If we can see a pumping heart,
chormosome X and chromosone Y
striations on a bullet and the human spine,
why is the rearing head of prejudice
still veiled within our midst
Not True
Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.
Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.
Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.
The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.
Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.
Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.
Bisque: cherished series, opus 8
china bisque faced doll
my aunt’s when she was young
a twin, that’s two, but not really
the second was a boy
christmas tree with big lights
not twinkling like miniature strobes
not like stars on top of Cadillac Mountain
where you waved blueberry stained fingers
mine were smudged from ink
postcards and letters sent back home
left out the sad parts
the stained and smudged parts
bisque fragile life
still beautiful
without the sparkle
Photo: my aunt’s beautiful bride doll. China bisque face with kid leather body.
Off-Season Romance
We waited
consumed with work
climbing the ladder
no time for escapades.
Now, in our winter years
past summer’s torrid heat
we meet on cool chilly nights
sailing into our dreams.
Your gentleness touches me
beneath a black sky lit by stars
until we blossom
in this off-season romance.
Written in response to the DailyPost Photo Challenge to interpret “off season”.
Photo is from Provincetown, Cape Cod. Muse to many a poet and artist.
Spring Harvest
Spring Harvest
We searched that day
for morels and fiddleheads
no words, no sounds, except the wind.
The rock laden stream followed us
deeper and deeper into wooded fields,
side by side seekers.
Heads bowed, eyes on nature’s floor
suddenly spied the curling greens
and soft brown spongy shapes.
We knelt as one, upon soft damp earth
hands outstretched to pluck the harvest
foretaste of the meal to come,
wild succulent edibles of spring.
Summer Peach
Peach juice dripped
indolent rivulets down her wrist,
as she felt the soft blushing
fuzzy peel on her tongue
and tasted its cool sweetness.
Low Tide Morning
So many seaside two-weeks
in this place with you.
This time, different.
crack….crack……crack.
Roused awake, I leave our bed
step outside to the dawn’s cool.
Jetty exposed at low tide
long and hard, a battering table
for the single industrious gull.
It hovers, takes aim, releases
crack……scallop shell hits
unyielding rock. Stays firm.
The gull swoops down,
picks up shell, rises, hovers
and lets go, again and again.
CRACK….success.
Morsel quickly consumed,
wings flare to catch the draft and soar.
I follow its path until chill seeps in
bare feet suddenly cold
high tide’s tangled seaweed nearby.
Back with you, under rumpled sheets
my hand hovers, drops down
rests upon your chest, like yesterday.
And yesterday’s yesterday.
Every day, since that day
I feel your every breath.
Inhale, exhale.
Yes, you are here
with me.
Magical Place: cherished series, opus 7
Everyone has a house, but not like 5018.
We took many a long voyage
at that address, sailing the seas
within basement walls.
Grampa was a Swedish immigrant
young idealist and painter by trade.
He sailed across the Atlantic
right into the heart of America.
Years later, he painted the scene.
Ceiling sky cerulean blue
dipped to meet the walls’ horizon
forever brightened by invisible sun.
Gulls soared in place
their cries imagined real
through misshapen clouds
fluffy white, no rain in sight.
Waves rolled with white caps
dabs of paint that never splashed.
Life preserver, hung lifeless
unused and not quite round.
Dry mops swabbed the decks
while lookouts watched for land
till dreaded words Time to go home
drifted down from too real stairs.
We abandoned ship to heed the call
packed into four-door cars
rode through busy honking streets
back to everyday landlocked homes.
Passion
Heat, sun, sweat.
Summer, like passion
burns deep.
Vivid Bermuda
Drums pulse.
Whistle blasts methodical pace
soon frenetic. Eyes open wide
as Gombeys march
then run, then leap into view.
Vibrant costumed anonymity.
Histories joined
African, British, Native American
collide in exuberant dance.
Speed increases, blurs.
Cacophony of primary colors
whirl, jump high, bend low.
Wordless loud stories
of ancestral slaves.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge, how do you illustrate Vivid?
lillian the home poet 
