Dubbing Me

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Mother named me Lillian
her mother’s namesake.
My father’s twin sister’s moniker as well,
much to my mother’s chagrin.
She chose the middle name of Mae
after a favorite aunt,
the likes of who I don’t recall.
But because of her,
twelve cousins called me Lilly Mae.
To everyone else, I was Lillian

The momentous moment of change came
when my parents left me on my own
to begin my college days.
First person I met on that idyllic campus,
I announced my name as Lill
and that’s who I became.
Years later, titles attached themselves.
Mrs. Hallberg, high school teacher.
Dr. Hallberg, the PhD kind.
Dean Hallberg, career topper.

Now rejuvenated (never say retired)
I’m happily back to Lill.
Except when I’m lillian-the-home-poet.
Capitalization not preferred
because after all, it’s just me.


NAPOWRIMO Day 21. Prompt: Write a poem in which you muse on your name and nicknames you’ve been given.

PHOTO of my mother and I and my new two-wheeler bicycle. From tricycle to this. In the 1950s, either they didn’t have small bikes or “training wheels” for kids to learn on or else my folks could only afford to buy me one “big girl’s bike”. One distinct memory I have of my childhood is my dad hanging on to the back of this bike, running along on the sidewalk while I was trying to balance, feeling like I was flying and then looking back and seeing him half-way down the block behind me! I don’t recall if I immediately fell or not….I just remember that feeling and then seeing him so far away, realizing I was riding on my own!

Phoenix Among Us

lillian10 Comments

Still I rise
writ Maya Angelou,
ParaOlympians say too.
Said John Lewis while making
good trouble and Martin Luther King
as he dreamed aloud that day. Say organ
donors and recipients. Smiles Albus Dumbledore
on the big screen every time we see Fawkes reborn.


NAPOWRIMO Day 20. Prompt: Write a poem that includes an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase. Image from Pixabay.com

Click here to see and watch Maya Angelou read her iconic poem STILL I RISE.

Also shared at OLN April 23rd with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.

Garden’s Dilemma

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In his dodder of thyme,
the current head DC gardener
continues to uproot and rip out
Justicia, Honesty, and roses of all kind.
As if they were the weeds.
In their place he sows and propagates
Crown Imperial, Wormswood, Snakesfoot,
King-cups and Creeping Cereus.

This prickly pear of a man
is in no way a humble plant.
More like a mouse-eared-chickweed
forever noshing on Fool’s Parsley,
basking under the shade
of his pruned Judas Trees.

Outside his sphere, weeping willows
flail in dire need of gentle balm.
They must find a new sage, soon.
Both Burpee and the
Farmer’s Almanac warn
the upcoming planting season
will be a crucial one.

NAPOWRIMO Day 19. Today’s prompt: Using Kate Greenaway’s Language of Flowers, write a poem in which you muse on your selections of flowers names and meanings from her extensive list.

*** All of the flowers and plants I’ve used from her book, are italicized in the poem. I’ve kept the capitalization only on those that are actually used in the poem as the plant/flower itself. Reference is paid to the Old Farmer’s Almanac and the Burpee Seed Catalogue.

IMAGE of the Jacqueline Kennedy Rose Garden at the White House, courtesy of the National Park Service website.

Damsel of the Night

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Into the night she fled
nerves awry, feelings dead.
Tricked by his deceitful lies
no one had listened to her cries.

Castle and dreams now miles away
heart faltering, heavy as clay.
Past the forest deep and dank
she came upon a riverbank.

Exhausted, she gave in to pain
collapsed as thunder struck with rain.
Hands to breast, as breath grew short,
she smiled as Death offered his support.


NAPOWRIMO Day 18. Prompt: Today we don’t challenge you to write all of a long, dramatic, narrative poem, but we invite you to try your hand at writing a poem that could be a section or piece of one. Include rhyme, include unlikely and dramatic scenes…basically a poem with the plot of an opera!

AI image generated on Bing Create.

‘Tis True, Mr. Wordsworth

lillian2 Comments

Daffodils interrupt doldrums
break through badgering news.
They brighten my day,
my thoughts, my views.

They do indeed flutter and dance,
providing a joyful scene.
They grace the banks of the Charles,
greet me with bright ruffled faces.

