Ancient eucalyptus tree. Pock marked bark-skin, peeling, barren in places, adds beauty to greening canyon.
Elderly man in thick glasses, blue-veined hands hanging limply, shuffles across street. Driver sits, hand poised over horn.
Musing, I ponder our value system. We should learn from nature.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse where the word to use (or a form of the word) in our exactly 144 word poem sans title is “muse.”
Photos taken yesterday from our patio, which opens to a beautiful canyon. We’re in an apartment rental in sunny San Diego until early March, escaping Boston’s winter (as in 11.2 inches of snow on Friday!).
I seldom use it – the full-length mirror. When I do, it makes me wonder, who is that person?
I’ve had fun with crepe paper. That weird webbing you could stretch. Make it wider and longer. Hung it all over the family room for many a birthday party. So I have crepe skin on my arms. Okay, be honest. In other places too. I understand the term’s origins.
How did my mother climb into that frame? Save your clucking tongue, your “you haven’t changed a bit” comments. I prefer to see my value in other ways. In my husband’s eyes. In my daughter’s forty-seven year old smile. In my forty-five year old son’s weekly calls. In the tik toks and quick texts shared with five grandkids.
I’ll wear capri pants, sleeveless tops, sparkly eye shadow below my thinning brows. I love my almost pure white streak in the midst of my grey hair. Save your tears for somebody else. I’m quite content to be a septuagenarian. The mirror be damned!
Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’ve asked folks to go to the website https://mybirthdayhits.com and plug in their birth date. The site then gives you the musical hit that made #1 on the charts for every birthday you’ve celebrated until 2021. So for example, if your birthday is today, September 28th and you were born in 1952, you plug in that date and the site will give you the #1 hit for every year on September 28th from 1952 until 2021! AND the site gives you a recording you can listen to as well. Such fun! So the prompt today is to take at least one of the #1 hits from your birthdate and include the song title, word for word, in your poem. You can use more than one #1 hit if you wish. My birthday is May 13th: In 2007, my 60th birthday, the #1 hit was Makes Me Wonder by Maroon 5; in 2021, for my 74th birthday, the #1 hit was Save Your Tears by The Weeknd. You’ll find those titles in my poem today.
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
. . . 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.
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.
Brother and sister together again after 18 months. 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!
. . . 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.
lillian the home poet 