See what you made me do.
your errors
your mistakes
your blunders
led to your explosions
at me
Summer Kiss
sea salt licks tart sweet
your kiss, standing on the shore
waves crash, passions soar
The Visit
House ready
spit-shine clean
bathrooms gleam
mirrors spotless
fridge full
door bell rings
and here we go!
Door slams shut
rugs askew
table strewn
bread crust strips
on juicy sticky countertops
legos here and there
quiet echoes everywhere.
Photo by Andrea Kratzenberg.
Time Descending
I flung my arms out wide
to feel the wind
that sun baked day
danced, skirt billowing
cool sand between my toes
I stretched my arms out wide
to erase the fear
eyes locked on yours
step by first step, second, third
you chortled, giggling towards me
I curved my arms out wide
to envelop your leaving self
joyful sad, then turned and watched
the airport swallow you
emptiness descending
I raise these arms
tissue thin sagging skin
eyes search yours
name descending
shawl droops down legs
dancing somewhere
a thin filament
within this brain
disappearing into mist
The G-tarian Gnat
There once was a gnat who hungered for gees.
He nawed and he nashed on narly young trees.
The nome, his old friend
warned the gnu round the bend,
he’s coming, use Deet, as fast as you please!
In limerick style:
3 long and 2 short lines, aabba rhyme.
Summer Bygones
Sunshine and rainbow rain
banana popsicles and lemon-tart-ade.
Bumble bees with yellow jackets
dandelions and buttercups.
Short sleeved jammies that snap shut
jump on beds and never nap.
Oh how we’ll miss these special times,
the sunlicious days of summer.
We the Voyeurs
We fly in this metal cylinder
to escape the city frenzy
and we still sit in the midst of it.
Hear metal belt click shut
and engines roar
feel the rush of air
from round blow holes overhead.
Nothing natural in this enclosed world.
Binoculars hang about our necks
a noose we choose to use.
Instead of trekking high,
step by step, from tree line to the sky
we ride a four wheeled bus,
now dusty from its assault,
on roads carved deep
into your very core.
We crane our necks
at white dots on mountain tops
adjust a rubber eye piece to our face
seek to magnify without a fuzzy blur.
Specs become horned dall sheep,
heads down to graze upon the rocks
unaware of human spies
with black binoculars eyes.
Last night, we communed with earth
faces up, we stared
into the cold black diamond sky.
One star jarred loose,
arced its way across the sky
as if to tell us in its glitter script,
you are the voyeurs within this space.
Denali National Park bus. The Kantishna Experience goes to the end of the one and only road in the park — to mile 92. I was struck by the magnificence of the land and its inhabitants: grizzlies (see poem Ursa), caribou, moose, dall sheep. And I kept thinking that we were the voyeurs, the interlopers in this incredible place.
You Are Me or Am I You?
The glass is clean today
and we are quiet on either side.
One hand at rest,
age lines etched in black skin
fingers curled.
Mom sits closely by, always watching.
Her babe with impish chatter,
swings away
quickly scampers home
safely tucked inside those long warm arms.
You sit, eyes not meeting mine,
lips pursed, a sadness to your face.
Which of us, in this family,
is behind the glass,
and which of us in front?
Where does this zoo begin,
and where does it really end?
Photos from our visit last year to San Diego Zoo. Post in response to Daily Post Photo Challenge: Connected.
…and Your Son Shall Leave You…
I was alone, but for a moment
amidst pealing bells.
Suddenly you were there
tear streaked face buried in my chest.
Memory flash of newborn nestled into me.
And then you were gone
dancing joyfully,
her white veil trailing on your arm.
…and the Ice Melts
If you look with the mind of mother earth, in this place called Alaska, you become the earth.
Great calving sheets of ice seen from the haven of a cruise ship. We roar in excitement as you roar in pain. Losing part of yourself to the sea.
My boots trek through forest, stumble on tree roots, your uprooted veins. In the midst of rocky debris, at the toe of Laughton Glacier, a new sound. The relentless trickle of water into a glacial stream. Tears unabated, you weep cold rivulets, slowly, through hundreds of generations.
And I see. And I hear. Like a jagged shard of ice thrust through my heart. I understand this insidious thing we blithely call global warming. And I am chilled to the bone.
A prose poem, in the style of Joy Harjo.
Photos: Top: great slabs of ice shed from Mendenhall Glacier. Above left: standing on the “toe” of Laughton Glacier, after hiking 6.5 miles through Tsongas Forest and climbing through rocks on her debris field. This picture shows a gap — the “black cave” created by the ice melting…continuously dripping. The “rock” above the cave is the ice itself, narrowed from melting. It will eventually collapse into itself. All that you see above the “cave” is ice with debris its carried in its forward path. Right: the “ice field” our ship had to go through to get to Hubbard Glacier….which can be seen in the distance. Result of glacier calving.
See views of the glaciers themselves with my poem, In the Midst of Glaciers.
A different take on the Daily Post Photo Challenge: from every angle.
lillian the home poet 