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.
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.
I lie perfectly still, face to sky
on a clear plastic air mattress
plumped with my breath.
Sea breeze ruffles tendrils,
flutter-touch my forehead
warmed by afternoon sun.
Softly bobbing near the shore
fingers trail in cool waters
while ocean croons its song.
I drift, eyes closed
through barriers of time
afloat in my mother’s womb.
This was a challenging prompt in my September 21 Day Challenge course: Use description but notice the difference between language that shows the reader a world, and language that tells a reader what you (or your speaker) think about it or feel about.
Gin and tonic on the rocks
atop a Cape Cod hill
overlooking white sail dots
on forever ocean scape.
I drift backward on the waves
to days on my old Boot Hill,
surrounded by empty fields
new subdivision coming soon.
Crouched low behind tall weeds
brambles with stick-on burrs
scratched knobby eleven year old knees,
we stalked bad guys never seen.
Rode horses round that dirt mound
inspired by westerns on console tvs.
Buster browns galloped and dusty laces flew,
head strong imaginations with no reins.
Parched by the high noon sun
horses unhitched and left to roam,
we walked home, hand in hand
to lemonade in aluminum glasses.
And we wondered how old
the Lone Ranger really was.
Photo by Elvis Santana.
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 —
We walk, you in front of me
one created flesh and bone
the other born of sun
elongated faceless gray.
Seamlessly
we stroll the beach
arms out wide, now close in
darkness plays with light.
I stop you stop
your head turns as mine.
We follow a gull’s flight
rising from the sea.
If I turn, reverse my course
will you dance behind,
like the kite that zigs and zags
when its master loosens hold?
Revised, revisited from a very early post. How I love Cape Cod and playing with my shadow!
Plop
Patter
Ping
Slow steady nocturnal rain
taps on the yellow-green ceiling
of my ancient canvas tent.
Comfort seeps in as I burrow deep
in my cocoon zippered bag,
crisp cold nose, just outside the seam.
Lids shutter slowly as ears perk to listen.
Thoughts float in a cool haze.
A hooting owl sits sheltered
by spring’s green-yellow canopy.
The drip, drop, patter
plops above its feathered head.
Dreaming now,
a moon sliver guides me
to a sleep moment of clarity.
These rain notes are nature’s evensong.
A prayer
for all who sleep in this forested place.
Revised from one of my very first poems written in February, in my first class with Holly Wren Spaulding. Posted so early in March (as Rain Song) , I doubt but five people saw it!
UPDATE: I am in Alaska, as you read this! Will be posting every other day for two weeks until I return. Mostly new — poems that is — although I will be rejuvenated (love that word!) even more upon my return to Boston, our city by the sea.
Penciled eyebrows arched in surprise
bright red lips and stiletto heels
short white gloves like her mother wore
and always a billowing skirt,
crinolines attached for extra flounce.
She struts through life to decorate the scene
takes center stage to raucous applause.
Shoes come off, skirt removed
she twirls it above her head
three loops, then let sail
caught by the lucky wide-eyed man
sitting in a front row seat.
Each movement choreographed
her legs curve round the rope.
She ascends high and higher still
seeks the spotlight’s heat,
craves this life,
to dangle and curl
high above the circus floor.
Double-dutch
two ropes twirl like egg-beaters
and I watch
on the outside leaning in
sway to catch the rhythm
wait for that right moment
when the aperture appears.
Take the chance, slip right in
jump one foot, then the other
double-time to the beat
conquer these ropes
or not
misjudge the opportunity
and I’ll be the one
twirling, standing still.
I’ve searched a lifetime for my soul mate.
I lie here on the ground, looking up, feeling down.
Rock edges poke through new mown grass
like questions nudging through my spine.
I start to ruminate, cogitate
mull over impossible possibilities.
This much I know, our world is round
and I exist right here, right now, on this orb.
If I could somehow push the earth
compress its latitudes,
would I find you, prone like me
somewhere, deep below?
Just a diameter away,
lying still, listening for my breath
through curves in our globe
searching too, looking for me?
lillian the home poet 