Winter comes so soon,
red flannel bathrobe mornings
padding through my room.
Mrs. Jester
She was a primary color kind of gal
young at heart, year after year.
Neon chalk streaks adorned her hair
blue moon ice cream colored her tongue.
She wore bright yellow boots to walk in the rain.
Smiley face balloons attached at the wrist,
always her shadow of choice.
Her happy place
was wearing a clown-face red nose
making you laugh, wherever you met
in a car or a train or a bus or a van
or rocking in chairs here at the home.
We missed her after she died.
But the old man now in her room
wakes every day with a smile,
seeing the large crooked rainbow
painted wheel-chair height,
directly across from his bed.
One Sky
The same white clouds,
the stuff of wispy filaments framed in blue
float o’er my head in quietude.
And soar above bright sunflower fields
flower heads tilted to the sky
in warm rays that beam on me.
And witness from above
far away killing fields
acres of blood with heads askew
eyes frozen grotesque in pain.
These same sentinel clouds,
all seeing
all knowing
how can that be?
…and the Blind Shall See
Her face, my map, my guide
in this moment of charged silence.
I touch her eyes, feel cool wet lashes
sensation on my fingertips
questions in my heart.
Fingers move quickly to dampened cheeks
trace rivulets of silent tears.
Drops of fear or rejection or what?
Her lips purse together gently
in a bird-peck kiss upon my palm
press deeper, part slightly in a moan.
She leans in and I read her yes
hands grasp mine as we enter
this divine communion called love.
Thank you, God
for this gift of touch
for this woman who lies with me.
For joyful tears, now mine
from sightless orbs that see.
She loves me as I am.
Motivated by WP Writing 201 prompts: map, ode, metaphor
Secret No More
Like a bruise on peach skin
her flushed face was mottled
from too much handling.
He stood across from her
tapping his spit polished
wing tip shoes.
Quiet, festering
until his fist slammed
into the glass table top.
Cornucopia upended
plastic fruits
clattered to the floor
as she stood, silent
eyes cast down
waiting for the barrage
she knew
would come.
WP Writing 201 Prompt for Day Four: Limerick, Imperfection and Enjambment (poetic device where grammatical sentences spill into next verse. It seems I’ve slipped to the “dark side” with this poem, using the idea of imperfection and enjambment. Obviously, this is not a limerick – for that, go to the Humor Category and see the G-tarian poem.
Street People: Man One
He was a thick-skinned old coot. And no one knew his history.
He just seemed to appear one day. On the park bench. He sat there
with the pigeons, newspapers crumpled in his lap. Never talked,
never flinched when the kids hit baseballs close or when the rain fell.
I’d rush by and he just stared. At the newspapers, in his lap. All that summer,
he sat like that. And then he was gone. Like the summer’s warmth. Just gone.
WP Writing 201 prompts: Prose poem, skin, internal rhyme.
Early Fall-Crisp Day
A single red-orange leaf
floats unnoticed to the earth.
Acorns and hickory nuts
ping and thud upon the roof.
Once proud tall hollyhocks
droop in frostbit demise.
Logs lit to flame, hiss steam
hoarfrost warmed in hearth.
I sit, crocheted afghan in my lap
coffee mug nearby
and savor the season.
Life Regifted
Angels here among us
dearest, stay with me.
Over and back you hover
return to earth my plea.
Extinguish not, like inifinity
deny death’s call and stay with me.
This poem, dedicated to the love of my life. Life regifted for two years and many more: you came back to me. Thankful for every day. This poem is an acrostic: the first letter of each line spells out a message (Adored). Photo from on board ship on a Panama Canal cruise.
Introvert
Like a blurry scrim
hanging on the back stage wall,
she veiled her feelings
as she played her role in life,
in the spotlight but aloof.
In response to WP Writing 201: Poetry, Day One. Three prompt options: 1) write a haiku or tanka; 2) include the word “screen” or write about some type of screen; 3) use alliteration. I’ve hit 2 out of 3. This tanka (syllabic lines of 5-7-5-7-7) uses a scrim as its primary image. A scrim is a piece of gauze cloth that appears opaque until lit from behind — often used as a screen or backdrop in the theater.
Caught in the Blur
Pointillists paint millions of dots
until one image appears.
Up close blur
becomes meaningful
with three steps back.
Even a merry-go-round stops
lets passengers on and off,
provides a straight steel pole
to ease the way
in its calliope whirl.
Perhaps the answer then
is a palette or a shiny black steed
to guide me through
and make some sense
of this place you call life.
lillian the home poet 