Five dogs stayed impatiently
on a park bench, sitting dutifully.
“She’s coming by soon!
The bitch makes us swoon.
Stop posing us so photogenically!”
Photo taken on yesterday’s walk along the Charles River.
Sunday Limerick
Hope on the Horizon
In the darkness before dawn
we await so much.
Equality, justice,
civility, health.
I feel the arms of hope
reach out to comfort us.
Envelop our earth’s girth,
wrap ‘round this country’s soul.
In the darkness before dawn
we know in our hearts
the sun always perseveres.
It rises phoenix-like,
breaks through tumultuous clouds
strikes down darkness
and births a new day.
Photo: a recent dawn in our beloved Provincetown.
Apocalypse
Winds ripple
wind chimes sing
I sit basking in autumn sun.
Winds howl
news spews discordance
I cringe in easy chair.
Storm breaks
Covid strikes hard
I blink in disbelief.
Where is the calm
as sirens scream cross seas?
God help us all.
I am usually a Pollyanna…..but these times can test our frame of mind and make us feel the gloom and doom. I choose to write out my feelings. It is a way to rid me of those I do not want to harbor. Having done that, I now shall smile with hope. May we all somehow do our part to brush away the storms that seem to surround us these days; and pray for those who are caught up in them and suffering in these times.
Serene Me
Serenity is
all I need,
a verb I can make be.
Serenity is bliss.
Serenity is what color?
Not raging red
nor egregious green.
Pastel me serene.
Serenity is far away,
not freedom from the storm.
Serenity is a firefly
flitting out of reach,
on and off, off and on,
reminding me.
Serenity
is a verb I can make be.
Today Bjorn is hosting MTB (Meet the Bar) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. He prompts us to “use the google autocomplete functionality as a trigger to create lists to trigger poems . . . for instance what happens when I try to google ‘love is.’” In this case, I googled Serenity is… The lines italicized in the poem are some that came up with my query.
Photo is from last year’s visit to our beloved Provincetown: no photoshopping…the sky looked like this! Color me serene.
Seasonal Tanka
Impatient Autumn
ready to turn down the heat,
tired of leafy greens.
Dresses up in cancan skirts,
red-orange petticoats the trees.
Tanka: five line poem following a 5-7-5-7-7 syllabic format.
Awakening of a Septuagenarian
I am a product of white privilege.
I hula-hooped and pogo-sticked through youth
scholarshipped through college on the debate team
married, bought a house, and had two children.
We had two dogs who roamed our big back yard.
a vegetable garden and raspberry bushes.
Our kids had good friends, played board games
took music lessons, learned to drive,
went to high school swing choir competitions.
They went to college, married,
bought a house, and had kids
who took music lessons and walked to school.
None of us had the proverbial picket fence,
but sure seemed we had everything else.
I had no idea there was a Green Book.
At seventy-three, I am appalled, frightened,
and petrified for this country.
I applaud all who take a knee
and decry the knee that pressed,
without mercy, on George Floyd’s neck –
8 minutes and 15 seconds of deliberate hell.
I decry the lack of justice for Breonna Taylor.
I decry the narcissistic occupant
whose utter disregard for science,
truth, the environment, the letter of the law,
sacrifices made by our armed forces,
has decimated the moral fiber of this country,
left us with 200,000 lives lost to Covid.
And the number grows.
Yet people follow this self-centered prat,
gather in enclosed spaces
no masks, no social distance,
cheer on this person
masquerading as our president.
The occupant who doesn’t give a rip about them ~
except to keep him in power.
I write, I speak, I donate to senate contests,
and I WILL VOTE.
I maintain hope in the good.
That is my protest.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where today Grace asks us to consider protest poetry.
Provincetown Farewell
Day dallies before night,
languorous not angry.
No streaks of orange-red.
No temper tantrum flares.
No sinking glaring half-orb
stamping her rays.
This evening she dabbles,
pastel palette en plein aire.
Blushing, she rouges blue sky.
Sun butter yellows upon her brush,
delicately blend into rosey hues.
Bending closer, stroking more,
soft kisses touch ocean calm
till violet hues meld into scene.
She pauses quietly in her beauty,
then softly fades farewell.
Originally published a number of years ago. Publishing again today as we return to Boston. Instead of our usual two weeks, with walks into town to meander galleries, shops and eat at restaurants, in this age of Covid, we spent just 8 days in hibernation at our rental by the ocean. But, Provincetown, even without all the hoopla and town attractions, never disappoints.
Sunset photos taken in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. No photoshopping; no edits. Just pointed my phone and clicked. Breathtaking evening as you can see. Easy to understand why artists and poets (including Mary Oliver) flock to Provincetown.
Ancient Artist’s Final Days
Alone his last weeks,
squirreled away in abandoned dune shack
sole window open to ocean’s ebb and flow.
Easel, sawhorse-table, canned goods,
sleeping bag and brushes. Minimal décor.
She’d left him years ago,
but each day she came closer.
Porcelain skin, barely blushed cheeks
velvet brown eyes as he remembered them,
brimming love.
Pale coral tinted mouth,
retouched each day.
Gently he brushes her lips,
moistens them as mornings dawn,
heart searing, needing her.
Ribboned strapless sheath
painted to reveal sultry throat, soft shoulders.
Delicate fingers hold blooming vine.
Each rose carefully painted,
petaled to life.
Until at last he smells her scent,
roses permeate his soul.
One last rose lovingly placed
centered within her crowning hair,
her essence complete.
And so he sleeps his final sleep
as gulls squall in the distance
and waves create his elegy.
His bluing lips smile in repose,
knowing she is nearby.
I am hosting at dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m delighted to have reconnected with artist Catrin Welz-Stein who is graciously allowing us to select one of four provided images as motivation for our poetic creations today. I’ve chosen the beautiful image above – it was hard to choose as all four are magical in my opinion. You can find more of her work here: Catrin Welz-Stein, Join us today to see art-inspired poetry – what is called ekphrastic poetry.
Celestial Journal
Eyes spy these skies.
Robin’s egg blue ‘round brilliant yolk.
Dreary gloom leaking drizzly days.
Snowflake cutouts fairy-floating.
Impressionist pinks and mauves.
Ominous grey turning dark,
thunderclap cymbals crashing loud.
Cantankerous clouds tango dipping.
Firecracker sun fizzling out,
begrudgingly cedes to starry starry night.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the world. Today, De asks us to write a quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) that includes the word “sky” or a form of the word. Photos are from various years in our beloved Provincetown, except for Van Gogh’s Starry Starry Night (one of my favorite paintings of all time).
Provincetown Good Night
Early fall breeze wisps over me
touches my brow, my nose,
swirls ’round the room.
Plastic window blinds plink a tune.
Lying, just barely awake,
my hand touches yours.
Fifty years together,
twenty years enjoying this place.
Provincetown’s oceanic lullabies,
gull squalls and answering calls,
raucous Commercial street walks,
and paint-brushed skies to end the days.
Lying next to me, this year’s fourth night,
your fingers curve round mine.
Your lips puff out some snoozing air
and I smile.
Eye lids heavy,
I imagine us young again.
Dancing in the stars
riding on moonbeam tails,
and I grin myself to sleep.
Photo taken in Provincetown from our deck, BC (before Covid) in 2019. This year we are hunkered down, still enjoying the ocean and beautiful scenes similar to this, but maintaining our Covid-bubble. We are not walking in to town to galleries, restaurants, and shops. Here’s hoping next year will find us on raucous Commercial street again!
lillian the home poet 