She wondered
as she tapped the frame slightly askew
replaced the dirty coffee mug on his Chilewich placemat
shuffled the mail so her bill was on top
and turned their bathroom faucet handle just enough
to let the water drip in slow motion,
will he know she’s still with him,
not quite yet a fully embodied angel
in that other world?
Written from a writing prompt in my June Challenge Course: write within a constraint, IE a one sentence poem.
Cracked earth craves relief
parched crops crumble, seedlings lost
dust storm disaster.
She was a collector.
Shelves crowded with knick knacks,
salt and pepper shakers, silver spoons
Avon bottles and beanie bags.
National Geographics on every table,
grampa’s pipe still resting
in the Illinois shaped tin ash tray.
And that was just downstairs.
Climbing up the wooden creaking stairs
revealed a musty attic world.
Windows, long sealed shut
looked down on a weed covered yard,
sidewalks where she drew hop scotches.
Cobwebs bruhsed aside,
we found two trunks, rusty latches
opened decades of memories.
Grampa’s morning coat and grey ascot,
folded atop her yellowed wedding dress,
fragile lace-edged mutton sleeves.
A seed pearl hat pin firmly afixed
to a Juliet cap with fragile tulle veil,
so delicate still.
And there, below the clothes,
the small white leather bible,
wrapped in once white supple leather gloves.
The final layer,
a stack of valentines
tied in faded ribbon.
Their loving epitaph etched
in a tombstone seven miles away,
more alive here
in this trunk of memories.
She sat on the porch,
rocking back and forth
on the glider built for two.
The man in the moon,
her only companion
this anniversary night.
From a writing prompt: Experiment with the “said” and “unsaid”…..leave the reader wondering in the wake of the poem or text.
Cries gracefully to nourish the earth,
spins arms wide to create the wind.
Smiles warmly upon her children,
slow to anger, seldom thunders fury.
We looked like that.
Proud nine year old, awkward
holding three month me, a treasure
until five years later
pest to your teenage hormones.
You, proud new daddy
me, awkward gawky sister,
new aunt in braces
and lollipop bra.
You, my tuxedo handsome usher
black shiny shoes on white sheeted aisle.
Me, excited oh-so-young bride
barely noticed your proud eyes and smile.
You, father of five
tee ball games and packed full car.
Held your newborn niece,
gentleness on your face.
No photos last time
you so cold and me so flushed.
In front of multitudes
you absolutely still, I wept you.
Pictures stopped. Not you with me,
no you with anyone.
Not in anger, joy or silliness,
just stopped.
Death’s reality lives
in happy photo albums.
Same people, changed by age,
with no you.
My brother, nine years older than me. Lost suddenly, too soon at 51.
“Not to worry” he’d say on the phone. Love these pictures. Love his family.
Spread your wings to glide
through sun streaks’ warmth,
to reach and feel the clouds.
In my best dreams
I fly round and round
the confines of my room.
Catch the upward draft.
A lazy float through clear air
colored only by the sky.
Magnificent quiet follows
as you bank left, shift course
to a new everything.
Strap on wings
hold tight
and soar.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: to interpret “on the way”.
Pboto from a Baltic cruise.
As the old saying goes, come dance with me. Below is a one sentence poem. Use it as the “poem within a poem”….write words before or after…..free verse, stanzas, whatever moves you. Create the title too. Put the full poem in a Reply or a Pingback. Two minds, better than one today – excited to partner with you!
My dreams flew by
on gossamer wings,
too high to reach today
even on tiptoe.
The Victorian house groans awake
as a full harvest moon winks
through faded window shutters,
thrown wide open.
Smiling dead faces
in wallpapered hallways,
listen from chipped gilt frames
roll their eyes in sepia wonder.
Walls thick with memories
absorb the sounds,
sweet words whispered
mount to passionate moans.
Floorboards squeal
as casters roll in well worn grooves,
planks of wood etched
with scars of love.
This bed of generations,
alive again tonight.
Her dresser, the last to dismantle.
Birthday figurine, two fingers chipped
sits on a dusty mirrored tray.
Sweater sets and pedal pushers,
one lacey veil, bobby pins still attached
yellow cotton gloves, last worn many Easters past.
Hankies with hand stitched pansies
on delicate tatted corners,
peek from a small silk purse.
Sachet bags tied in faded ribbons
tucked in corners, sweetness long spent.
And then, there they were.
Red glass beads with silver crucifix
nestled on a small satin cushion,
third drawer front.
Ready for gnarled fingers
to move from stone to stone
haunted by her whispered words,
Hail Mary, full of grace.
Now hailed by millions,
minus one.
lillian the home poet