Out of reach. Shiny brunette hair ~ with squinted eyes, grey is silver. Unstoppable energy ~ spurts are good, naps are nice. Confidence on stiletto heels ~ comfort is better. Faded memories ~ photo albums roll back time.
Loved ones miles away, some forever gone. Living with empty spaces. Closets of clothes, clocks ticking, rocking chair, couch, kitchen table. All are there but emptiness fills us. The question becomes what is within our reach and how do we gird ourselves to move on, step by step, as we are left behind.
You are my sunrise as are friends, family, birthdays, holiday celebrations, graduation festivities hot fragrant coffee smiles from passersby crescendos in concertos hugs and kisses toddlers stomping in puddles charitable donations springtime flowers random acts of kindness. Sunshine, a constant, even behind the clouds.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m tending the pub and asking folks to include the word “sunrise” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
In all the chaos across our world, the sun still rises every day, even when it resides behind the darkest of clouds. For me, that is representative of hope – the idea that love and goodness are always present – even in the stormiest of times. Sunrise photo taken in Provincetown, MA – at the very tip of Cape Cod.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here. There is a man among us who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, leading others who listen blindly. His words, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing that is truth.
What is past is prologue. Poets shouldst therefore heed the Bard, his timeless words meaningful yet today. There have been many great men that have flattered the people who ne’er loved them. But how is one to label this man as great? Perhaps in the way of Satan’s greatness controlling some, luring others. After all, the devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. Oh what men will dare to do! Let no such man be trusted.
What of those who follow, whose integrity be lost? Lawless are they that make their wills their law. There’s small choice in rotten apples.
In these chaotic times, what is our fate, my friends? It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves. For each of us can add to the light, hold our candle high in windows across the land. One will become many, and many become a multitude. In light’s refraction, his rabid followers stagger. They shall greet fear in their mirror. Positions no longer secure as multitudes greet them shouting “SHAME”. Truthtellers stand in solidarity, voices raised, we cannot be ignored. THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!
The Bard penned: And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale. Loud enough, persistent enough, we must be the solution. Hands that right the scales of Justice. We must take control of the tale. Destiny be in our hands.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Merril hosts and asks us to consider fate. She suggests we could, for example, consider Frost’s or Shakespeare’s words on fate. I’ve chosen to refer to the Bard himself, within my poem. All of the bolded lines are quotations from Shakespeare. Let the Bard speak to you in these chaotic times!
All images except the scales of Justice are from recent demonstrations I’ve participated in. The scales of Justice image is from Pixabay.com
. . . on the precipice, fulcrum loaded, solar eclipse of political moves. Millions watch across the globe piece by piece, light diminishes. Cold suffocating hot air engulfs a nation as vitriol spews. Lies repeated hold strong
Sleep marred by days of nightmares. Innocents assaulted, banished. Aid rescinded, innocents die. What power are my words when thousands follow blindly refusing to call the man what he is.
User and abuser of people. Expunger of honest history repeating tenets of horrific history. One-armed salutes multiply behind closed doors. We live now in a darkly evil tunnel.
Humans hammer on its cold metal walls scream warnings sadly unheeded. Spineless creatures grovel in the muck lick the boot, kiss the ring, subservient to an orange tyrant who redefines the words “bully pulpit”.
Poem created and published * the day after Harvard refused to capitulate to Trump’s demands for federal oversight on admissions, curriculum, faculty hires, and general University policies
* on the day Trump retaliated by freezing $2 billion of federal funds from Harvard including critical research grants to Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston Children’s Hospital, Brigham-Women’s Hospital, Dana-Farber Cancer Insstitute and Beth Israel Deaconess Mecial Center (all affiliated with Harvard Medical School).
*one day after Trump defied the Supreme Court’s order announcing in a press conference while meeting with the President of El Salvadore, that he would not ask for the release of Kilmar Abrego Garcia from an El Salvadore prison, even though his administration admitted his abduction and imprisonment there was an “administrative error”.
*and at least one month after Trump cancelled 5800 USAID contracts including some related to polio, HIV, tuberculosis, and malaria clinics in African countries. “People will die,” said Dr. Catherine Kyobutungi, executive director of the African Population and Health Research Center, “but we will never know [how many] because even the programs to count the dead are cut.”
Bedecked in faux diamonds, rubies and pearls, feathered cloche hat, and white feather boa, she appraised the milling crowd.
