She was not a cook,
the Cuisinart soufflé pan
Calphalon pots and
ten-speed blender, simply signs
of her optimistic soul.
Tanka fun: 5-7-5-7-7 syllabic lines.
Passed Through Time
Centenarian rock
diamond set in golden rings
still shines the passion of youthful love.
Three generations of women
hands adorned in conversation
gestures through time.
My hand, etched with fine lines
like my mother’s
and her mother’s.
Ancestry defined by blood
through blue hills of vein
solidified in stone.
Daily Post Photo Challenge: Up-Close.
Life Long Delight
He took to soap and water from an early age,
standing on a stool, sleeves rolled up
playing in the suds.
As a college chap,
he was a regular with his chums,
second stool from the left at Chauncey’s Pub.
Not in it for the guzzling,
he liked to watch the suds drip down his glass
and feel the foam against his upper lip.
Retired now, no children of his own,
he’s become a summer legend
in the neighborhood corner park.
Washtub at his feet,
nets of string on two long poles
he dips and waves, and dips again.
Magic billows out across the lawn
this man, doing what he loves
is now, and always has been
the bubbles man.
Remembering: cherished series, opus 9
My dad was a whisper whistler.
You know the kind.
Instead of puckering up your lips
into a little oh,
you put your tongue between your teeth
sort of in a smile, and then you blow.
Anyone can do it.
Except most people don’t.
He’d come walking down the hall,
the whisper whistler,
to the tune of Hail Hail the Gang’s All Here,
and how I wish they were.
Spring Chill
She wandered outside this early morn
stunned to be alone
last night’s storm, still wet upon the lawn.
She walked the garden
unaware that wisps of cloud
accompanied her overhead.
Reaching out,
she cupped the tulip crown
within her saddened hand
and watched, as petals dislodged,
weighed down with rain,
fell slowly to the ground.
Feet damp and cold,
she sat in one of two chairs
on the cement slab they called a patio.
Eyes pressed shut, face tilted to the sky
she felt the sun, breathed in the lilac scent
and finally understood.
The Deck is Stacked
With a thin cylinder of ash,
barely clinging to the Lucky Strike
pressed between her coarse chapped lips,
she slammed down the jack of hearts
and said to no one in particular,
Well, that’s that,
just another one for the discard pile.
Where in the world is that damned joker?
Sea Farers All
Cast your nets wide
let them float o’er time and place.
Savor the brine, its salt upon your lips
antithetical and sometimes complimentary,
to the sweet taste of last night’s wine.
Trail fingers in cool waters
seek star fish and arcing dolphins,
even as sharp-edged crustaceans
fray threads in knotted lines
threaten to disrupt the catch.
Rainbow parrot fish flirt in and out
maneuver through teeming waters.
Beauty thrives, even as leering eel
lurk in darkness, seek their shelter
within life’s disparities.
Sea glass, that human toss-away
tumbled to smooth artifacts
pleasurable to feel, caress, collect.
Dark waters today,
sun kissed tomorrow.
Even the barnacle, crusty and hardened
clings to the worm-holed hull
holds years of secrets in its blight,
another treasure caught
within our thread bare cache.
What Lies Beneath
I’ve searched a lifetime for my soul mate.
I lie here on the ground, looking up, feeling down.
Rock edges poke through new mown grass
like questions nudging through my spine.
I start to ruminate, cogitate
mull over impossible possibilities.
This much I know, our world is round
and I exist right here, right now, on this orb.
If I could somehow push the earth
compress its latitudes,
would I find you, prone like me
somewhere, deep below?
Just a diameter away,
lying still, listening for my breath
through curves in our globe
searching too, looking for me?
Tankas* for Earth’s Children
Volcanoes fester
seethe and boil beneath earth’s skin
like red hot anger
held within, spews forth fury
assaults all within its grasp.
Watch how the clouds fly
sometimes dark and threatening
often soft and light
retreat in black moonlit sky
promise always to return.
Oceans between lands
offer pathways to friendship
teem with life for life.
Waves ebb and flow to all shores,
assure life’s cycle anew.
Sun of mother earth,
shines her perpetual light
nurtures all children,
no matter diversity
prejudice vanquished for all.
Listen my children,
the earth shudders in anguish
sees your refusal
to step lightly on her soil.
Embrace your sameness and love.
*My June Challenge Poetry Class assignment was to write a poem within constraints, and the next day’s assignment, to write a poem of instruction. This combined the two. A tanka is a genre of classical Japanese poetry that contains 31 syllables, typically in lines of 5-7-5-7-7.
Dissolution
He was the stoic.
Dark clouds simmered
pent-up irks dripped occasional drops
until a stream of bile broke through.
Thunder rolled
in a whirling microburst.
Words spewed and spat,
scarred and seared their hearts.
Quiet seeped in like bone chilling fog
smothered senses and eroded trust.
The gulf widened at forever high tide
bridge collapsed, gone
no crossing, no return.
lillian the home poet