Her youth was filled with dreams
but dreams need words
when you rise from bed.
Fireman, policeman, chairman of the board
man-hours too stiff with ill-fitting pants
workman’s comp beyond her grasp.
Now, in the waning years of life
eye sight dimmed with time
she finally began to see
the power of the word.
Come join me at the dawn
lift up your hopes,
lay bare your heart.
I promise this, my love
our dreams shall soar
with the morning sun.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: the dawn is symbolic of new beginnings.
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.
Fire burns crimson hot
against night’s black sky.
Thousands of eyes stare
through nature’s scrim.
Souls stir
below ancient burial mounds,
spew bits of stick ash
into sacred space,
angry at our trespass.
Iowa fireflies
dance with stars
against the black backdrop
of eternity.
Once trapped
within a glass jar
their magic dims
like childhood dreams
whimsical
wistful
gone.
We waited
consumed with work
climbing the ladder
no time for escapades.
Now, in our winter years
past summer’s torrid heat
we meet on cool chilly nights
sailing into our dreams.
Your gentleness touches me
beneath a black sky lit by stars
until we blossom
in this off-season romance.
Written in response to the DailyPost Photo Challenge to interpret “off season”.
Photo is from Provincetown, Cape Cod. Muse to many a poet and artist.
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.
Spread your wings to glide
through sun streaks’ warmth,
to reach and feel the clouds.
In my best dreams
I fly round and round
the confines of my room.
Catch the upward draft.
A lazy float through clear air
colored only by the sky.
Magnificent quiet follows
as you bank left, shift course
to a new everything.
Strap on wings
hold tight
and soar.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: to interpret “on the way”.
Pboto from a Baltic cruise.
lillian the home poet 