Concertos orchestrate dawn to dusk,
etudes study dancing shadows.
Sonatinas spring wildflowers,
octaves ripple cross the lake.
Confident fingers crescendo,
crossing ivory and ebony.
Norwegian master of the keys
and lover of the land.
Photos taken in Bergen, Norway as we visited the lake home and composition hut of Norwegian composer, Edvard Grieg. Bergen averages 280+ day of rain a year. We had incredibly beautiful weather!
Like a feral cat slinking through shadows
the nondescript waif seeks his prey,
crosses to busy street, jostles crowds.
Nudge and dip. Nudge and dip.
The two-step pick-a-pocket waltz.
Wallet trashed, enters corner butcher shop
whistling a tricky tune.
Sustenance savored, emerges,
mustard rivulets on chin and wrist.
Sits on bench, licks fingers and smiles.
Yellow eyed languid cat prowls neath boy,
rubs against too short pant legs.
Drops half-eaten rodent on littered ground
curls inward atop boy’s left foot
and basks in sun.
Photos taken yesterday in Lisbon – older men in neighborhood; graffiti on city wall. Beautiful city! Lisbon, Portugal dates back to the 6th century.
Ghost riders no longer hover.
Train tracks dismantled long ago
phantom posts reveal their route.
I did not mind their crossing,
if they could have glided silently
like parrot fish within my realms
or shape shifter clouds above.
It was the daily clatter,
metal wheels on transom
wide-open window chatter
reverberating rumbles.
I much prefer the quiet.
Hikers who gaze,
mesmerized by lapping waters,
sun glisten upon my face.
Occasional thunderstorms
pelt rain upon my scenic demeanor.
Rarer still, they apologize
reflecting rainbow arcs in smiles.
Posted for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today Mish asks us to “give nature a voice.” Photo from Bermuda — along the Old Railway Trail. The Bermuda Railway operated from October 1931 until May, 1948. The hiking trail stops and starts on various parts of the islands that make up Bermuda — with ruins of stations, trestles, and roadcuts. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Stop on by!
Strands of golden hair
blown by wind, laces tree tops.
Gossamer but sharp,
molten basalt spun to glass.
Pele, your beauty abounds.
Pele is the goddess of volcanoes. Years ago, we toured Hawaii’s Volcano National Park with a volcanologist on the Big Island.
We sat beside our daughter at a rough, hand-hewn table that stood on two-by-four legs. At the time, she was studying at the Hochshule fur Musik in Freiburg, Germany. We’d been invited to dinner by her fellow student, Christiana, who’d grown up in what was then East Germany. Christiana’s parents and brother were visiting. And so we joined them in her rural one-room rental, with access to bathroom and kitchen. We brought the wine.
The family served a simple meal on mismatched chipped plates. Wildflowers sat in a glass jug. No napkins. No English. And yet we laughed and spoke with our hands and eyes. At times, our daughter translated. I do not remember what was served, nor the aromas. I do remember the simplicity. The open and freely offered friendship across cultures. The sharing of so much more than food.
amidst weeping glaciers
debris fields give way to streams
wildlife quenches thirst
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Toni asks us to write about one of the best meals we’ve ever had. Photo is of us during a glacier hike in Alaska. We eventually got to the foot of the glacier that, through its melting, creates this stream. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come share a meal with us!
Traveling across the tundra, prayers of thanksgiving hover on my lips. You tower above glacial streams, fiddle heads, cranberry bogs, and mountain peaks. Athabaskans understand. You are the High One. Within your gaze, grizzlies roam. Caribou, Dall sheep, moose and marmots too. Gleaming sun and star scrim skies light your view. Oh Denali, you stand tall. Guardian of this hallowed land.
Written for Day 1 of a 21 day challenge online course with my poetry mentor, Holly Wren Spaulding. Prompt: write a prose poem that includes an animal. Photo from our trip to Alaska that included the Denali National Park’s 12 hour Kantishna tour. At the time, this was officially Mount McKinley, but was always called Denali by Alaskans. One month after we returned home, by executive order, President Obama officially renamed Mount McKinley, Denali.
In 1609, a British ship ran aground on an uninhabited island. No conversions. No wars with indigenous peoples. Bermuda is the epitome of a melting pot: British, American Indian, Portuguese, African. All came to her shores, whether willing or not.
Yesterday, I enjoyed a skirling ceremony on the parade grounds of a 19th century fort. Kilt clad drummers and bagpipers with those haunting droning tones, moved resolutely, sonorously. Today I sit, eyes and ears accosted by a Gombey Revue. One whistle, so loud it seems like twenty. And two frenetic drums reverberating through the room. A cacophony of color leaps, runs, and moves. All in seeming abandon. Every inch of every troupe member covered in cloth, sequins, feathers, gloves, masks and towering hats. Their movements tell their history. I am mesmerized.
It’s as if a coin’s been tossed. Yesterday I saw heads and today I see tails.
elegant heron
yellow raucous kiskadee
nature’s kaleidoscope
Toni hosts Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Theme today is “the best things in life are free.” A haibun is prose (nonfiction) followed by a haiku. Bermuda’s Uncover the Arts Program runs November through March, with many free and wonderful things to see and do that give you glimpses into the country’s culture, history, and scenery. Our rented apartment in St. George’s, a UNESCO World Heritage site, has a deck that overlooks the harbor. I often see a beautiful heron in the early morning. And we always see and hear the yellow kiskadee, a very loud, bright yellow bird – its “song” sounds like its name, kiss-ka-dee, kiss-ka-dee.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
Bermudean seas
aquamarine ripples glow
sun kiss dappled waves.
Unfinished church
home to homeless souls.
Emptiness
infests porous stone.
Spirits drift through arches,
windowless frames
seek solace in open spaces,
await blessing’s incantation
drifting . . .
caught in man’s indeterminate pause.
Photos of the Unfinished Church on a hill top in St. George’s, Bermuda. Gothic architecture, started in 1874. Funding problems and disagreement in the parish suspended construction in 1897. A 1926 hurricane destroyed the roof and much of the construction. The ruins are a protected site in St George’s, a UNESCO world Heritage Site.
There were no cell phones. No super highways. No air-conditioned cars. We rode with the windows down and used paper maps. That summer we drove from Waukegan, Illinois to Cape Cod. My mother often sat with her feet up on the dashboard and her full skirt pulled way above her knees. She hated the heat. “We’re finally there,” my father said as he pulled off the road. I was in the back seat, playing with my Revlon doll. There were small cabins scattered around the driveway and you could barely see the ocean at the end of the dirt road. A man ambled over and my father asked “How much?” I don’t recall the amount or the cabin number we stayed in, but I do remember clearly what the man said next. “Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds stayed here last night.”
sand dunes on Cape Cod
wind swept over many years
memories lost to time
Lady Nyo (Jane) hosts dVerse Haibun Monday and asks us to write about a memory from childhood. Given the recent deaths of Carrie Fisher and one day later, her mother Debbie Reynolds, it seems appropriate to write about this particular memory. In terms of a timeline, Revlon dolls were made by Ideal, beginning in 1955. Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds were married from 1955 – 1959. Haibun: a paragraph or two of prose (not fiction) followed by a haiku. Photos: Cape Cod National Seashore near Provincetown. How serendipity that I now live in Boston and since 1998, have spent one or two weeks every year in Provincetown, Cape Cod.
lillian the home poet 