Rooftops cold, lifeless.
No sharing. No caring. Dead
metaphorically.
Values depleted.
Hopper’s view of the future,
stark warning. Resist.
Jarring emptiness.
Where were you when it happened?
Democracy failed.
Today Sanaa hosts OLN at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We can either post a poem of our choosing OR post a poem related to the image above.
Edward Hopper’s City Roofs. Image courtesy of – https://www.wikiart.org/en/edward-hopper/city-roofs
Time moves incessantly
ambles as we stroll
rolls as we revel
cascades in times of joy
turning, flowing, always forward.
Time separates, even while moving forward.
Distance added to time.
Friends diverge to their own paths
amble, roll, cascade.
But true friendship transcends time.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Lisa is tending the pub today, as we return from our two-week summer hiatus to celebrate dVerse’s 14th anniversary! She asks us to include the word “turn” in our quadrille: a poem of exactly 144 words, sans title.
My poem today is dedicated to dear college friends, Brian and Cher. I’ve included a few photos from our friendship over the years….the last one is just this past Friday night. Brian and Cher spent 5 wonderful days with us….reminiscing, laughing, sight-seeing, and playing cards at the same card table we sat at with them 55 years ago! Can you guess which photo is from our college days? And which one is from 1974, when our daughter Abbey was born?
When I think of aging
visions of nature appear poetically,
ready to be written across the page.
But my hand tremor sets script askew,
not unlike a preschooler’s
first attempt at printing their name.
Nature’s brightly pink ruffled peony
once perkily perched, quite the showy thing,
gleamed amongst garden’s greenery.
Now droops beneath residue
of last night’s thunderstorm,
struggling to hold its bloom.
Newborn gangly foal tries to gain its footing.
Youthfully romps through riotously colored fields,
bluebells and golden columbine waving in the sun.
Years later, put to pasture,
stands swaying slightly, head down,
eyes clouded, wildflowers a dull blur.
And I myself, mark changes in my body.
Steps slowing down, sometimes falter.
Veins protruding on my hands.
I reflect more and more
on what was, and what is,
and what is to come.
Perennials dance in spring’s fresh air,
stand proudly through their season.
Then wilting, lie down to disintegrate.
But their stock is strong, their lilt not forever gone.
Perennials bloom again and again and again,
one generation gifting its beauty to the next.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitting for possible publication in the dVerse Anniversary Anthology.
Six minutes a widow.
The sun kept shining,
the clock kept ticking,
but your heart stopped.
Absolutely stopped.
I remember my screams,
ambulance sirens.
They rushed you away from me.
Ushered me into a private waiting room.
I waited for forever it seemed.
Then that humming, beeping room.
Monitor glowing with moving lines.
Lines becoming peaks and troughs and blips.
Shroud-like sheeted, eyes closed.
Your face obscured by ventilator and tubes.
My God, so many tubes.
Family somehow there, tethering you to earth.
Doctor talk. Jumbled words to me.
“. . . his brain . . .may not wake up…not the same..”
No. No. NO.
Forty-eight hours later
your eyes popped open, staring fear.
Nurse told you firmly, wiggle your toes.
Move your right hand, now your left.
Moments of sheer joy.
We came home end of that week,
you, the real you, cognitively you.
But we were changed forever.
We live life more slowly,
love more deeply,
thankful for every day.
Written for dVerse , the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Will be submitted for possible publication in their anniversary anthology.
Chiseled jaw, high cheekbones.
Tired eyes glance sideways,
energy depleted. Joyless.
Her exquisitely shaped lips
rouged deepest red.
Closed, not pursed, yet somehow gentle.
Dark tendrils hang beside her face,
drooping as if exhausted.
Indigo headscarf appears torn.
Disheveled from constant wear
or symbolic of war torn life.
Blues bleed pale into background.
Not thickened red of blood
but bleeding nonetheless.
One lustrous pearl earring hangs coldly,
boldly iridescent in a palette of darkness.
Did she really wear it for the sitting?
Or is it the artist’s one defiant stroke?
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Image from Pixabay.com
Want to hear and watch poets from around the globe read a poem aloud? Come join us as I host dVerse LIVE on Saturday, June 21st from 10 to 11 AM Boston time. Last time I hosted, we had folks from Sweden, Pakistan, all across the US, Kenya, the UK, Australia, South Africa, and Trinidad Tobago! Come read a poem of your own or just sit in to listen. We’re a friendly bunch. The more the merrier!
To join us LIVE on Saturday, June 21st from 10 to 11 AM Boston time, just click here and scroll down to the LIVE LINK. Hope to see you there!
Everyday wide apertures:
newsprint, television, radio.
Second or third-hand glimpse of another’s plight.
Photographers know
wide apertures provide shallow depth.
Until that day, that’s what I had.
That day, strolling the cruise ship’s deck,
my privileged promenade
was suddenly interrupted.
What I’d read about, heard on the news,
appeared off port side.
A small boat bobbing, barely moving.
Two oars slapped white caps.
In and out and in and out. Out of sync.
Six? Eight people? Dark shapes,
even in bright sun, crowded together.
Struggling, no doubt praying, not to capsize.
Our Captain’s voice suddenly blared.
“There is a small boat in distress.
Our assistance has been refused.
We will remain here until the Coast Guard arrives.
This will not impede our schedule.
You will arrive in Miami on time tomorrow.”
Narrow apertures give a deeper depth of field.
My eyes saw, stared, teared.
Refugees risking everything
for what they deemed would be a better life.
My heart ached at the scene
as did many looking on.
That night we did, as all aboard our ship did.
