My Love and I

Wine me this evening.
Let us sit together
sipping and listening.
No words needed.
Waves roll in, roll out.
No other sound.
Love can be silent.

Side by side many years.
Children raised, married,
parenting their own.
We have time to reflect
on what was,
what is,
and what is yet to come.

The years ahead,
far less than those behind.
And yet we smile,
sit together,
sipping and listening.

Photo taken this week in Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

Attitude is a Choice

Sum days her mirror reflects the years.
Grooves etched beside eyes,
crevices left from emotional stress.
Blue veined highwayed hands tattle,
leaving behind tremor shaken script.
But open-toed shoes reveal her true self.
Shining sterling peace-sign toe ring,
defiant purple glitter-polish on her nails.

Quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today De is hosting and asks us to use the word “groove” or a form of the word, in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Image from Pixabay.com

At my age . . .

. . . my to-do-list is
much too mundane to do.
*Laundry
*PT exercises
*Vacuum
*Clean out drawers

So I sit, pen in hand
page waiting to be filled,
adorned by words. 
Words like scintillation
fantasia, pomegranate
or perhaps persimmon.

Images, dormant in my mind,
waiting to appear on the page.
Orange sherbet sun
flirting with shapeshifter clouds.
Raucous carousel horses
racing round a blurred world.

Pen over vacuum? Easy choice
to clear the cobwebs from my brain.

Image from pixabay.com

The Gathering

Love and laughter abound
from youngest to oldest, three generations.
Memories shared, stories told, memories made.
The circle of love goes around and round . . .
. . . we are blessed to still be aboard.
Thankful for every day.

Traditional cousins’ bench shot. In the top one, youngest is 2 and on the bottom, she’s almost 10!
Fifty-one years…..thankful for every day.
Hail hail, the gang’s all here….
Our much loved children and grandchildren.

All photos from last weekend….and what a joyful time we had at a marvelous VRBO farmhouse in Virginia!

Abandoned . . .

. . . from another time.
Seemingly parked
in a god-forsaken place.
Resting place to rust,
deteriorate more.

This image.
Or someone’s once loved one
sent to somewhere
that is out of sight,
out of mind.

Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting and directs us to twelve images at Glenn Buttkus’ photography site, South Sound Minimalist Photos. Glenn is not only an excellent photographer, he is a fellow dVerse poet!

We are to use one of his twelve photos as inspiration for our poem. I chose photo #7: Old Rusty Truck which Glenn describes as “The isolated Model T truck bears the weight and pride of a hundred years of rust, becoming prairie art and sentinel.” Interesting how once the photo (or the poem) is set to paper/blog, the interpretation is in the hands of the viewer/reader. I saw the photo as quite sad and hence this poem.

Lesson in Timing

Diapers, bedtime stories,
Christmas stockings.
Driving them to lessons,
reading report cards.
Wound up like a top
I whizzed through the arcane.
Now in my golden years
I think back and realize.
I should have paid more mind.
The arcane was indeed
the miraculous.

Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and ask people to include the word “wound” or a form of the word in a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Notice that “wound” is a homograph. There are two pronunciations and each has a different meaning: He suffered a wound in battle. VS She is wound up like a top. Folks are free to use either pronunciation/meaning or both! If using both, their poem must still consist of exactly 44 words, not including the title.

Photos are of our children who are now 45 and 46! And yes that’s me, about forty years ago!

Light the Candles!

What’s one year more?
I am NOT a dinosaur!

I’m thrilled to turn seventy-four,
let me give that an underscore.
Some decry growing old,
equate grey hair and wrinkles
with creeping mold,
and simply cannot be consoled.

Not as nimble with a few pains?
Hands mapped in purple veins?
Come on people, grab the reins!
What more could you ask for
than to celebrate one year more
with your family and people you adore?

So I’ll put on my tap shoes for a loud dance,
blow out the candles at the very first chance.
Then I’ll give my husband a meaningful glance
and celebrate seventy four with a night of romance!

Written for OLN – Open Link Night – at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. OLN means we can choose any one poem to post today – no specific prompt, form, rhyme scheme, or length. And since today is indeed my birthday, I wrote this little ditty. I do believe it is a privilege to grow old. I continue to be thankful for every day.

Tryst at Pine Woods

They met late in life. Widow and widower, their rooms were down the hall from each other at Pine Woods Rest Home. He insisted on being called James. Everyone knew her by Sunny. They both despised bland food and working jig saw puzzles. She liked flippy organza dresses and he always wore a tie. While many dozed in front of the blaring television, they shouted out answers to Jeopardy in a friendly competition. That Christmas season, they sat beside each other holding hands during sing-alongs. On New Year’s Eve, they joined in on the countdown at 9 PM. In her silk nightie that night, as the clock glowed 11:30, she heard the pre-arranged quiet knock at her door. “If you are a dreamer, come in” she trilled. This would indeed be a dream come true. Who said lovemaking is the domain of the young?

Today I’m hosting Prosery Monday at dVerse. In Prosery, writers are asked to write a piece of flash fiction that can be no more than 144 words, sans title, and include a specific line from a poem that the host provides. The line must be exactly as written in the original poem, except the punctuation can be changed. The line I’m having people include in their flash fiction today is If you are a dreamer, come in. It’s from Shel Silverstein’s poem Invitation from his book of poetry for children entitled Where the Sidewalk Ends. Prosery Mondays are the ONLY days at dVerse where we do not write poetry – we write flash fiction that includes a specified line from a poem.

Photo by alevision.co on Unsplash in the public domain.

Kid by Design

Box of colored chalk in hand,
hmmm…. how do I do this again?
First, pick the perfect sidewalk spot.
White chalk, start close,
draw one square.
Yellow chalked rectangle on top,
divide it into two and three.
White chalk again,
I like consistency.
Draw square four, same as one.
Green rectangle right above that,
evenly make into five and six.
White me a seven.
Orange rectangle next,
divide precisely into eight and nine.
Sky blue ten crowns them all,
all squares point to heaven.
Brush straggly gray hair off face.
Ooh yes, scratch nose where it itches.
Small rock in hand, stand steady, stand tall.
Neighbor man walks by and smiles,
stares at my colorful cheeks and nose.
“Hi” I say. “Care to play?”
“Nah” he says, “but you go ahead.”
So . . . stoop and throw . . .
hopscotch through my private rainbow
right on up to that promising blue.

A “List Poem” for the NaPoWriMo Day 9 prompt. Image from Pixabay.com