Savoring the sea salt on my lips,
I remember how it tasted on your nose,
the nape of your neck and so much more,
those delectable three months
when you were my summer man.
Wondrous India
My career took me several times to India. A land of magnificent colors, beautiful people, and simplicity beside urgent modernity. I was honored to share meals and meet relatives of my students, visit holy places, and experience this wonderful culture.
Wondrous India
Stone mosque bathed in light,
waits in glistening dark sea
an icon of hope.
Cities teem and swarm
with cars parked beside oxen,
new challenging old.
Low tide finds boardwalk
revealed through waste and debris,
pilgrims’ path to prayer.
Land of paradox:
harsh realities mar the
exalted sublime.
Pristine white heron
scavenges beside children.
Innocent dwellers
of this land called India.
Written for a writing prompt to write in a “series.” I decided to try my hand at a series of haiku within one larger poem. I found the aspect of “hiding” the haiku form a challenge. To have the sense of the poem meet the reader, rather than the form itself. UPDATE:
The Stuff of Broken Dreams
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.”
Home at Sea
Thanks to my poetry mentor, Holly Wren Spaulding, who keeps reminding me to seek the “poem within the poem.” This one sentence poem first appeared as part of Life’s Choices.
Home at Sea
Dune shack dweller these many years
she fancied herself a Crustacean
sliding through life sidewise.
Blue-Light Special
She slings words
like Frank at the corner deli
makes the morning special
corn beef and hash.
Her down-home menu
contains one sentence poems
the occasional palinode, and free verse
poached in simmering creative juices.
Unlike the connoisseurs uptown
she licks her word-smudged fingers
content with happy drop-ins
and the occasional loyal customer.
Night’s Visitor
Death waits patiently
leans in close,
hand on sweat glistened brow.
Nostrils flare in and out
release short puffs of damp air
while lips part to blow soft spittle foam.
As pupils grow darker still
she lifts her head mightily
then settles into pungent straw
muscles still, reined no more.
Love Becoming
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.
Photo from a walk in St George, Bermuda.
Discarded Memories: cherished series, opus 4
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
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.
Woman’s World
Into each life, a little humor must fall.
Frozen peas on the list
she was pleasantly surprised
to get a two-fer
when a hot flash hit,
leaning into frozen foods
for her favorite brand.
lillian the home poet