What stories will you tell?
Tales shared from mouth to mind
or those visible in sepia tones.
The giant oak’s shade
comfort for so many,
bark rough hewn and silent.
If I leave this place,
will you remember?
Relationships
Limelight
If I step into the shadows
blend into the crowd,
where will you be?
I will still be here
in your universe,
or not.
Door to Her World
Chamber for metamorphosis
cells, toes, body, mind
meld, breathe, grow within
seek and find
passage to the world.
Cord nurtured life
cut, but not.
Tether stretches,
sometimes taunt
always there.
Fingers clasp, spirit touches
eyes smile, seek and find.
You were the beginning.
You are the constant star
an infinite circle of love.
Junie Z.
West School, still here.
That metal bar around the schoolyard,
smoother now. So many years
of little hands sliding along its surface.
I bend low, touch its coolness
and you’re with me again.
Junie with the short dark hair.
Eyes closed, I see four anklet socks
in plain brown mary janes
kick up and over the rail,
cotton dresses in laughing faces.
Up the street, a car alarm blares.
And just like that,
your laughter floats away,
my hand lifted from the bar.
WRITING PROMPT in my June Challenge class: recall a memory of someone, what provoked the memory — a scent, a place?
Crayon World
Color me rainbow happy
your Red Sox cap next to my blue visor.
We sat in bright colored Adirondack chairs
kite string loose, then tight,
as you played with the tension.
Our dreams sailed high into cloudless sky
paled only by your art deco shades
as you stared out, looking for words.
Color me livid when you talked about her,
like lightning flashes in a raging sky.
Anger fueled by heat, dissipated over days of grey.
Rainbow chairs sit empty, lined up, waiting.
Color me invisible, when the door closed.
Photo:
from Provincetown, on Massachusetts’ Cape Cod. Poem and photo in response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge to interpret ROY G. BIV — the memonic to remember colors of the rainbow.
With Apologies to Oscar Wilde
I’d never met a ghost
or a celebrity
so was surprised on the treadmill
when Oscar Wilde whispered
directly in my ear,
the heart was meant to be broken.
Home again,
caretaker roles reversed
your heart beats strong
mine now slow,
blown out from stress
like a Japanese octopus bag.
Takotsubo,
Broken Heart Syndrome.
Not the stuff of playwrights.
I learned again that day
the importance of being earnest.
Talking softly with, not at,
we climbed five stairs
inch by inch,
this time
your steps
matched to mine.
Low Tide Morning
So many seaside two-weeks
in this place with you.
This time, different.
crack….crack……crack.
Roused awake, I leave our bed
step outside to the dawn’s cool.
Jetty exposed at low tide
long and hard, a battering table
for the single industrious gull.
It hovers, takes aim, releases
crack……scallop shell hits
unyielding rock. Stays firm.
The gull swoops down,
picks up shell, rises, hovers
and lets go, again and again.
CRACK….success.
Morsel quickly consumed,
wings flare to catch the draft and soar.
I follow its path until chill seeps in
bare feet suddenly cold
high tide’s tangled seaweed nearby.
Back with you, under rumpled sheets
my hand hovers, drops down
rests upon your chest, like yesterday.
And yesterday’s yesterday.
Every day, since that day
I feel your every breath.
Inhale, exhale.
Yes, you are here
with me.
Sounds of Night
The Victorian house groans awake
as a full harvest moon winks
through faded window shutters,
thrown wide open.
Smiling dead faces
in wallpapered hallways,
listen from chipped gilt frames
roll their eyes in sepia wonder.
Walls thick with memories
absorb the sounds,
sweet words whispered
mount to passionate moans.
Floorboards squeal
as casters roll in well worn grooves,
planks of wood etched
with scars of love.
This bed of generations,
alive again tonight.
Sunday’s Pauline
We came upon this lovely elderly woman one Sunday morning in Bermuda. A portrait poem. Can you picture her?
Sunday’s Pauline
She stood at the sloped curb’s edge
pleated red dress and feathered church hat
peering up and down the street
craning her neck looking for, what?
Her walker, with pocket book dangling
faced the street, precariously .
Eyes glued on her wheels
we Good Afternooned in the Bermudian way.
Broad shoulders and broader still smile
white gloved hand extended
Good Afternoon. My name’s Pauline
and I sure could use some help.
My hands clutched the walker’s edge
wheels slowly rattled toward the street
walking backwards, eyes locked with Pauline’s
her black oxfords shuffled along.
The Chevy sputtered and gagged
maneuvered to the curb,
aluminum grey, silver shine long gone
primer splotches added to the vintage feel.
Safely inside, walker stowed
window cranked down low
head out with peppered hair flowing
she caught our eye again.
God sure does give you a neighbor
especially when He knows you need one!
Forever
Sometimes, things happen in life that truly truly make you thankful for every day. I’ve been 46 + years now with the love of my life — and we are grateful for every day in this “rejuvenatement” period of our lives (see my About for an explanation of the term). This poem was motivated by a poetry class assignment: look very very closely at things around you and write about something you want to save from oblivion. The mind jumps around and makes various connections, the pen writes, scratches out, and writes again…and this is the result.
Forever
Two gulls skitter about the shore’s edge
leaving track upon track, their dance notation.
Voices sound cacophonous shrills
wings flap, contract, and flap again.
Two children skip, swinging hand in hand
suddenly unjoin. Side by side, in unison
arms wide, they leap and jump
like gulls ahead who splash, lift and soar.
Waves rollick and return, out and always in.
Sea, animals, and children seen in twos
assault my oneness, so recently assumed
etched into being, sears and spills my tears.
Hands rest upon this familiar rail
seek coolness from the seasons’ heat
instead, send chills from hand to heart
my body, an eclipse of the sun.
Let go the rail. Come stand with me, my love
your life, not death, forever.
