. . . for Char . . .

lillian30 Comments

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory –
Percy Bysshe Shelley, English Romantic Poet (1792 – 1822)

People say, watching someone transition
from all knowing, to sporadic dementia,
to full blown Alzheimer’s,
is like watching someone disappear.
It seems to me,
there could be another perspective . . .

She saw our bodies, our faces.
But in her eyes, we were shadows.
In the beginning of the end
the mist would eventually lift.
She’d remember our names,
laugh with us as we reminisced.

But the veil fell and we lost her,
and she lost us.
We no longer existed in her world.
But the music . . . sweet notes, harmony,
songs she loved.
These she kept in her heart.

Some days, we’d find her singing.
Her voice clear and strong.
Her face animated.
We dared not interrupt
lest she stop
and simply stare confused.

She’s gone now, gone from this earth.
In her last days of lying still,
eyes closed, lights dimmed,
unaware of nurses nearby
or family by her side,
occasionally she’d smile.

I have no doubt
angels were hovering nearby,
humming a lullaby only she could hear.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today is Tuesday Poetics and Merril asks us to write a poem about a transition in time we may have experienced or that we’ve thought about. She provides the poetry lines from Percy Bysshe Shelley at the top of my poem, as a bit of inspiration. They made me think about the lasting power of music for those who, for example, suffer from dementia and Alzheimer’s disease.

I was reminded of Tony Bennett’s last concert with Lady Gaga, when he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. He had trouble remembering many things but as soon as he heard the music of the standby songs he sang and loved for so many years, and was in front of the audience, all the music came back to him. The YouTube video is of him singing at that last concert.

On a more personal note, I learned several days ago that an old college friend of mine recently died. We were sorority sisters and she sang in our college choir and for all these years, in her church choir. Like Tony Bennett, I know from last year’s Christmas letter from her husband, that although her memory problems were increasing, she was still singing in her church choir. At her funeral, which I was able to watch in a recording, the pastor said her life was a song….and he had no doubt, God was singing a lullaby to her in her final days.

** the scene within the poem is fictional



Exit, Stage Left

lillian22 Comments

She needed to breathe; to relax and just let go.

Five years. Enough. Audition after audition. Waiting tables at Marco’s for lousy tips with far too many sleazy propositions. Moist hands reaching for her. Patriarchal, inebriated, entitled pats on her behind. Then home to a seven-story walk-up studio shared with two roommates. Also acting wannabes. She’d tried. Oh god how she’d tried. But zero call backs and enough Ramen noodle suppers to last a lifetime.

She sat slumped in her Greyhound seat during the city’s never-ending rush hour, traffic holding its breath. Sky a tense diaphragm with black billowing threatening clouds. Of course she’s leaving during a severe weather alert! Thunder and lightning? Bring it on. Not exactly a substitute for booming applause. But she’ll take it. Just let it rain like hell!

She closed her eyes to let the Xanax do its job.

Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Kim introduces us to the poem Twice Shy by Seamus Heaney. She asks us to include its line Traffic holding its breath, sky a tense diaphragm in our piece of prose (flash fiction) of 144 words or less, sans title. We must include it word for word; only the punctuation may be changed.

Exit, Stage Left is 144 words. Image by David Mark from Pixabay

In the Style of Amber Rose Tamblyn

lillian40 Comments

When I think of aging
visions of nature appear poetically,
ready to be written across the page.
But my hand tremor sets script askew,
not unlike a preschooler’s
first attempt at printing their name.

——–

Bright pink ruffled peony
once perkily perched,
quite the showy thing
gleaming amongst greenery.
Now droops beneath residue
of last night’s fierce thunderstorm,
struggles to hold its bloom.

Newborn foal,
gangly tries to gain its footing.
Youthfully romps through fields
colored riotously in wildflowers.
Years later, put to pasture.
Stands swaying slightly,
head down, eyes clouded,
wildflowers a dull blur.

And I myself, mark changes in my body.
Steps slow and sometimes falter,
veins protrude on hands.
News comes
of friends facing grave illness,
friends who leave this earth.
I reflect more and more
on what was, and what is,
and what is to come.

Perennials dance in spring’s fresh air,
stand proudly through their season.
Then wilting, lie down to disintegrate
beneath winter’s winds and snow.
But their seed is strong.
The next generation takes their place,
for they are perennials
and their beauty continues.


Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, dear friend Sanaa is hosting. She asks us to write in the style of Amber Rose Tamblyn, an American actress, author, poet, and film director. Sanaa tells us Tamblyn’s “poetry is incredibly unique and descriptive. When asked where the power lies when it comes to writing, Amber Rose answered, ‘when it makes you feel every human emotion all at once.’” Sanaa asks us to create visuals in our poem and “aim to explore the human condition.”

