Rooftops cold, lifeless.
No sharing. No caring. Dead
metaphorically.
Values depleted.
Hopper’s view of the future,
stark warning. Resist.
Jarring emptiness.
Where were you when it happened?
Democracy failed.
Today Sanaa hosts OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We can either post a poem of our choosing OR post a poem related to the image above.
Edward Hopper’s City Roofs. Image courtesy of – https://www.wikiart.org/en/edward-hopper/city-roofs
Time moves incessantly
ambles as we stroll
rolls as we revel
cascades in times of joy
turning, flowing, always forward.
Time separates, even while moving forward.
Distance added to time.
Friends diverge to their own paths
amble, roll, cascade.
But true friendship transcends time.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Lisa is tending the pub today, as we return from our two-week summer hiatus to celebrate dVerse’s 14th anniversary! She asks us to include the word “turn” in our quadrille: a poem of exactly 144 words, sans title.
My poem today is dedicated to dear college friends, Brian and Cher. I’ve included a few photos from our friendship over the years….the last one is just this past Friday night. Brian and Cher spent 5 wonderful days with us….reminiscing, laughing, sight-seeing, and playing cards at the same card table we sat at with them 55 years ago! Can you guess which photo is from our college days? And which one is from 1974, when our daughter Abbey was born?
. . . thrive in this topsy-turvey world.
I shall walk upside down, toes in the stars,
leaving diamond shaped footsteps in the sky.
When down is up and in is out,
I shall put my forearms in earth’s rich soil
wiggling my fingers like squiggling worms.
I will be a handstand acrobat
padding through sunflower fields,
pollen dusted elbows attracting bees.
When the sun sets,
I shall ride the moon
kicking stars into nova showers.
I shall hum joyfully in my out-of -tune way,
find greening in deserts, sunlight in shadows,
and I will always smile with hope.
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
When I think of aging
visions of nature appear poetically,
ready to be written across the page.
But my hand tremor sets script askew,
not unlike a preschooler’s
first attempt at printing their name.
Nature’s brightly pink ruffled peony
once perkily perched, quite the showy thing,
gleamed amongst garden’s greenery.
Now droops beneath residue
of last night’s thunderstorm,
struggling to hold its bloom.
Newborn gangly foal tries to gain its footing.
Youthfully romps through riotously colored fields,
bluebells and golden columbine waving in the sun.
Years later, put to pasture,
stands swaying slightly, head down,
eyes clouded, wildflowers a dull blur.
And I myself, mark changes in my body.
Steps slowing down, sometimes falter.
Veins protruding on my hands.
I reflect more and more
on what was, and what is,
and what is to come.
Perennials dance in spring’s fresh air,
stand proudly through their season.
Then wilting, lie down to disintegrate.
But their stock is strong, their lilt not forever gone.
Perennials bloom again and again and again,
one generation gifting its beauty to the next.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitting for possible publication in the dVerse Anniversary Anthology.
Six minutes a widow.
The sun kept shining,
the clock kept ticking,
but your heart stopped.
Absolutely stopped.
I remember my screams,
ambulance sirens.
They rushed you away from me.
Ushered me into a private waiting room.
I waited for forever it seemed.
Then that humming, beeping room.
Monitor glowing with moving lines.
Lines becoming peaks and troughs and blips.
Shroud-like sheeted, eyes closed.
Your face obscured by ventilator and tubes.
My God, so many tubes.
Family somehow there, tethering you to earth.
Doctor talk. Jumbled words to me.
“. . . his brain . . .may not wake up…not the same..”
No. No. NO.
Forty-eight hours later
your eyes popped open, staring fear.
Nurse told you firmly, wiggle your toes.
Move your right hand, now your left.
Moments of sheer joy.
We came home end of that week,
you, the real you, cognitively you.
But we were changed forever.
We live life more slowly,
love more deeply,
thankful for every day.
Written for dVerse , the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitted for possible publication in their anniversary anthology.
Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones.
Tired eyes glance sideways,
energy depleted. Joyless.
Her exquisitely shaped lips
rouged deepest red.
Closed, not pursed, yet somehow gentle.
Dark tendrils hang beside her face,
drooping as if exhausted.
Indigo headscarf appears torn.
Disheveled from constant wear
or symbolic of war torn life.
Blues bleed pale into background.
Not thickened red of blood
but bleeding nonetheless.
One lustrous pearl earring hangs coldly,
boldly iridescent in a palette of darkness.
Did she really wear it for the sitting?
Or is it the artist’s one defiant stroke?
