Out of reach. Shiny brunette hair ~ with squinted eyes, grey is silver. Unstoppable energy ~ spurts are good, naps are nice. Confidence on stiletto heels ~ comfort is better. Faded memories ~ photo albums roll back time.
Loved ones miles away, some forever gone. Living with empty spaces. Closets of clothes, clocks ticking, rocking chair, couch, kitchen table. All are there but emptiness fills us. The question becomes what is within our reach and how do we gird ourselves to move on, step by step, as we are left behind.
Might I take a seat here, please, inside this idyllic photograph? Feel tall grasses brush against bare shins, wiggle toes in flower petals and stems. Gaze at pristeen white barn settled in among the green, all quietly still that day.
I would lie back, eyes softly closed. Breathe in deeply, fresh cool air, untainted by cruelty, division, or derision. Eyes open, I would swim deeply amongst wispy billowing clouds dancing in sky blue patches above my head. Then . . . stretching my arms wide, I would move them up and down at my sides until a gentle flower/grass angel’s wings appear, unlike winter’s icey-cold snowy counterparts.
Rising up, I would take two giant steps away, look down and smile. There is my impression. Where grasses and blooms lie flat, there resides spring’s angel imprinted on the field.
In reality, I hold the photo in my hand. Its freshness, its simple beauty, reminds me of that which once was me many many years of springs ago. Naively unaware, just living in the moment, in those myriads of moments, unaware of bends in the road ahead.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting OLN (Open Link Night). Writers are welcome to share one poem of their choosing, no required length, format, or topic. ALTERNATIVELY, they may use the OPTIONAL prompt which I provide: write a poem inspired by the photograph above.
Teaching skills. Helping. Watching. Too soon the dividing line appeared, between the now and what was coming.
Responsibilities increased. Yours not ours. Your departures, more frequent, measured at first in hours, not miles.
Your wings. Expected, prepared for. We marveled and smiled. Waved at you . . . and then you were gone.
Distance multiplied. Time stretched separations. Hairline fractures of the heart, smiling our love through goodbyes.
Parenting children to adulthood. Learning to live through changing times, adjusting to the moving margins.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to write about a poem that somehow talks about margins. She gives many examples of margins. As a septuagenarian with two happily married children and five grandchildren, I thought about living through moving margins as a parent and thus, this poem.
Crepe paper streamers, I used to string them for birthday celebrations. Now I have crepey skin.
Shiney brunette hair blow-dried just so. Now grey, held back with barrettes, away from eyes with sagging lids.
I used to chase little ones in games of duck-duck-goose, hike glaciers and dance till dawn.
Morphed by scores of years, still I smile. Time slows my pace, cherished memories accrue.
I occasionally put on hiking boots, they just don’t trek as far. And I do dance, but not nearly as late.
Most importantly, still I love. More deeply, more completely with every passing day.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to write a “despite and still” poem. Photo taken two weeks ago on the heliport of Celebrity’s Constellation during our 24 night back-to-back cruises, including a TransAtlantic from Barcelona to Tampa, Florida. Thankful for every day.
Our road, rain slicked by spring storms, slippery driving through rivulets. Garden store trips for flower flats bring beautiful garden blooms.
Summer haze simmers above its asphalt. Seashore drives with our kids from toddler through teenage years. Back seat songsters to quiet texters.
Our road, dressed in autumn’s finest. Bright yellows to burnt oranges, like bouncing shimmering can-can skirts. Costume changes in passing seasons.
Difficult on many winter days, snow covered, sometimes impassable. Homebound, cocooned by drifts, content to savor relaxing by the fire.
Our road, our passage to and from. Just the two of us. Then three, then four. Now as two again.
The straightaways always faster than any other part, made distance and time fly by. Used to be our favorite parts.
Our road, these days? We prefer the meandering parts. The curves and bends that slow us down, taking longer to reach the end of the road.
It’s Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Sanaa asks us to post any poem of our choosing, or an ekphrastic poem related to the image she provided above.
NOTE: Sanaa will also host dVerse LIVE on Saturday, from 10 to 11 AM New York time. Look HERE for an embedded link that will take you with audio and video to a LIVE meeting where folks from around the globe will read a poem of their choosing aloud to the group – OR just drop in to watch and listen. The more the merrier!
. . . remember that old song? Of course you do. Sing it with me! Skip to my Lou, my darlin’!
