NaPoWriMo April 25. Without Prompt.
Loss
Eyes droop heavy
tear salt encrusted lashes
stare forward unseeing.
Throat gags trying to escape
the cloying flower scent
preserved in artificial cold air.
Silent screams inaudible
smothered in the cacophony
of shushing hushing voices.
Hands folded, cold
should be warm in mine
swinging down our lane.
Comprehension dawns
sun shines out of synch
with the ending of our days.
NaPoWriMo April 24, without prompt. Spending February in Bermuda, we walked many miles on the Old Railway Trail. So many sections were almost mystical – nature can be that way.
Wood’s Desire
The forest seldom traveled
seeks company and joy
trees stand sentinel proud
light rarely allowed upon her ground.
Winds decide to grant her wish
push aside branches high and low
create slivered space amongst the leaves
open pathways for morning sun.
Leaf filtered, bright and spritely shapes
suddenly dance upon her darkened floor
awakened shadows without selves
companions until the calm.
NaPoWriMo day 23 without a prompt. With a shout-out to Lisa Dingle’s Just Ponderin’ blog for mentioning the word “putter” which got me to thinking, then reminiscing. Words do that, right?
Ode to Puttering
Dawn to dusk wage earner kind of guy
one business suit, five starched shirts
Monday-Tuesday
Wednesday-Thursday-Friday
cubicle confined.
Suit shed
like a snake-wriggled-from-skin
sloppy slippers, baggy pants
uniform is no form
Saturday Sunday putter time.
Basement workshop sets him free
Skippy jars stuffed and ready
screws and bolts, drill bits, nails
epoxy glue and old television tubes
scraped sandpaper sits by stained soft rags.
Puttering
that practical art
relax to see to do
replace a blade, splice a cord
refinish renail a peglegged chair.
Dad the doer, mom the asker
knick knack shelves, built-in whatevers.
Puttering, like Jack Benny and Lawrence Welk
a lost art from today’s rush and run, buy and toss
and buy again kind of world.
I didn’t know
it would make memories rollout
like that twirling lottery cage
that stops and releases balls as you
hold your breath and hope for magic.
She died
and left me to create the magic
sorting through a junk drawer
stuffed and crammed
with years of tuckaways.
I stare. The smooth white sculpted figure
completely captivating. Cold, unmoving
lids closed for eternity. Eyes created
into white darkness.
Serenely sits, back bent with chin in hands
pondering thoughts, alive in past reality.
Captured contradictory calmness
while lungs clogged and marble dust swirled.
Chisels scraped and coarse hands shaved
layer after layer, coaxing, manipulating curves.
Demanded and willed, she bent to stillness
life siphoned from blood to stone.
I imagine her resentment
concealed in beauty replicated
bent deeper still, pain unseen
words swallowed into stone.
NaPoWriMo — without a prompt. Day 21. I’ve found that since my forray into writing poetry, I look at things more intensely. Has this happened to you? In Bermuda, I came across this amazing sculpture — I couldn’t take my eyes off it. And then I read what the artist said, and I understood.
Sculpture credit: Pensativa 1984, white marble. By Felipe Castaneda….in the Bermuda Art Museum. Of his artistic process Castaneda says “I still consider it a kind of miracle that forms almost identical to human beings are born out of rock – and in some cases the only thing lacking for them to be alive is for them to move of their own accord and speak.”
NaPoWriMo Day 20: without a prompt. Who needs a smile today? This poem should be in my About.
I choose life in lightness
sun or clouds, day or night
seek the circle’s upturned half
peripheral vision, occasionally required.
We wake up watchful ready
sweetly taste our morning smiles
tickled baby beams a toothless grin
dimples born in happiness and glee.
Grandkids’ knock-knock jokes
silly faces feign gargantuan guffaws
I choose to step lightly through life’s travails
aging knees, fingers stiff, imagination in Neverland.
NaPoWriMo Day 19: without a prompt. My mother loved talcum powder. The kind you “dust” all over yourself. I used to go into the bathroom after her and the floor would be slick and the room would have a heavy perfumed scent. One day, after she died in October 1998, I sat on a bench by her yard and watched as several birds found a dirt hole and proceeded to merrily take a dust bath. Sweet sweet memories juxtaposed.
Dustings by Two
Slick wet lavender tiles
window blurred by steam
she gaily sings and trills
pats and swirls a fancy puff
to create lily scented
clouds of talc
her dusting for the day.
Outside the window
hot bereft of rain
a blue bird warbles
wings flap flutter
dried dirt scatters
creates earthy clouds
of cooling swirling dust.
NaPoWriMo Writing Prompt: it’s the eighteenth of April, the 240th anniversary of the midnight ride of Paul Revere. In keeping with the theme of rush and warning, write a poem that involves an urgent journey and an important message.
Boston marathoners
poised and ready again
take over streets
race their way
to a 21st century
interpretation
of words you once lived.
Boston Strong
A time to remember those killed in the Boston Marathon bombing, pay tribute to first responders on that day of pain and resolution, and praise the indomitable human spririt that rises in the face of evil.
NaPoWriMo Day 17 without a prompt. A constant in everyone’s life is the ability to dream. In your sleep and in your waking time. But what do we do when that dream is unfulfilled – stopped dead in its tracks? Sometimes by a conscious choice, sometimes by circumstances that present themselves, wanted or not.
The Framed Dream
It was a short notice: Helen is predeceased by Bud
and Charles Gruenwald Jr, her husband and son.
God knows, she’d lived the last eight years
impatiently waiting to join them.
It moved with her when she was left alone.
An eight by ten picture from a 1930s
Life Magazine: young nurse in white cap
surrounded by glowing light.
Her nurses training lasted six months.
Instead of earning a nurse’s pin
she eloped and eight months later
put my brother to her breast.
The room was empty when I took it down.
Water-stained backing, script barely readable
My dearest Helen, No one can take this away
from you. Sister Everista 1937 For sixty years,
she’d kept her dream in a plastic frame.
Cold damp sand between my toes
skirt poufs, billows in the wind
eyes squished shut for dreams
open quickly at the whoosh.
Shooting star flashes bling
streaks across my universe
fingers cross to catch magic
I wish upon the star.
Like tinsel, moon beams shimmer
beget a glistened path
smiling slyly, I double-dip
to wish across the waves.
lillian the home poet