Brother’s cardboard Santa. Crayoned red suit and black boots, thinning cotton-puff beard and cuffs. His first grade art project crafted near eighty years ago.
You three sleep eternally warmed in earth’s loving arms. But each holiday season you live with me again, if only atop my Christmas tree.
Merril hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for global poets. Her prompt for today: “write about any object – a family heirloom, a museum piece, a monument, or a palace. The choice is yours, but there must be some link to history and the past.” The bell and airplane are 90+ years old.
My great-grandparents’ home sold, I kept a battered trunk found in the attic. I’m ready to see what’s inside. Carefully wrapped motheaten clothes? A well-worn deep plum velvet dress with tiny waist. A once vibrant red and black plaid wool vest with watch pocket. And a faded sepia-toned photograph: them standing in front of their new house, wearing these same clothes. Eyes closed, I’m with them. I dress in their stories. Patterned and purple as night, they hold my hands. Celebrating, dressed up, I feel their happiness.
Back to the trunk! One last item. A yellowed brittle 1911 Sears Catalog. I open to the page marked by a faded ribbon. Houses for sale in a Sears Catalog? It’s this house! “The Clyde: $2,608. Kit includes 10,000 pieces of framing lumber and everything you’ll need, including doorknobs.” And I have trouble with model airplane kits!
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, we’re not doing poetry. Rather, we’re to include a specific line from a poem given by the pub tender, in a piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less, sans title. The line we must use today, worded exactly as it appears (we may change the punctuation) is “I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night.” The line is in the poem When we Sing of Might by Kimberly Blaeser, an indigenous poet. This was a tough line for me to incorporate, partly because of the first person and tense used in the line. This, by the way, is pure fiction. Images from Searshouseseeker.com
Note: By 1908, one-fifth of Americans subscribed to the Sears & Roebuck Mail Order Catalog. At its peak, it included 100,000+ items on 1400 pages and weighed 4 pounds. It was free to receive in the mail. In 1908, kits for 40 “modern homes” were offered in the Sears catalog. From 1908 to 1940, the Sears Modern Homes Program offered mail-order houses, called “kit homes.” Would-be homeowners sent in a check and in a matter of weeks, they received everything they needed via a train car, to build their new home. IE lumber came precut with an instruction booklet. Everything was included, including doorknobs. Sears advertised their homes (each named, IE The Magnolia, The Clyde) could be completed in less than ninety days, without a carpenter, by someone with “rudimentary skills.” Over 75,000 homes were shipped. There is a website with photos of these homes that still exist across the US. Illustrations above taken from that site: Searshouseseeker.com
Friday night and the lights are low. Tinseltown dimmed, marquees dark, Broadway shut down. Performers encased at home, mouths agape. No words. No melodies. No sound escapes their parched lips. Feet stilled, faces bare. They sit, not in the wings, but on couches and chairs. No audience. Just the cat curled up on their feet, surprised to find this comfort in these hours. The night the music died and the curtain fell, subways ground to a halt. This, the night Covid came to town.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics and delving into Sweden’s musical archives. I’m asking folks to include one line, and one line only, from the lyrics of ABBA’s Dancing Queen. The line must be used word for word within the body of the poem. You can find the lyrics to Dancing Queen, as well as some fun information about ABBA, in my prompt at dVerse. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time and full prompt will appear then.Image from Pixabay.com
buttercup crown under stocking cap of ivy vine. Rose petal leggings, freesia shawl, lily-of-the-valley boots. Winter clad, she joins thousands of fairies gathered on mountainsides, hidden by evergreen fronds. Spirits bright, they wait for spring, their fairy lights aglow. Winter’s secret no one knows.
De is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to include the word “crown” or a form of the word (not a synonym of the word) in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us! Image from Pixabay.com
We’d been aboard the cruise ship for fifteen days. This, the sixteenth, our last day prior to disembarking in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. Relaxation our goal, we never got off the ship. We simply explored this glorious vessel. Marveled at her sculptures, paintings, photographic art; and her six fine dining rooms, each different in décor. We enjoyed delicious entrées and delectable desserts. Our stateroom had a king-size bed and large bathroom with rain shower and soaking tub.
And then, on this sixteenth day, the Captain’s announcement: There is a raft on our starboard side with sixteen refugees. We will remain near them for approximately three hours until the U.S. Coastguard comes to their aid. We are committed to the safety of everyone at sea. Through binoculars I watched a green rubber raft bobbing in white capped waves. Four oars floundered, trying to propel and steer the raft. Desperate people struggled to survive against the elements.
I’ve read articles, seen news clips, about refugees plodding across and through unforgiving terrain. But nothing compared to seeing this from my cruise ship balcony. The juxta-positioning of my life at that moment, the privileged lives of everyone on the cruise ship, to what was happening before my eyes. Heart-wrenching. It started to drizzle and a rainbow appeared, arcing over the raft. I immediately thought of it as a metaphor for hope. These people, hunched against the wind, shoving four wooden paddles through the teeming ocean, desperate to overcome the insurmountable, seeking a better life, with God knows what going through their minds. And me standing there, so privileged, that I could formulate poetic thoughts and think metaphorically.
fire hydrants gush kids splash, jump in ghetto streets – country club pool soothes
Written for dVerse Haibun Monday. Frank asks us to write something in relation to Thanksgiving or being thankful. We just returned from a Caribbean cruise on Celebrity’s newest ship, the Apex. The ship is stunningly beautiful. On the last day at sea, what I’ve written about in this haibun happened. Watching the refugees, I suddenly understood how privileged I am. I prayed for these poor souls, hoping they survive their treacherous journey. We could only surmise they left Cuba to get to Florida’s shores. Watching them, from a cruise ship balcony, I realized how fortunate and how blessed I am. Thankful for every day. Thankful for freedom. Thankful for a warm bed and food. Privileged to afford a cruise. Humbled to watch this scene unfold. Photos all taken on our cruise.
