The Stuff of Broken Dreams

lillian8 Comments

Broken dreams like shards of glass
crushed by careless once-knowns,

left behind on some godforsaken alley
below rusted tracks of elevated train.
Metal wheels scrape on steel
masses of humanity pass overhead
remnants of hope ignored
in their hurried blur.

Not like sea glass
tumbled smooth by life’s surprises
at rest in damp rippled sand
still warm in setting sun.
Collectors approach, soon to stoop, lift

and gently hold pieces of transformed shape
faded colors aged by time
defined and valued by place.

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Broken.”

Love Becoming

lillian8 Comments

Gateways to the heart
change through the seasons.

Youthful romanticism,
tempted by pastels
sweet scented carnations
valentines in pink envelopes
a rosebud mouth.

Passionate eroticism,
eyes seek carnal depths
lips’ open invitation
rose petal paths
and pulsing tempos.

Love divine, a decoupage,
years layered on years
passion and comfort
within familiar folds,
your skin next to mine.

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Photo from a walk in St George, Bermuda.

Discarded Memories: cherished series, opus 4

lillian4 Comments

Our family bible was leather bound with gilt edges, like a large coffee-table book, except it sat on an out-of-the-way end table. Mother listened raptly to the door-to-door salesman and agreed. Books you own are a sign of pedigree. And then she filed away the precious threads of her life between its pages.

I used to sit fingering the bits and pieces of family history. Poems on scraps of paper with her handwriting: 1944 ~ Bud this is how much I love you. There was yellowed newsprint: Arthur Petitclair, dead at 58 with the smiling face of my grandfather staring out at me. A fragile, stained news clipping introduced Butch, the cousin I never met. …tragically found dead in his bed on Tuesday morning, at age eight, by his mother, Helvie Petitclair. There were holy cards of Mary and Saint Francis, and handmade cards drawn in those primary color thick crayons we had in grade school.

My parents called. We sold the house and everything in it to a nice young family.  Everything? Everything. We just want to move on.

A nice young family? I suppose they held the bible upside down and shook out all those scraps of history. They probably sit and read the real text inside the leather cover.

Flowers Personified

lillian9 Comments

The lilac family lived on a lane
colorful and ostentatious
in a quiet sort of way.
Muted violet, creamy whites
pastel pinks and deep purples
beautiful dressers and lovers of perfume.

Nestled in a blanket of green
she peeks out with her ruffles.
A bitsy thing among her friends
demure and delicate
the sweet-scented
Miss Lily of the Valley.

She quietly lives the rules of mourning
body drooped in shadows
occasionally sees the sun
empathy personified
destined for sadness
the perennial bleeding heart.

Sunday’s Pauline

lillian3 Comments

We came upon this lovely elderly woman one Sunday morning in Bermuda. A portrait poem. Can you picture her?

Sunday’s Pauline

She stood at the sloped curb’s edge
pleated red dress and feathered church hat
peering up and down the street
craning her neck looking for, what?

Her walker, with pocket book dangling
faced the street, precariously .
Eyes glued on her wheels
we Good Afternooned in the Bermudian way.

Broad shoulders and broader still smile
white gloved hand extended
Good Afternoon. My name’s Pauline
and I sure could use some help.

My hands clutched the walker’s edge
wheels slowly rattled toward the street
walking backwards, eyes locked with Pauline’s
her black oxfords shuffled along.

The Chevy sputtered and gagged
maneuvered to the curb,
aluminum grey, silver shine long gone
primer splotches added to the vintage feel.

Safely inside, walker stowed
window cranked down low
head out with peppered hair flowing
she caught our eye again.

God sure does give you a neighbor
especially when He knows you need one!

Love Dawns, Envelops Still

lillian3 Comments

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What dreams lie within your mind’s eye
lying beside me this autumn’s eve?

Your chest almost imperceptibly rises
and flutter falls, like the owl’s eyes
staring strong and wise
flicker at a moth passing by the moon.

Soft sibilant sounds escape barely open lips
too soon years before, taped tight
received life-sustaining intubated air
machines whirred fear, invaded dreamless sleep.

My lids droop heavy, sleep demanding time
your dreams rest safe, secret till the morrow.
Our morning rite awaits, repeats these many years
Put down the paper dear, and tell me last nights’ tales.

Veil of sleep lifted by sun’s insistent rays
like my bridal veil, pushed back by eager fingers
you sought a promise kiss before God’s altar.
Not deep like later.

Kisses given one thousand times one thousand
over a world of tomorrows. Today we sit content
in time-withered bodies
wizened you beside my wisened self.

Amazed always, that you chose me
my soul complete, enveloped still.

In response to the Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge:  what does “envelops” mean to you?  Photo taken at dawn in Provincetown, Massachusetts.