day.

Here But Not

October 27, 2015October 27, 2015lillian7 Comments

photo credit: Geoffrey Whiteway

The macaw flew out the window
and my world became inescapably grey.
Poe’s raven without naming text
no black, no white.
Like peering closely at a newspaper,
pica type-print not visible
only paper fibers
etched in fine lines of shaded grey.
Guaranteed indelible ink
smudged by presses.
And no voices.
Only empty word bubbles
suspended from flapping mouths.
Filmed eyes watch stick figures
slink nearby in slow motion.
What happened to me that day?
The day the macaw flew out my window.

Dedicated to those who live in the throes of mental illness or depression,
invisible too long.