still pond
mesmerizes
migration complete
trees shrouded in winter white
prayer shawl pulled tight
face to the sky
Photo credit: Merelize
Mama’s Refrain
Hatless, wind ruffled hair
winter snow flake dandruff
red ears and mustache icicles.
Iowa snow gnome I am
when I see my breath.
Ninety percent of your body heat
escapes from your head.
Well mom, that’s why I’m so cool!
Photo: corner of Boston’s Court and Tremont Streets several winters ago. Story behind the giant tea kettle: manufactured in 1873 by Hicks & Badger; a “sign” outside the old Oriental Tea Kettle shop. Signs were common in early Boston to identify shops for those who could not read. On January 1, 1875 a contest was held to guess its capacity and Boston’s Sealer of Weights & Measures officially measured it. 10,000 spectators stood by as 8 boys and 1 tall man concealed themselves inside the kettle. The court was officially measured to hold 227 gallons, 2 quarts, 1 pint, and 3 gills. An attached mechanism produced steam. To this day, in the cold winter months, steam is seen coming out of the kettle. Starbucks made a wise decision to place their store here!
Poetry prompt: final assignment in Fall 2015 Poetry Apprenticeship with Holly Wren Spaulding: write an “advice” poem — perhaps from shoulds and should nots of your early days!
Parameters
You said twenty miles as the crow flies.
On a hot still day, with a tail wind
or through an electrical storm?
Your six minute cardiac arrest,
like a lifetime. Until it wasn’t.
Birthday note penned in blue,
seventy is the new fifty.
Like a wilted brown-edged rose
is a pink rose bud? Hardly.
Sun rays pierce gathering clouds
as blackness sits beside my pane.
Quoth the raven, nevermore.
Or evermore? Never sure.
And there is a world of difference,
but how do I measure that?
Motivated by a Fall Poetry Apprenticeship Week 7 assignment: consider a misunderstood or misquoted line of a poem, or something you misunderstood or misheard.
Papa
It was too much. I should have known.
He’d worn long sleeved shirts for almost fifty years, since the Allies liberated Buchenwald. And so they invited him to come. This new museum, with its hall of portraits so high you had to crane your neck. A pile of shoes and a boxcar, like the one he rode after Kristallnacht. “Get me out,” he gasped.
We waited outside for the walk light. Construction workers poured tar onto new pavement, near the numbered sewer grate. That putrefying smell. His face blanched as he crumpled to the ground. And I knew he was gone.
Friday Fictioneers: 101 words. Photo by C.E. Ayr
Am I
Shrinking I am, walls closing in on me
head in a vise. Eight by ten, five by
seven, four by six, wallet size. A
postage stamp stuck on some
old godforsaken envelope
thrown out. Unneeded,
Your old cameo. I’m
a person with pain.
To you, nothing.
Disappearing.
I am a void.
Am alone.
Am I a
not I
am
Ø
Cousin Janice
Carmen Miranda,
her dancing model supreme
only not with fruit.
Carmen Miranda, pictured on Click cover, was a Portugese Brazilian singer, dancer, Broadway actress and film star popular in the 1930s to 1950s. Photo on right is cousin Janice, always a very happy and lively dancer!
Bells
peal in raucous victory
chime a noon-time angelus
clang loud children back to school
announce the hour upon a ship
graph a normal distribution
style the levi’s bottom flare
ring upon a guest’s arrival
tinkle at the butler’s call
and when the journey
comes to end,
toll for thee
In reponse to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Victory. Three photos from our Panama Canal Cruise: hanging bells in the courtyard outside the Museum of the Inquisition in Cartegena, Colombia; and the cathedral’s bell tower in Puerto Vallarta, with the sun making a perfect halo around the cross. Ship’s bell from our Baltic Cruise.
Missing You
Dear Iowa,
It was osmosis.
City girl absorbed red barns
waving cornfields and fresh plum jam
tractors spewing dust from dawn
drop-in neighbors and party-line phones
sheets flapping on backyard lines
towns without stop lights
and churches with hats.
Neon lights are not fireflies.
Lillian
Ravens’ Pond
His family never knew.
That night, five years ago,
insomnia muddled mind,
he walked along the path,
curly black hair shining
iridescent in the silver moon.
Tangled tree legs pulled up roots,
parted slowly, limbs askew,
pointed sharply at the pond
never seen before.
Black water shimmered glossy,
pulled him closer, closer still.
Something winged, unseen,
flapped loudly, beat its wings
pulled him forward, forward more
toward the black pond, now a hole
pulled him forward, falling now
spinning vortex claimed his soul.
They searched for weeks,
never looking up.
Saw the new boy,
curly black hair,
on the prowl,
slingshot always in hand.
Never saw the raven,
flying round the steeple
iridescent, black,
beneath the silver moon
seeking divine intervention
to reclaim its human form.
Photo Credit: dimitri c
For the Love of
Prayer beads grasped in hands
tears falling, fingers trembling,
she prays for her sons.
As of Nov. 14: Dedicated to Paris
Photo Credit: Nico van Diem
lillian the home poet 