Her mark still absent, she remained outwardly calm. Inwardly, she seethed with anticipation.
Others tried to approach but her steely cold stare turned them away without a word.
She was clearly on the hunt. The barrister would arrive and only then would she beguile.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting OLN (Open Link Night) and inviting folks to post any one poem of their choosing (no required length, format, or content) OR alternatively, to write an ekphrastic poem related to the image above: Art Deco Vintage Woman Free Stock Photo in public domain.
AND I am also hosting a LIVE dVERSE SESSION with AUDIO AND VIDEO on SATURDAY, MARCH 22nd, from 10 to 11 AM EST! You can find the link to join us HERE. All are welcome! Folks come to read a poem aloud, or to simply sit in and watch and listen. We’re a very friendly bunch and the more the merrier. Come join us!
Crepe paper streamers, I used to string them for birthday celebrations. Now I have crepey skin.
Shiney brunette hair blow-dried just so. Now grey, held back with barrettes, away from eyes with sagging lids.
I used to chase little ones in games of duck-duck-goose, hike glaciers and dance till dawn.
Morphed by scores of years, still I smile. Time slows my pace, cherished memories accrue.
I occasionally put on hiking boots, they just don’t trek as far. And I do dance, but not nearly as late.
Most importantly, still I love. More deeply, more completely with every passing day.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to write a “despite and still” poem. Photo taken two weeks ago on the heliport of Celebrity’s Constellation during our 24 night back-to-back cruises, including a TransAtlantic from Barcelona to Tampa, Florida. Thankful for every day.
Promises glibly made.- Lies repeated so many times, swallowed by the gullible. Round up the vermin, ship ‘em all out! January 6th insurrectionists? Patriots all. Guard rails gone, Project 2025 ready to go. Convicted felon, self-described pussy grabber. If elected, God help us all.
Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words sans title) that includes a form of the word “promise” – today’s prompt at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
This day, back then, frightening. Light and love of my life, your heart stopped for six interminable minutes. Doctors, family, friends, all tethered you to this earth. I celebrate every day we have together.
Thankful to share life with you.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we’re to write a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, that includes the word “light”.
Eleven years ago this morning, George suffered a six-minute cardiac arrest. Because of what I call angels along the way, he is still with us, cognitively 100% okay, healthy and as fun-loving, kind, and wonderful as ever. I am forever grateful – thankful for every day.
He sits. Drained. Alone. Above his head, a framed drawing of straight parallel lines that never meet, meld, or blend. Like no one cares.
To his left, folded jeans stacked on a three-legged stool. Three-legged for stability, balance. A cairn he has created to say I was here. I lived here. I worked here.
They turned their backs on me. No one sees me. Instead they listen to his lies. I try to hold my head up. But I’m tired. I’m so tired.
I see their belief in his lies, the belief in their eyes. The mistrust. The fear. I sit numbed by hate. I can no longer take deep breaths.
I felt hope in this country I worked hard. I tried to ignore his lies. But others believed. Lies eroded trust until all around me, hope turned to dust.
He sits. Drained. Alone. Waiting. For who? For what? For you to make a difference. It’s your choice.
It’s Poetics Tuesday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish is hosting with a fun prompt! We’re asked to go to one of two websites she provides that feature record album covers. We’re then to choose one cover to inspire our poetry writing for today. I’ve selected the album cover for RM, ‘Indigo’ 2022. The poem is inspired by the photo album cover, and sadly, by the lies about immigrants told by Donald Trump and JD Vance – most recently, the lies told about Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio.
Psyche jarred by uninvited suitors lips forced upon hers. Anger fired pistons, burned her soul. Robot hand slaps on lipstick. Innocent coral-pink and sweet rose swipes turned crude in thick crimson slashes. Dead autumn brown beside and above brackish burgundy smears. She mouths defeat.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Quadrille Monday and De asks us to use the word (or a form of the word) “jar” within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
I’m delighted to be back, writing again, after taking a month+ hiatus when we were traveling. Somehow I ended up writing a rather maudlin poem for today.
Today’s quadrille is motivated by Irving Penn’s photo entitled Mouth, taken/produced in New York in 1986. It’s one photo of many that we saw in the exhibit, Fragile Beauty: Photographs from the Sir Elton John and David Furnish Collection, at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.
lillian the home poet 