Touching the Moon

lillian18 Comments

Hours ago, we were walking in Provincetown’s center. Raucous, crowded. Bicyclists weaving through pedestrians on Commercial Street. The Lobster Pot’s neon sign flashing bright. Drag queens in stiletto heels enticing folks to come see their shows. Owners walking with dogs of all sizes, bejeweled in tiaras, on rhinestone leashes; some sitting pertly, watching the crowds from baby strollers.

Now, with skies darkening, we stand alone on our deck. We’ve rented this special place for two weeks every year, for the past twenty-five years. A twenty-minute walk into town, it seems like a world away from all that we were in the midst of, just an hour ago. We listen to the silence around us. We watch with incredulity and awe as the sky darkens and a full orange-red gleaming orb rises. “Hold your hand, just there,” my husband tells me. He takes the photo. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to touching the moon.

civilization
believes itself so clever
full moon knows better

Frank is hosting haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re to write about the full moon. According to Frank, in February, the full moon is called the Snow Moon. I’ve taken the liberty of writing about an experience we had one September. I believe the full moon was called the Blood Moon at the time. Photos from two different years in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which is at the very tip end of Cape Cod.

A Colony of Ants, a Flamboyant of Flamingos, and a Bloat of Hippopatomous Met One Day

lillian20 Comments

What names be known, for groups benign
to get, to go; to roam, to grow.

Porcupines in groups are prickles.
Wild geese do gaggle, soar in glee.
The bees all bumble, swarms the buzz,
while murder, mischief crows do make.

(And now excuse my poetic license)

A pile of purses we name a pursuit.
A nosh of neckties, a collar’s noose.
A group of grown-ups, known as grumps,
a trickle of teens, they call a twit.
A poet’s pub is fancied a pword.

*pword – Think of it as a plosive before “word” – not to be mistaken for pee-word!

Written for dVerse, Meet The Bar Thursday. Today, Bjorn asks us to write alliterative verse. He defines the form:
1. The alliterative verse has four stressed syllables per line.
2. The three first syllables alliterate, while the fourth does not.
3. There is a caesura (pause) between the first two stressed syllables and the last two.
4. If you want to, you may put a line break or some punctuation to make the caesura clear.

* I handled the alliteration and the syllables; in a few lines, I did not add the caesura. I did have fun with this….prickles, gaggles, swarms and murders. And then some made up group names: pursuit, noose, grumps, twit, and power! Phots from Pixabay.com

I Should Have Listened

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My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me.
Tell me, where did you sleep last night?
Beneath the willow tree?
Its branches so lithe, so low.
Its lance shaped, feather-veined leaves
brushing sensuously across your bloodied mouth?

They warned me:
if she floats then she is not
a witch like we had thought.
But your incandescent eyes beckoned me,
consumed my rationality.
And I learned, you are so much more.

Blackened sky, host to full moon.
I am bereft. Abandoned again.
Shrieking howls from God knows where,
scream the undeniable truth.
How much longer can I endure
these monthly night terrors?

My lust lit afire by your smooth body,
entwined with mine so often at evensong.
But this I fear, left once again.
I am slowly going insane
knowing you have never been,
nor will you ever be, all mine.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Melissa is hosting and sharing information about the late singer, song-writer, Kurt Cobain. She asks us to consider several of his songs and use one or more lines from them, within a poem we post today. Image generated on Bing Create.

“My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me.
Tell me, where did you sleep last night?”
From Where Did You Sleep Last Night? / Songwriter: Huddie Ledbetter

“If she floats then she is not
A witch like we had thought.”
From Serve the Servants / Songwriter: Kurt Cobain

Glaciers’ Demise

lillian24 Comments

Foggy mist hovers.
Murky white veil,
nature’s hide-and-seek touch.

Glacier calves, cracks sharply.
Blue tinged icebergs
float aimlessly, shrinking in time.

Numbed cold rouged cheeks.
Breath’s visible trail hangs
in cold crisp air.

I am witness.
I understand now.
Warnings of dire disaster.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse. Today we are to include the word “touch” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photos from our cruise some years back to Antarctica.

Annie Boaden

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As a little girl, she often escaped the city’s bustle by visiting the public library. She’d sit quietly reading Betsy, Tacy and Tib stories and smile with Winnie the Pooh. Sometimes she’d spin the large globe with eyes closed, stop it, and imagine moving where her finger landed.