. . . put on roller skates and careen down the esplanade along the Charles River. Grinning, looking straight ahead. Faster, faster, and faster still. Wind blowing back my hair, tearing my eyes until the real world blurs and I am flying with wheels as my wings.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the vitual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today, asking folks to use the word “careen” within their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
The esplanade is a wonderful green space in Boston that in part, runs along the Charles River. It has a very long walking/bicycling/rollerskating path along the river itself and is only about 2 city blocks from where we live. It goes for miles and we often take walks there. For those of you who watch the Boston Pops 4th of July concert on television, the hatch where they perform is on the esplanade itself, just off the river. Photo from Pixabay.com
Mother Nature chagrined, shrouded in grey low-slung sky. Rains gush, pummel sideways as she weeps beyond control. Strong oaks uprooted, her scalp bared in raw splotches.
Gales punish the unrepentant. We the offenders struggle bending at right angles from the waist, plodding toward imagined escape. Our feeble umbrellas abandoned, their broken ribs litter the sodden path.
Has her sun forsaken us, our sins too great? Depression’s black hole inverted, is this vortex our fate? It drowns even the most optimistic, hope abandoned in storming grief. We fear the apocalypse has begun.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Idea for poem came from yesterday — waking up at 6 AM and finding trees outside our windows blowing like crazy in the midst of a Nor’easter that lasted for almost 12 hours. It downed many trees across the area. Many acrossBoston and surrounding area lost power from pummeling rain and wind gusts up to 80 mph. We remained safely indoors. Photo is in public domain in Pixabay.com and is not from Boston.
**I am a positive person – really I am! Sometimes I have no idea why the pen turns to the dark side.
Tituba, ‘tis time to rise. Come thee from thy grave. Tis one year since last we caroused ‘mongst these Salem fools. Help me tip the stone o’er my pet, Peeves. Though his skeleton be small, his rattling shall join ours this night. His, the only kindness in that cellar, waiting for the gallows to call. No human came to visit that dank hole. No other animal dared approach. Feared the noose be looped round their scrawny neck as well. Only Peeves, my dearest black cat, came and stayed, curled atop my feet to the last. Come Tituba, our metatarsals brittle though they be, shall haunt this town tonight. Plod these desecrated streets once again reminding all, we were unequivocally wronged.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Lisa asks us to consider our pet peeves, some human characteristic that irritates us and then somehow connect that in a poem with a Halloween or Samhain theme. I admit. I struggled with this prompt and so took a bit of poetic license here. This poem is in reference to Salem, Massachusetts’ infamous witch trials and the scores of people who descend on Salem over Halloween night.
Tituba was the first girl to be accused of practicing witchcraft during the 1692 witch trials.
For those of you who’ve never been to Salem, it is replete with witch museums, wicca stores, and even a sculpture of Elizabeth Montgomery as her character in the television sitcom Bewitched. Lest one think that is the totality of Salem, it is also home to the amazing Peabody Essex Museum, PEM for short. For over 200 years it has been dedicated to collecting, preserving and showcasing compelling artwork throughout history and from around the world.
She becomes the sun in his world. Dazed, stunned, smitten. Emotions whirled. Fierce sunbeam.
Parhelion in mocking sky, her beauty shines to mystify. Burned. Sunstruck.
Moist tempting lips smile to ensnare. Hips beckon, sway in daylight’s glare. Felled. Sunstroke.
Obsessed he beds her day and night primal, neurotic appetite. Sunscalded.
His money spent, he’d been cajoled. Drugged. Job over, she leaves him cold. Done. Sunset.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Grace hosts today and introduces us to the Compound Word Verse:
This complex form was created by Margaret R. Smith: Five 3-line stanzas. Fifteen lines total. Last line of each stanza must be a compound word. The compound words must share a common stem: IE sun, sunbeam, sunstruck, sunstroke, sunbathing, sunset. Rhyme scheme must be aab. Syllable count must be 8, 8, 3.
Parhelion: a sun dog or mock sun called a parhelion in meteorology, is an atmospheric optical phenomenon that consists of a bright spot to one or both sides of the sun.
Hanged in 1692, they haunt the streets of Salem still. Blood-drained ashen apparitions unabashedly bitter, they wander far beyond their graveyard. October tourists beware. They seek revenge from you who gawk, bring money to town’s coffers. Fury unleashed, ashcans ready to harvest your souls.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sarah asks us to use the word “ash” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I’ve used the word “ashen” and the word “ash” is hidden within three other words – can you find them?
Salem, Massachusetts is the home of the infamous Salem witch trials. Begun in the spring of 1692, Bridget Bishop was the first to be hung in June at Salem’s Gallows Hills. Nineteen more were hung that month. Some 150 were ultimately accused. There were other means of execution. Today, almost a half-million tourists flock to Salem in the month of October, frequenting the various witch museums, related shops, and of course, the graveyards.
lillian the home poet 