Last night with you,
there were no eyes.
Touch consumed bodies
souls engaged
and life exploded
as we loved.
Mrs. Ambrose
“I’d like a cup of hot chocolate, please.”
She’d walked out of the nursing home, no interest in the craft for the day. She couldn’t handle origami and hated working with glitter.
So here she sat on Christmas Eve day. Across from a young couple who chatted quietly, packages beside them. She remembered those kind of stolen moments with Ben. Their kids home with the sitter, last minute shopping done.
She sipped the sweetness, eyes closed, remembering.
“Mrs. Ambrose? You need to come back now.” She pulled the old coat closer to her chest and walked back across the street.
Word Count: 100 Photo credit: Jean L Hayes. Story motivated by Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers photo. Thank you Rochelle, for your work this past year and here’s to an inspirational 2016!
Birthday Party
He sat upright
surrounded by canes, walkers
tv guides, checkerboard games,
and the people that accompany them
in a place like this.
He waited patiently
for the last strands of that age-old song,
some high pitched warblers
hunched over the tinny piano
pulled out for occasions like this.
Balloons hovered above his head
as candles dripped life-time moments
onto fondant flowers.
Festive paper plates too thin
for the thick slab he desired.
And so I asked the centenarian
for the secret of his longevity.
Well sonny, I always say,
close your eyes to dream.
Just make sure you open them wide
to watch where you step.
The Older I Get…
the more I like
flat shoes
bare wrists
shaving less
and short lists
and the more I know
the importance of
bran
elevators
family
and short lists
and the more I am thankful
for every day
with you
and the absence of
lists
photo credit: Juan Croatto
AND a Happy New Year to all!
Haiku Etudes
Balloons soar skyward 
writhe, twist, pitching in the wind.
Freedom has its price.
Fireworks explode
colors flash then fall blending.
Lessons in the sky.
photo credits: balloons by Niels Timmer; fireworks by Albert Lazcano
Snow Angel
In the midst of the forest, a winter mystery.
Quietly I tread, trail growing in drifts
this midnight walk to escape my emptiness.
One soft breeze, but for a moment,
takes my eyes to the scene.
Wide-winged depression on new fallen snow
sole sign of disturbance this quiet night.
Footprints absent, no tracks, not a soul,
trees stand tall, hushed in veil of white.
An aura of glimmer appears in that shape
lifts slowly, approaches, then hovers
with me in its midst,
that moment of calm, a moment of peace.
Crystals of light narrow to rise
higher and higher, and then they are gone.
Snow mounded where once they lie
and I left in wonder, my eyes to the sky.
snow angel photo by Debbie Shiel
All the World’s a Stage
with apologies to Will Shakespeare
So many footlights burned out
spotlight jarred askew
curtains removed, scrim gone
proscenium arch stands stark.
Program says Act Three,
audience hushed, anticipates tragedy.
Director expects me, in shrouded black,
to slump upon the floor.
The script be damned.
Bulges revealed in sequined leotard,
fish net stockings over varicose veins.
Audience gasps at tapping frenzy
shuffles, wings, and Rockette highs.
Grinning, laughing, I finally decide,
this coda shall end.
And in the pit, the timpani booms
as I exit like a flying dervish
to joyous applause.
My Hope for All
A new born babe
whose being passeth all understanding,
shall bring joy into the world,
familial love magnified
in a humble manger scene.
And generation after generation
will celebrate the light.
Families will give thanks
as the smiles and laughter of youth
remind us on Christmas morn,
every winter solstice, and every dawn,
hope and love are the true gifts.
May we strive to kindle light and kindness
and spread peace throughout our world
on this day, and forever more.
For all readers, may we celebrate the joy and innocent hope that each newborn represents, no matter the place of birth, the status, ethnicity or religion of the parents. And for those who celebrate Christmas, I wish you the blessings of the season. May everyone have a happy and healthy new year!
User
Pop beads.
You remember them.
Plastic, in white or pink.
Pop ‘em on. Pop ‘em off,
accessorize or not.
Kind of like he treated her.
Pop-it beads: a 1950s fad. Anybody else remember them?
Shrink Wrapped
News on reels, envelopes sealed with spit
new was last month or a week gone by.
Today it interrupts my present,
becomes a never ending loop.
Sunday drives with i spy and the license game
morphed into get-me-there robots.
Talking heads decapitated
into monotone maps.
Family restaurants turned mausoleums.
Mommy, daddy, Ashley and Drake
eyes down and mouths shut.
Thumbs talk…with imaginary friends.
Paris in Paducah and Chicago too,
a world of twitter and bird shit.
Color me shrink wrapped
and struggling to breathe.
In response to dVerse Poets Pub, December 17 prompt. Write about the times we have lived in – describe the life of the decades you have gone through. Free-write whatever comes to mind and then create your poem around those ideas. Cut it down but keep that raw feeling from your initial free-write.
lillian the home poet 