Image by Tabea on Pixabay.com

We’re All Jacked

lillian36 Comments

Life spins round and round until
POP-GOES-THE-WEASEL
in our face.
Stuff it back in the box.

Keep turning the crank,
humming the tune
over and over until
POP-GOES-THE-WEASEL!

But this time,
the spring is shot.
So what to do
with us worn out Jacks?


Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish is tending bar and asks us to use the word “pop” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

Image from Falln-Stock 

Basilica Cistern

lillian1 Comment

Walk down with me, into this dark ancient place.
Sixth century engineering feat.
Wander round three hundred thirty-six columns,
sentinels to Constantinople’s water supply.
Discover Medusa’s inverted head
carved into marble base.
Outside, sun blazes.
Istanbul’s teeming streets
jolt us back to present time.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we’re to use the word “water” within the body of a quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.

I’m home again and back to writing after a month’s hiatus, traveling the Mediterranean on three back-to-back-to-back cruises with two overnights in Istanbul, Turkey. I’d been to Istanbul a number of times with my job before I rejuvenated in December 2012 (never say re-tired). It was a thrill to finally share Istanbul with my husband.

Istanbul’s Basilica Cistern was built in 532 AD, during the reign of Byzantine Emperor Justinian. It is slightly west of the Hagia Sophia and literally down the street from the old hotel I used to stay at during my sojourns in Istanbul. According to ancient texts, seven thousand slaves were involved in building the cistern. Many of its columns were salvaged from ruined temples. It provided a water filtration system for the Topkapi Palace and other buildings on First Hill in Constantinople. After the Ottoman conquest in 1453, Constantinople became Istanbul. Locals drew water from the cistern until 1565. The Cistern was featured in the 1963 James Bond movie, From Russia With Love, where it was fictionally located under the Soviet Consulate.

All photos from our visit there last week. Last one shows me standing outside the bland entrance to the Cistern.

An Attempt at a Timely Rap

lillian14 Comments

Wrap it man, this ain’t no flash in the pan.
People startin’ to see he’s a chump,
that crookster, narcissistic Trump.

Rap it up man, Jack’s lined ‘em up.
Thirty-seven counts along with hide-and-seek.
No more Come on, I’ll give you a peek.

My boxes, my boxes, don’t touch my boxes.
Who wants to man,
when they’re in your john?

Except thousands of guests.
Some of ‘em spies, some of ‘em minions,
too many lummoxes, too near your boxes.

Everybody’s gotta pee, man.
So show ‘em right in. Let ’em sit or stand.
Maybe they’ll read while they use your throne.

Wrap it up man, you’re goin’ down.
Documents as toilet paper just won’t do,
even the Brits know, not in the loo.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Written for Lisa’s challenge to “choose a musical artist, song, or genre of music and write a poem inspired by it or them.” AND shared again for today’s OLN LIVE.

I thought this photo from Pixabay.com a good metaphor for Trump’s situation. If I’ve offended anyone, I apologize….and at the same time I ask you to read the indictment in its entirety. It’s a short read and is factual in its details. I do believe every person in this country should read the indictment and then make up their mind about this trial. Far too many demonstrators in Miami today, probably on both sides, have not even read the document and therefore are simply demonstrating from their partisan values rather than from an informed decision. Also, I urge everyone to recognize that the DOJ did not bring this indictment: a group of randomly selected Floridians on a Grand Jury brought the indictment after seeing and hearing evidence.

Awaiting the Dawn

lillian47 Comments

I sit in darkness,
blanket-wrapped against damp chill.
Squawking gulls pierce my quiet,
spar over fish carcass washed ashore.
Dawn will present herself shortly,
streak sky angry crimson-orange
or smudge it gently in soft puffs of pastel pink.
How will she start my day?


Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and ask writers to include the word “present” or a form of the word, in the body of their quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.

Photo taken at dawn in Cape Cod’s Provincetown some years ago. We treasure our annual two-week visit to Ptown. I often wrap up in a blanket on the deck, in that chilly dark time before the sun rises, hold a coffee cup in my hands to stay warm, and watch the day dawn over the ocean.

A Tall Tale with Sandgrains of Truth

lillian18 Comments

Beatrice caterpillared her way through life,
cocooned away in a dune shack
on Provincetown’s National Sea Shore.
Aware of her eccentricities,
town criers and town folk alike
let her live her reclusive life.

In the summer of nineteen seventy-nine
crowds gathered outside the Lobster Pot,
salivating at the new restaurant in town.
Suddenly, mouths agape,
they gawked at the brightly clad gal
who fluttered out its door.

Dressed in beaded striped chemise
gauzy wings mysteriously attached,
she looked vaguely familiar.
She smiled tossing menus to the crowd,
sand clinging to ginger ringlets,
long eyelashes and sunburned knees.

