The same white clouds,
the stuff of wispy filaments framed in blue
float o’er my head in quietude.
And soar above bright sunflower fields
flower heads tilted to the sky
in warm rays that beam on me.
And witness from above
far away killing fields
acres of blood with heads askew
eyes frozen grotesque in pain.
These same sentinel clouds,
all seeing
all knowing
how can that be?
Boundaries between this world and the next
blur as I stand in mist
feet upon the earth, arms raised
billowness seeping from the sky.
I tip my face into the hovering cloud
spirit worlds surround me
and you are here,
my cheeks moist from your caress.
Slowly, sadness comes with warmth
as sun clears the air, blues the sky
eyes tear to realize
I am grounded, and you
are truly gone.
In response to Daily Post Challenge: Boundaries. Photos from dome car ride near Anchorage, Alaska.
My mother lived with Amy Lowell.
Wrong preposition.
In, she lived in
a Boston housing complex
with a plaque.
Did you know her?
Amy, not Helen.
Tomboy turned poet-ess.
Way before Maya.
Not Emily.
Less famous.
Except there’s a plaque
where Helen Cecile lived.
Photos: Amy Lowell Apartment Complex in Boston, the plaque and Amy Lowell (1874 – 1925). Born in Brookline, MA won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry posthumously in 1926. First published poem appeared in the Atlantic Monthly in 1910. First published collection of her poetry, A Dome of ManyColured Glass appeared in 1912. Maya refers to poet Maya Angelou; Emily to Emily Dickinson. Last photo is Helen Cecile, my mother, in her last year of life. She was born in Waukegan, Illinois and moved with us to Boston in 1997 – lived in the Amy Lowell Apartments and died in 1999.
In the misty dawn,
at the abyss of my dream
limbs shudder,
charred pleas in ebony.
Seedlings lie in state,
interred by ash.
Plundered by flame,
the earth crackles for foolish men
and soft rain begins to fall,
her tears for grandeur lost.
It was a short notice.
Helen Cecile is predeceased
by Charles Andrew and Charles Gruenwald Jr,
her husband and son.
God knows, she’d lived the last eight years
impatiently waiting to join them.
It moved with her when she was left alone.
An eight by ten picture from a 1930s Life Magazine
a dark haired young nurse in white cap
surrounded by an aura of glowing light.
Her nurses’ training lasted six months.
Instead of earning a nurse’s pin
she eloped
and eight months later
put my brother to her breast.
The room was empty when I took it down.
Water-stained backing, script barely readable.
My dearest Helen,
No one can take this away from you.
Sister Everista 1937
For sixty years,
she’d kept her dream
in a plastic frame .
Revised from original post on April 17….to no acclaim except my neice’s phone call about this poem, about her grandma. My mom —
Through tiers of life
your spirit
my muse
always.
In response to the Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge: what (or who) is your Muse?
She stood at the crossroads of dusk
mourning smile upon her lips,
and slowly stepped across.
She wondered
as she tapped the frame slightly askew
replaced the dirty coffee mug on his Chilewich placemat
shuffled the mail so her bill was on top
and turned their bathroom faucet handle just enough
to let the water drip in slow motion,
will he know she’s still with him,
not quite yet a fully embodied angel
in that other world?
Written from a writing prompt in my June Challenge Course: write within a constraint, IE a one sentence poem.
She was a collector.
Shelves crowded with knick knacks,
salt and pepper shakers, silver spoons
Avon bottles and beanie bags.
National Geographics on every table,
grampa’s pipe still resting
in the Illinois shaped tin ash tray.
And that was just downstairs.
Climbing up the wooden creaking stairs
revealed a musty attic world.
Windows, long sealed shut
looked down on a weed covered yard,
sidewalks where she drew hop scotches.
Cobwebs bruhsed aside,
we found two trunks, rusty latches
opened decades of memories.
Grampa’s morning coat and grey ascot,
folded atop her yellowed wedding dress,
fragile lace-edged mutton sleeves.
A seed pearl hat pin firmly afixed
to a Juliet cap with fragile tulle veil,
so delicate still.
And there, below the clothes,
the small white leather bible,
wrapped in once white supple leather gloves.
The final layer,
a stack of valentines
tied in faded ribbon.
Their loving epitaph etched
in a tombstone seven miles away,
more alive here
in this trunk of memories.
We looked like that.
Proud nine year old, awkward
holding three month me, a treasure
until five years later
pest to your teenage hormones.
You, proud new daddy
me, awkward gawky sister,
new aunt in braces
and lollipop bra.
You, my tuxedo handsome usher
black shiny shoes on white sheeted aisle.
Me, excited oh-so-young bride
barely noticed your proud eyes and smile.
You, father of five
tee ball games and packed full car.
Held your newborn niece,
gentleness on your face.
No photos last time
you so cold and me so flushed.
In front of multitudes
you absolutely still, I wept you.
Pictures stopped. Not you with me,
no you with anyone.
Not in anger, joy or silliness,
just stopped.
Death’s reality lives
in happy photo albums.
Same people, changed by age,
with no you.
My brother, nine years older than me. Lost suddenly, too soon at 51.
“Not to worry” he’d say on the phone. Love these pictures. Love his family.
lillian the home poet 