Blinds pulled shut
vertical and clicking,
cover rotting sill.
Peach-fuzz flesh
smooth-a-licious,
hides crawling worm.
What lies within
the house, its fruit
hidden from view
imperceptible
until we bite.
Sharing with dVerse, Poets’ Pub for their open link night. Bjorn is tending bar tonight! If you love poetry, check out this wonderful concept!
I am the hug shared at goodbyes and hellos.
I am the small child’s smile, peeking shyly, behind your legs.
I am the high five to a Special Olympian’s extended palm.
I am the sun rise over tomorrow’s ocean blue.
I am the baby who grasps your finger, nuzzles into your chest.
I am hope. I am life.
I am the good, and I am here.
I was before this.
I am now, three words before
now, and three after.
Card table covered in dusty gauze scarf,
book case with tattered paper backs
two chipped coffee mugs
and one stuffed black bird.
This basement flat, windows dark
gold stars and silver moon
taped on black garbage plastic.
She sits, tarot deck in hand
gnarled fingers poised to read,
nail tips brown from nicotine.
Curling grey wisps of hair
bejeweled barrette, three stones
so obviously missing.
I watch wearily. Smell her breath
and incense stick. Shove down
this nauseous urge. I must hear.
She must tell me what I need to hear.
And she hoarsely begins to speak.
Written for Ms. Quickly’s prompt, this way to the oracle.
Photo Credit: Ruxandra Moldoveanu.
Magic beans lie atop the fallow ground
rooted by tears those many years ago.
His death, unexpected
after one hundred glorious days.
She’d waited patiently,
gossamer hair now grey.
And when the monsoon rains did come
they matched her grief in magnitude.
Rivers engorged
became fast running seas.
Earth drenched in new hope,
the magic began to grow.
Tendrils became vines
became trees became redwoods,
and blushed at her ascent.
Last steps on lightning’s jagged stairs.
His fingertips reached down for hers,
thunderous clouds turned calm.
And a new blaze was born that night,
third star to the north of Sirius.
Photo Credit: Michele de Notaristefani
Incompetent words.
Faucet drips incessantly,
how can we ignore?
Future world leader?
Embarrassed by his tantrums
playground empties fast.
photo credit: Guillermo Gallege Written for Open Link Night at the Poets’ Pub at dversepoets…..afterall, politics is often a conversation at the bar!
Balloons soar skyward 
writhe, twist, pitching in the wind.
Freedom has its price.
Fireworks explode
colors flash then fall blending.
Lessons in the sky.
photo credits: balloons by Niels Timmer; fireworks by Albert Lazcano
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
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.
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!
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.
Pop-it beads: a 1950s fad. Anybody else remember them?
lillian the home poet 