Beatrice had left the beach
and butterflied her way into town.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah asks us to write a poem in which we verbify an animal or two. Among the examples she gives are dogging someone’s footsteps and badgering someone. She provides us with a list of animals to verbify, or we may choose our own. I chose the caterpillar and butterfly.

Photo is from one of our many annual two-week stays in Provincetown, on the very tip of Cape Cod. The “sandgrains of truth” in this tall tale of a poem are 1) the Lobster Pot first opened in Provincetown in 1979; and 2) there are indeed dune shacks on the National Seashore in Provincetown. People still use them today and they are considered by many as historical treasures. At different times, Jackson Pollock, E.E.Cummings, Norman Mailer, Jack Kerouac and Tennessee Williams lived in them.

Cubist Portrait Painted in Words

lillian35 Comments

She led a paper doll life.
Strived to meet expectations from so many.
Put yourself together this way.
Tabs turned down. Pieces in place.

But those over there said, It’s better this way.
Snip snip. Glue applied till she was rearranged.
Someone else said, Add this to your face.
Minimize that part, emphasize this.

And all the hims over the years.
He said, Do this. So she did.
The last him said, Do what I say.
Wear this, not that. Never that.

She cut herself up so many times.
Attributes shed, shards left behind.
Fragments added,
ill fit though they were.

Until one day,
someone gifted her a bouquet.
A mixed bouquet
with twelve different blooms.

Holding them close, she eyed them carefully.
Curled up edges on the violet one.
Red rose, sagged and drooped a bit,
stem too thin for its weight.

Each flower beautiful in its own way,
nestled together in soft silk ribbons.
And at that moment, she decided.
I will be me.

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe where today, I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics.

Today’s prompt introduces writers and readers to Thorvald Hellesen (1888 – 1937). I was introduced to this artist at our recent visit to the National Museum of Norway in Oslo. Hellesen grew up and studied art in Kristiania (Oslo). His debut exhibit in 1919, in Kristiania, was met with much derision and he never showed his art in Norway again. He moved to Paris at age twenty-three where he joined the circles of Picasso and Fernand Leger, Cubists who turned the norm of what art should be upside down. He had successful exhibitions in Paris and in addition to his painting, went on to design posters, textile patterns and worked with interior design. 104 years after his fatal debut in Kristiania (Oslo), this is the first museum exhibition devoted to Norway’s first consistent Cubist.

Within the prompt, I provide five different portraits painted by Hellesen, three of which are in the Cubist tradition, including the one I’ve used and posted above, “Suitor. Figure with Bouquet” painted in 1917-1918. Writers must choose one of the five portraits as inspiration for a poem and, of course, give credit to Hellesen.

Imagine with John

lillian10 Comments

Image blurs reality.
One long gone, etched in charcoal,
hangs on wall.
Me frozen, living within his frame.
Trick of lighting,
reflection merges life and death.
Imagine all the people
livin’ life in peace.

I meander through gardens,
gardens he skipped through as a child.
Strawberry fields forever.
My words, set to this page,
meaningful to me.
His words, set to music,
reverberate round the world.

Imagine what words died within him,
unborn, silenced by those bullets.
Creativity treasured by so many,
silenced by that gun.
Children. Adults. Their voices
treasured by friends, family,
silenced too. By guns. Those bullets.
Their velocity rips through humanity.
Bullets sprayed in schools, grocery stores,
churches, movie theaters,
at concerts and in prayer,
on streets, on porches, in homes.

Image blurs reality.
The living stand with dead loved ones.
Framed in happiness on a shelf,
a dresser, hanging on a wall.
Reflection merges life with death
as we think, sing within our heads.
Imagine all the people
livin’ life in peace.
Oh dear God, please let it be.


Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Will share and read aloud at OLN LIVE on Saturday, May 20th, from 10 to 11 AM EST. Come join us to hear and see poets from around the globe. Click here, and then on the link for Saturday’s session with audio and video connection.

We did a Beatles themed excursion on a recent British Isles cruise. It included a visit to Liverpool and the actual Strawberry Fields that John Lennon wrote about. Strawberry Fields was and is the name of a facility run by the Salvation Army for children. It’s surrounded by gardens. When Lennon was a small boy, estranged from his mother, he lived with his aunt within walking distance of Strawberry Fields. He often went through the red gates to play with children in these gardens. While visiting the gardens and a building that includes information about John Lennon’s relationship with the facility, and the actual piano he composed Imagine on, we viewed an artist’s exhibit of charcoal paintings including the first image at the top of the page. This image was the motivation for my poem today. John Lennon was assasinated; shot 5 times outside the gates to his New York City apartment. My poem refers to his assasination, as well as the Beatles song, Strawberry Fields Forever; and Lennon’s song, Imagine, written and recorded after the Beatles broke up.