It’s this day again. It’s come every year since this day nine years ago. An emotionally tough day in this autumnal time of year.
I awaken before dawn. Sleep elusive, memories churning. You cheated death on this day, nine years ago today.
I lie listening to your breath, thankful you are here. Thankful for angels along the way who helped tether you, tether you to earth and me.
This afternoon we will walk meander along the glistening Charles. We’ll scuff leaves with our feet, admire fall’s cacophony of colors and revel in a new day of love.
Photo taken last year along the Charles River in Boston.
Faith came much easier when I was young. I believed in Purgatory. That half-way house you might need before your final reward. I’d say three Hail Marys for the one lucky soul who needed exactly that many words to move out and ascend to heaven. My lips moved silently, hands folded, head bowed, like I learned in Immaculate Conception Grade School. Then I’d say a very loud Amen and grin. Good deed done for the day! These days, as a septuagenarian, I realize that for some people hell is right here on earth. Hail Marys don’t seem to cut it when a Black man gets shot in the back while innocently jogging down a street. I don’t grin anymore at the end of my prayers.
Shared with dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today is OLN LIVE from 3 to 4 PM and OLN. I’m hosting today….so hope to see many folks there.Photo is my hands this morning.
Tales told over and over take hold in one’s memory. Lies told over and over, still lies.
Oft heard lies ferment. Fester in one’s brain, in one’s psyche. Foment unrest, distrust. Rattle rational thought into rationalization.
Beware the frequent liar, the pseudo Pied Piper. Rats follow in legions. Sewers clog with muck. Rotten smells waft high, putrify the air.
Rise up ye voices! Shout facts! Blow forth truths from the mountain top. Topple the house of cards.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Lisa asks us to consider fermentation. We are to “write a poem that uses any of the definitions, examples, images, or applications of fermentation that inspires” our Muse. Images from Pixabay.com
Widowed at eighty-three, she didn’t cry until they closed the lid on Harold. Never to see him again in that beautiful dark blue suit, worn on so many of their date nights over many years. The love of her life, resting in the Peters-Carmody Funeral Home, before the hearse would take him away.
Five years later, Maud Smith noticed an elderly woman sitting in the front row of mourners patiently waiting for Father David to begin the rosary. She approached the funeral director and quietly asked “Who is that old woman in the front row? Why is she sitting with my family?”
“That’s Mrs. Crowley, ma’am. She often comes to our viewings if the decedent is male. Her husband Harold’s service was here five years ago. I think she imagines him lying there, near her again. You see, to her, death is quite romantic.”
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Bjorn is hosting Prosery Monday, where a line from poetry is given and then must be used, word for word, in a piece of prose that is 144 words or less, sans title. Today the line is from Bob Dylan, “To her, death is quite romantic.” Image from Pixabay.com
track my life Crayola bright. Pink infant with colicky baby blues. Grade school cobalt uniform morphed to purple-gold cheerleader poms. College reading, black and white print in mahogany-shelved library stacks. Wedding-white then tie-dyed kaleidoscope kids. Senior grey? Never. It’s silver in my golden years.
Merril is hosting dverse tonight, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to use the word “track” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photo: yep, that’s me, without my glassesabout two months ago.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Laura asks us to consider couples, writing a poem in couplets. She presents a number of forms that are based in couplets including the Rhopalic Couplet. First used by Homer in the Illiad, the Rhopalic Couplet contains two lines. In both lines, each word progresses adding 1 more syllable than the preceding word in the line. The lines need not be rhymed. So for example x xx xxx xxxx x xx xxx xxxx
I found this quite tricky to do! Another poetic sudoku for me. Image from Pixabay.com
Quilt me a cacophony of colors, floral me a scene. Roses, lilac, freesia, lavender, gardenia, scents melding into sweet aroma. Featured like fragrant punchbowl on caterer’s gleaming sideboard. Senses tempted to imbibe, I submit. Feast my eyes, inhale deeply, engulfed in garden’s ethereal delight.
Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to use the word “punch” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words,sans title.Photo taken a number of years ago in Ireland.
I’ve know Bjorn on dVerse for six+ years and finally got to meet him in Stockholm last week during our Best of Scandinavia cruise. He and Lotta were indeed the best of Scandinavia! They showed us the city from an insider’s perspective. We especially enjoyed walking through quiet streets and neighborhoods and going to a small restaurant filled with locals, for a truly Swedish lunch!
My husband’s grandfather immigrated from Sweden so Swedish traditions literally run through his veins. I’ve embraced many of those traditions, especially those related to Christmas. I’ve also eaten many a Swedish meatball. One tradition I have not taken to? Herring! George and our children always ate soft boiled eggs and pickled herring on Christmas morning while I stayed in bed. When they finished eating, they woke me up by breathing heavily in my face. Yech! So you can imagine George’s great delight to see an appetizer with three kinds of herring, Vasterbotten cheese, sour cream, red onion, and dill potatoes on the menu! He also had Köttbullar (Swedish meatballs) for an entrée with potato puree, cream sauce, lingonberries and pickled cucumber. I had Souvas (smoked reindeer) as an appetizer with kohlrabi in horseradish crème, lingonberries and hazelnuts; and Kröppkakor (Swedish potato dumplings filled with pork) for my entrée. Everything was delicious! But even better, was the time to sit and relax and just get to know Bjorn and Lotta. They took us on a commuter ferry back to our ship which meant more time to talk and seeing more of the real Sweden. The last photo is Bjorn and Lotta waving goodbye from the ferry. What an amazing day! THANK YOU BJORN and LOTTA!
And an aphorism for the prompt? One man’s herring may be reason enough for a woman to refuse his kiss!
A very popular place to gather.Notice 3 crowns atop the building. They are Sweden’s national symbol. This building just looks happy!One of the most famous hotels in Stockholm. One of Stockholm’s more quiet neighborhood streets.Many years ago, this was the sole source of water for this neighborhood.Lotta, Bjorn and me.A small local restaurant serving traditional Swedish food.Three kinds of herring.Real Swedish meatballs.Smoked reindeer.Swedish potato dumplings stuffed with pork. Thankful to Bjorn for introducing me to the dVerse community!Notice Bjorn’s tee-shirt! 🙂 We gifted Bjorn and Lotta these tee-shirts from Boston. Untill we meet again . . .
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn is hosting Thursday’s Meet the Bar and asks us to create an aphorism, and if we’d like, add some prose of explanation.
All photos are from our visit with Bjorn and Lotta last week in Stockholm! If you click on each photo, you can see them a bit larger.
Aphorism: a statement that presents a moral or philosophical idea and many times does so with a pithy statement. For example: “the grass is always greener on the other side”and “don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”
I do admit, I’ve taken a bit of liberty with my aphorism….but I really wanted to share these photos with all of you dVersers! And…..after all…..everyone should know when to use breath mints!
She was a pluviophile, born in the monsoon times. Overcome by strikhedonia she fled her village, sought solace in the woods.
A sturmfreisoul was she, content to burrow away on bright clear days. Her cottage well hidden from prying eyes.
She lived for the darkest of storms. Aroused by lightning strikes, thunder her love-struck mate. They danced together in downpours, her hair drenched, clothes clinging.
Townspeople burbled about her, bumfuzzled by her ways. Over time she became the Other. Easier to will her out of existence, they stayed inside during heavy rains.
Mish is hosting Poetics today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to consider memes in a unique way, providing us with a number of unusual words and their definitions. She asks us to use at least three of them within our poem. I’ve chosen the following from her list: pluviophile (noun): a lover of rain strikhedonia (noun): the joy of being able to say the hell with it sturmfrei (adjective): the freedom of being alone; the ability to do what you want burble (verb): to speak in an excited manner bumfuzzle (verb): to confuse or fluster
*In ancient Roman religion, Tempestas is a goddess of storms or sudden weather. Image from Pixabay.com
lillian the home poet 