Let’s skip stones across a pond and then, chalk in hand, draw hopscotch on a sidewalk. Later you can pour me a Scotch and we’ll pour over old photo albums laughing at our childhood antics.
A bit puckered out and perhaps tipsy too, we’ll gawk at the stars, sitting on the stoop. Stooped shoulders with a myriad of wrinkles. Madeline L’Engle’s wrinkles in time singing Skip to my Lou, my darlin’! Oh let’s just skip the malarkey and admit it.
We’re septuagenarians in love with life!
Melissa has us zeugmatically speaking for today’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She explains, “zeugma is defined by Merriam-Webster as ‘a figure of speech in which a word applies to two others in different senses.’ Zeugma is a rhetorical device that is used to emphasize, add humor, or surprise a reader.” Hopefully, I’ve done this correctly with the words skip and pour. The words Scotch, stoop, and wrinkle are played with a bit here as well. Madeline L’Engle’s famous novel, A Wrinkle in Time, is also referenced . . . sort of!
Fly with me, my love, once more into the skies to sail upon the seas. Far away lands, new tastes and sounds. Kisses iced with salty breezes, dessert to cap our days. When sun’s warmth wanes, stars will glisten above the wake. Through all our travels when I am with you, I am home.
Victrola plays Glen Miller’s Moonlight Serenade. She sits dozing, blue-veined hands quiet, elbows on doily-covered armrests. Asleep, she was dancing with him. Awakening to reality she stares at his empty chair. Only a figment in her dreams now, she still misses him every day.
A quadrille written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today, asking folks to include the word “figment” (or a form of the word) in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image created in Bing Create.
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” Heraclitus
Some years back we found ourselves near the town I grew up in – Waukegan, Illinois. I’d not been there in decades. We decided to take a detour in our planned trip and drive by some of my old haunts.
Sadly, the house I lived in for my first nine years was in a state of disrepair. Rickety porch steps, missing shingles. My mother’s beloved lilac bushes were no more. The downtown where I’d “scooped the loop” in the front seat of an old Chevy was barely recognizable. Not one store name was the same. Most jarring was my walk through the Catholic church I grew up in. How could it be so small? I remembered lighting candles inside a hushed space – a side grotto/cavern made of dark rock. There I stood, inside the grotto, looking at battery operated candles and grey plastic simulated stone walls. After lighting a candle and saying a small prayer for my mother, I decided to end our nostalgic tour. I wanted to keep the rest of my memories intact.
stream rushes surely rocks tumble and change their shape nothing stays as is
Frank is hosting Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. His prompt for today is to “imbue our haibun with mono no aware. Write on any topic that you like as long as your haibun embodies that wistful sadness marking the beauty of transience.” A haibun combines prose and a haiku.Image is a photo I took some years back on one of our vacations.
Past their prime, over ripe apples hang in the balance. Juice oozes, fruit drops to the ground breaks open and fleshy mush spills. Bright sunshine illuminates spoilage as ants and maggots hover. I found a box, cleaned it out, and filled it anew.
Past their prime professors snore in ivory towers, deliver lectures heard years before. A ninety-year old senator stumbles, scheduled to serve until 2029. Justices can wear gowns until they die unlike ballerinas who ditch their tutus when the musculature gives out. I found a box, cleaned it out, and filled it anew.
So here’s some words to consider then. Timely picking does make good pies. No matter the paper put round the fish, they do eventually put up a stench. The crowd generally cheers louder when you leave the court at the top of your game. I found a box, cleaned it out, and filled it anew.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Today we’re introduced to Bop Poetry created by Aafa Michael Weaver and asked to write a poem that follows the form below: Create a 23 line poem, in 3 stanzas. The stanzas must be ordered in this fashion: 1. a 6 line stanza that poses a problem 2. an 8 line stanza that expands the problem 3. a 6 line stanza that solves the problem AND, here is the tricky part, each of the stanzas must have one additional line that is the refrain (repeated) and it must be either “I found a box and put a room in it” OR we can add our own ending to “I found a box . . .”
FYI: Senator Chuck Grassley from Iowa is 90 years old and his term in the Senate does not expire until 2029. And, lest you think I am complaining about the age of President Biden: here in the U.S. we are faced with a choice between two men for President. One is 77 and the other is 81. So yes, I do wish there was new blood on both sides. However, these are the two men and one will become our next president. The difference between the two men could not be more stark. I fear for this country, for women, for my grandchildren, for the environment, for immigrants, for universities and schools if Donald Trump becomes president again.
lillian the home poet 