They are sunshine
atop green leafy stems.
How can I be lonely
as they smile at me?

NAPOWRIMO Day 17. Prompt: Write a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet. My poem is in response to William Wordsworth’s famous poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud. See below for his complete poem.

Photos taken two days ago on my walk along the Charles River, from the Boston side. (Cambridge, Harvard and MIT are on the other side).

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

The Message of Sunrise

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There is a calming
an acute listening
as I sit enveloped in darkness
waiting, watching.

Darkness dissipates.
Low-lying orange-red layer
ombres into blue-black sky.
Then . . .

. . . ever so slowly . . .
a sliver . . . an arc . . .
an entire glowing orb.
Nature’s metaphorical reminder.

Even in the darkness
hope does rise
and become
reality.


NAPOWRIMO Day 16. Prompt: write a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught you or told you.

Images are photos I’ve taken over the years at our beloved Provincetown at the very tip of Cape Cod. Same rental, on the ocean, for 25 years. Sunrises from the deck never disappoint.

Where Does Love Go?

lillian12 Comments

Family of four,
both mother, father gone now.
Their love still lives on
in the way their children love.
Circle of love unending.


A Tanka written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Kim asks us to write a poem using the title Where Does Love Go and answer the question within the poem.

Go to https://lillianthehomepoet.com/2026/03/24/a-haibun-family-tradition/ to understand my personal meaning for the Circle of Love. Image from Pixabay.com

Tanka: a Japanese poetic form of 5 lines with the syllabic count of 5-7-5-7-7 Some say it’s a haiku that keeps on going!

Poetry for me is . . .

lillian9 Comments

power and magic and lilt
and creativity and rhythm and feelings
and making sense with words.
Rhyme scheme, haiku, free verse
and so much more.

WTF? NGL.
Will the flying thumbs of today
have the patience to spell it all out?
I’m just asking, will poetry survive?
FAWC, I’m SMH and wondering.
You may be BWL,
but this is FR.
SRSLY, PLZ tell me
how to write a sonnet,
create a rhythmic flow
or express my POV
using this shorthand chicanery?
IKR?
Maybe like Basho,
there’s an enterprising new poet
waiting in the wings
who will add RIZZ
to this new language.
Teach us oldsters to translate.
PAW. I’m watching.
I’ve got TFW
something new is on the horizon
and the actual problem is,
I’m just really over the hill.


TRANSLATION

What the fuck? Not gonna lie.
Will the flying thumbs of today
have the patience to spell it all out?
I’m just asking, will poetry survive?
For anyone who cares,
I’m shaking my head and wondering.
You may be bursting with laughter,
but this is for real.
Seriously, please tell me
how to write a sonnet,
create a rhythmic flow
or express my point of view
using this shorthand chicanery?
I know right?
Maybe like Basho,
there’s an enterprising new poet
waiting in the wings
who will add charisma and charm
to this new language.
Teach us oldsters to translate.
Parents are watching. I’m watching.
I’ve got that feeling when
something new is on the horizon
and the actual problem is,
I’m just really over the hill.

NAPOWRIMO Day 14. Prompt today is to “write a poem that bridges (whether smoothly or not) the seeming divide between poetry and technological advances.” AI image generated on Bing Create.

In the time of Emily Dickinson . . .

lillian12 Comments

She stood on the Trader’s Block. Men walked by and stopped to examine her. Many with whips in their hands. Some more gentlemanly with canes. Either way. They stopped and stared. Demanded she open her mouth; forced her to do so. Were her teeth in good shape? They all wanted a healthy robust woman to work in their fields. They didn’t know she could read. She’d seen the poster on display. Slaves for Sale Today. That horrible publication. Is the auction of the mind included with the auction of the body? For her, it will never be so. She can read. She can think. She can read the stars. She will not be long with whomever buys her today. She will try to escape again and this time she will succeed.

It’s Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.

Today, we’re asked to write a piece of prose (144 words or less) that includes the line “Publication is the auction of the mind” from Emily Dickinson’s poem Publication – is the Auction. We can change the punctuation of the line, but we may not change the order of the words. Emily Dickinson lived in the time of slavery. She was not an activist on the subject however, the subject was actually or metaphorically a subject of some of her poems.

I chose not to include an illustration today.