Years passed until she was alone, eyes clouded by cataracts, still living in the same small house. She adored its flower garden, tending it so carefully. Hollyhocks, primroses, lilacs grown tall over the years. Today, it rained so she sat beside her kitchen window gazing out. Screen door open, she could hear the rain patter, smell her city lilacs release their sweet, wild perfume, then bow down, heavy with rain. The teapot would soon whistle, and she’d pour herself a cup to share with Jane Austen, escaping into the world of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy.


Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. In Prosery, we’re given a line from a poem and must include it, word for word, within a piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length. Today we’re asked to include the following lines from British writer, Helen Dunmore’s poem City Lilacs:
“. . . city lilacs
release their sweet, wild perfume
then bow down, heavy with rain.”

Photo taken some years ago on Lilac Sunday at the Arnold Arboretum in Boston.

Can you picture it?

lillian32 Comments

Boxes full of joy and laughter.
Clouds ready to burst,
rain happiness upon the earth.
See-through containers
brimming with peace.
Seed catalogues with special sales:
flowers that bloom understanding,
guaranteed to produce gargantuous yields.
Imagine with me, all these possibilities.
Which would you choose?


Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting, asking folks to include the word “imagine” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Image created at Bing Create.

Stormy Night

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Clouds meld as sun disappears in night,
form thick starless low-lying scrim.
Thor, maestro of storms, hurls bolt.
Rain streams sidewise,
wind powered slant.

Lonely man on street leans in,
challenged by elements, struggles forward.

She waits impatiently.
Nine o’clock draws near,
time agreed upon, one tryst past.
He plods on,
tears mixed with rain.

Thor’s Opus intensifies.
Relentless time moves moments on.

Clocktower strikes nine times,
signifies his doom.
He stumbles, staggers, stops.
Bereft, done, hopeless.
She’s forever gone.

Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We are free to post any poem of our choosing. Image created on Bing Create.

About to Celebrate 54 years . . .

lillian21 Comments

Dance with me
through these elder years.
New rhythms. Calmer,
slower yet upbeat,
even when adagio.
In sync still,
thankful for every day.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Mish asks us to write a poem that has something to do with dance. Video taken on our last cruise by a passenger who saw us dancing. About to celebrate 54 years on February 7th with the love of my life – my dancing partner through so many years.

A Prequel Tale

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Daedalus, inventor by trade,
created many a plaything for his young son.

Two wooden disks, string wound between them,
meant to be manipulated for fun.
“Like this,” Daedalus said.
The device rose up and down.
“Is that all it can do?” Icarus demanded.
“Give it to me and I shall see.”

Icarus strode to the woods
new toy in hand,
determined to test its true worth.
Hours later he returned,
blood, feathers and flesh
enmeshed in the now tangled string.

“Son, you must listen to me.
The new can be useful, but dangerous too.
Curb your recklessness
or one day I fear,
your fate will be similar
to the creature you’ve killed.”

Icarus dropped the now useless device,
picked up a stick and swaggered away.
Daedalus found him later that day,
bear grease covered his hands.
“Icarus my son,
what have you done?”

“Father, oh father, my fault it was not,
the stick too short, the fire too hot.”

“When will you learn, my darling son?
You are not an all powerful one.”
Icarus hung his head and quietly replied,
“I love you father. I promise you now,
I shall tether myself close to your side
never again, will I give way to my pride.”

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and asking folks to write a prequel for a famous character from a nursery rhyme, Aesop’s Fables, a famous book, or perhaps mythology. Writers should imagine a previous life for their chosen character. They should tell us about the character before they became famous. For example, what was King Cole like before he was a king? What about Alice as a toddler, encouraged her to fall down a rabbit hole and ultimately meet the Mad Hatter? What hints were there to her personality when she was very young? How or why did Peter Pan learn to fly? How did Hercules develop his muscles, and/or why? Writers should think about a famous character or mythological figure and write a poem showing a different side to them. It must however, be a prequel and their identity should be clear within the poem.

In terms of my prequel: Daedulus, a mythical inventor, created wings made of feathers and wax to escape from Crete where he and his son, Icarus, were held captive by King Minos. Icarus ignored his father’s warnings and flew too close to the sun. His wings melted and he fell to his death into the sea. Image created in Bing Create.