Relationships

Ode to Puttering

lillian3 Comments

NaPoWriMo  day 23 without a prompt. With a shout-out to Lisa Dingle’s Just Ponderin’ blog for mentioning the word “putter” which got me to thinking, then reminiscing. Words do that, right?

Ode to Puttering

Dawn to dusk wage earner kind of guy
one business suit, five starched shirts
Monday-Tuesday
Wednesday-Thursday-Friday
cubicle confined.

Suit shed
like a snake-wriggled-from-skin
sloppy slippers, baggy pants
uniform is no form
Saturday Sunday putter time.

Basement workshop sets him free
Skippy jars stuffed and ready
screws and bolts, drill bits, nails
epoxy glue and old television tubes
scraped sandpaper sits by stained soft rags.

Puttering
that practical art
relax to see to do
replace a blade, splice a cord
refinish renail a peglegged chair.

Dad the doer, mom the asker
knick knack shelves, built-in whatevers.
Puttering, like Jack Benny and Lawrence Welk
a lost art from today’s rush and run, buy and toss
and buy again kind of world.

Sole Soul View

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NaPoWriMo   Day 13 is to write a riddle poem.  Three descriptive clues/views of the same thing — very pedestrian!

1.
Every day
on floor carpet sidewalk
step briskly to corner office
tap below glass-top desk
by floor to ceiling window
sealed shut to the soul.

2.
Move forward upward onward
stretch tall to top shelf
where dusty books and what-ifs lie
walk run tip on toes
ready-set-go
limp across today’s finish line.

3.
Climb berber covered stairs

to suite with rose trellised paper
quickly untied unshod slip between
slick and silken sheets nuzzling her toes his mates
meeting hopefully so late again this night
like last and last and last.

Parrot Fish

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Spending February in St. George, Bermuda was, as they say, food for the soul. The waters are truly iridescent. We were fortunate to see a bright parrot fish on one of our many hikes. When I got my camera out, it was gone. Gone — but remembered as I wrote the poem below.  Post Script:  Once spring has truly arrived in Boston, I’ll change my Photo page to the amazing Bermuda coastline.

 

Parrot Fish

The water so clear he can see
the parrot fish glide in and
out among the rocks
and Sargasso sea grass.

Eyes shaded, he tastes the salt air
and looks out at the layers of blue
from navy to azure to sky melting
into sea. Slowly, he remembers.

Her eyes. Pools of iridescent aquamarine
with feathered lashes opening and closing, half shut.
The blue so deep he wanted to dive into the pool,
possess it, feel the coolness on his skin.

Gazing downward again, the bright crimson
parrot fish is gone. Escaped. Riding the waves
as foamed breakers leave ridges in the sand’s
edge. And once again, he is left behind.

Glisten

lillian1 Comment

And so it begins today.
Rejuvenatement, not retirement.
Poetry, my voice from within, now has the time and the space.

I’ve always found the sounds and sights of the ocean mesmerizing.

My spouse of 45 years and I spend two weeks every year in Provincetown, MA, the very tip of Cape Cod. Many have found the magic of this place as their muse:  playwrights Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams; Pulitzer Prize winners Norman Mailer (author) and Mary Oliver (poet).

IMG_0161

Glisten

Our footprints disappeared
in the cool damp sand ridges,
walking farther and farther
into the wetness of low tide.

Heads bowed, we shaded our
eyes from the sun’s glare,
the glisten it created as the water
deepened in the distance.

We shared our solitude
quietly grateful
we chose the off-season
to rediscover our togetherness.