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Image from Pixabay.com
Want to hear and watch poets from around the globe read a poem aloud? Come join us as I host dVerse LIVE on Saturday, June 21st from 10 to 11 AM Boston time. Last time I hosted, we had folks from Sweden, Pakistan, all across the US, Kenya, the UK, Australia, South Africa, and Trinidad Tobago! Come read a poem of your own or just sit in to listen. We’re a friendly bunch. The more the merrier!
To join us LIVE on Saturday, June 21st from 10 to 11 AM Boston time, just click here and scroll down to the LIVE LINK. Hope to see you there!
Everyday wide apertures:
newsprint, television, radio.
Second or third-hand glimpse of another’s plight.
Photographers know
wide apertures provide shallow depth.
Until that day, that’s what I had.
That day, strolling the cruise ship’s deck,
my privileged promenade
was suddenly interrupted.
What I’d read about, heard on the news,
appeared off port side.
A small boat bobbing, barely moving.
Two oars slapped white caps.
In and out and in and out. Out of sync.
Six? Eight people? Dark shapes,
even in bright sun, crowded together.
Struggling, no doubt praying, not to capsize.
Our Captain’s voice suddenly blared.
“There is a small boat in distress.
Our assistance has been refused.
We will remain here until the Coast Guard arrives.
This will not impede our schedule.
You will arrive in Miami on time tomorrow.”
Narrow apertures give a deeper depth of field.
My eyes saw, stared, teared.
Refugees risking everything
for what they deemed would be a better life.
My heart ached at the scene
as did many looking on.
That night we did, as all aboard our ship did.
Enjoyed dinner served on linen tablecloths,
toasted our last night at sea.
Danced late into the night.
Slept on a king-sized bed
and flew home the next morning.
But I’ll never forget what I saw.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Dora asks us to “write a poem that conjures a veiw (whether from our travels or everyday life, whether from desire or expeirence) that is colored by the emotion of the moment.” Photo was taken from on one of our cruises that sailed roundtrip from Miami, Florida. It was a good number of years ago but I’ve never forgotten this heartbreaking experience.
Out of reach.
Shiny brunette hair ~
with squinted eyes, grey is silver.
Unstoppable energy ~
spurts are good, naps are nice.
Confidence on stiletto heels ~
comfort is better.
Faded memories ~
photo albums roll back time.
Loved ones miles away,
some forever gone.
Living with empty spaces.
Closets of clothes, clocks ticking,
rocking chair, couch, kitchen table.
All are there but emptiness fills us.
The question becomes
what is within our reach
and how do we gird ourselves
to move on, step by step,
as we are left behind.
Dedicated to dear friend, Mary Nilsen.
You are my sunrise
as are friends, family,
birthdays, holiday celebrations,
graduation festivities
hot fragrant coffee
smiles from passersby
crescendos in concertos
hugs and kisses
toddlers stomping in puddles
charitable donations
springtime flowers
random acts of kindness.
Sunshine, a constant,
even behind the clouds.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m tending the pub and asking folks to include the word “sunrise” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
In all the chaos across our world, the sun still rises every day, even when it resides behind the darkest of clouds. For me, that is representative of hope – the idea that love and goodness are always present – even in the stormiest of times. Sunrise photo taken in Provincetown, MA – at the very tip of Cape Cod.
Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight,
delectable scents float ‘cross starless sky.
In wild flowered mountain meadow they lie,
hearts entangled, breathing as one.
Alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder
their floral bed this night.
Their dreamscape, their anniversary quilt,
embraces their love, embodied again.
When dawn rises, their spirits must dissipate.
Soft sobs and dew drop tears float upon the wind
as each becomes, once again,
solitary luminous clusters.
T’will be one year hence, before they meet again.
Anniversary of that storm laden night, decades ago,
when they stood upon this very summit,
thunder roaring disapproval of their match.
Looking out across the abyss,
alit by lightning’s garish flash,
they defied their families’ opposition.
Hands clasped,
deepest kiss still fresh upon their lips,
they leapt into the arms of eternity.
Premature extinguishment of life, the gods ruled
punishable every night but one, in every coming year.
Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight,
delectable scents float ‘cross the starless sky.
One night in every year, for centuries on end,
they may live and love again.
Lie together, in wild flowered mountain meadow
amidst alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder,
hearts entangled,
breathing as one.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting OLN and will host dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM, New York time. We are free to write a poem of our own choosing OR use the quotation “Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight . . .” from Pablo Neruda’s poem A Lemon. The quotation is actually longer, I’ve only used this portion of it for my poem.
If you’d like to join us for the LIVE session on Saturday (video and audio), May 24th , just click on this link at 10 AM New York Time…..and you’ll find a link to join us! We’d love to have you read a poem of your own….or feel free to just sit in. We’re a very friendly bunch!
lillian the home poet 