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
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.
All photos from last weekend….and what a joyful time we had at a marvelous VRBO farmhouse in Virginia!
. . . 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 hundredyears 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.
Knees creak. Arms once firm, crepe in thinning skin. Hands stiff in morning show off puffed blue veins, like highways on ancient road map. Grey hair brittles, mine still thick, yours not so. Burgeoning cataracts blur our pleasure but still we embrace life and love, changed as it is.
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!
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.
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.
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.