Enjoyed dinner served on linen tablecloths,
toasted our last night at sea.
Danced late into the night.
Slept on a king-sized bed
and flew home the next morning.
But I’ll never forget what I saw.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Dora asks us to “write a poem that conjures a veiw (whether from our travels or everyday life, whether from desire or expeirence) that is colored by the emotion of the moment.” Photo was taken from on one of our cruises that sailed roundtrip from Miami, Florida. It was a good number of years ago but I’ve never forgotten this heartbreaking experience.
You are my sunrise
as are friends, family,
birthdays, holiday celebrations,
graduation festivities
hot fragrant coffee
smiles from passersby
crescendos in concertos
hugs and kisses
toddlers stomping in puddles
charitable donations
springtime flowers
random acts of kindness.
Sunshine, a constant,
even behind the clouds.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’m tending the pub and asking folks to include the word “sunrise” in their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
In all the chaos across our world, the sun still rises every day, even when it resides behind the darkest of clouds. For me, that is representative of hope – the idea that love and goodness are always present – even in the stormiest of times. Sunrise photo taken in Provincetown, MA – at the very tip of Cape Cod.
Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight,
delectable scents float ‘cross starless sky.
In wild flowered mountain meadow they lie,
hearts entangled, breathing as one.
Alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder
their floral bed this night.
Their dreamscape, their anniversary quilt,
embraces their love, embodied again.
When dawn rises, their spirits must dissipate.
Soft sobs and dew drop tears float upon the wind
as each becomes, once again,
solitary luminous clusters.
T’will be one year hence, before they meet again.
Anniversary of that storm laden night, decades ago,
when they stood upon this very summit,
thunder roaring disapproval of their match.
Looking out across the abyss,
alit by lightning’s garish flash,
they defied their families’ opposition.
Hands clasped,
deepest kiss still fresh upon their lips,
they leapt into the arms of eternity.
Premature extinguishment of life, the gods ruled
punishable every night but one, in every coming year.
Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight,
delectable scents float ‘cross the starless sky.
One night in every year, for centuries on end,
they may live and love again.
Lie together, in wild flowered mountain meadow
amidst alpine aster, lupine, and Jacob’s ladder,
hearts entangled,
breathing as one.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa is hosting OLN and will host dVerse LIVE on Saturday from 10 to 11 AM, New York time. We are free to write a poem of our own choosing OR use the quotation “Out of lemon flowers loosed on the moonlight . . .” from Pablo Neruda’s poem A Lemon. The quotation is actually longer, I’ve only used this portion of it for my poem.
If you’d like to join us for the LIVE session on Saturday (video and audio), May 24th , just click on this link at 10 AM New York Time…..and you’ll find a link to join us! We’d love to have you read a poem of your own….or feel free to just sit in. We’re a very friendly bunch!
I have no skills for flight or wings. To skim the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself, I’d much rather do that.
I grew up next door to Amelia and her sister, Pidge. We climbed so many trees together. I’ll never forget the day Amelia said she was sure I could fly. So convincing was she, that I lept from an apple tree with arms outstretched. I held a grudge against her for a long time after that debacle.
All these years later, here I am, happily married, still in Atchison. I follow Amelia’s adventures and marvel at her courage. She’s world famous while I’m best known for my prize-winning apple pies. In summers, I always enjoy canoeing on Lake Warnock. Sometimes I stop to stare up at the sky and think about her. Imagine my shock today, when I heard the awful news.
Written for Monday Prosery at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.
EXPLANATION. I’ve inserted myself into history in my flash fiction, pretending to be a neighbor of Amelia Earhart in her early childhood days.
HISTORY: Amelia Earhart (1897 – 1939) and her sister, Muriel (nicknamed Pidge; 1899 – 1998) were born and raised in Atchison, Kansas. There is indeed a Lake Warnock in the town. In 1928, Amelia Earhart became the first female passenger to cross the Atlantic by airplane. In 1932, she became the first woman to make a nonstop solo transatlantic flight and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. On July 24, 1937, she disappeared over the Pacific Ocean while attempting to become the first female pilot to circumnavigate the world. She was declared dead on January 5, 1939.
WHAT IS PROSERY? For this form, we take a line of poetry and place it into a prose piece. The prose can be fiction or non-fiction, but it must be a piece of prose, not poetry. It can be no longer than 144 words, sans title. We are not permitted to insert words into the given line, but we may punctuate it. We must acknowledge the line, the work, and the poet.
THE LINE WE MUST INCLUDE: “I have no skills for flight or wings to skim, the waves effortlessly, like the wind itself” The line is from The Magnificent Frigatebird by Ada Limon.
IMAGES of Amelia and her sister, Pidge; Amelia as a pilot; and Amelia as a young girl.
Never planned to join the circus,
although there is a hereditary tendency.
My Uncle Bob ran away to the circus,
several times. But he always came back.
Never planned to join the circus,
but what a circus we’re living in now!
Twenty-four-seven news cycle,
clown leading buffoons under the big top.
Never planned to join the circus,
but it’s tempting to become an escape artist.
I’d lose myself in romance novels and Netflix,
or any kind of my own-made cocoon.
Uncle Bob, if you’re anywhere out there,
somewhere in the cosmos,
help us find our way back home again.
Just like you always did.
Kim is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She asks us to write a poem “that starts with a surprising hook, which can be one to three lines, but must develop into a fully-fledged poem.”
A bit of explanation: in a few years, I’ll become an octogenarian. I actually did have an Uncle Bob, who every time his wife became pregnant, ran away to the circus. Absolutely true – he had four children so he ran away four times! But he always came back- well before they were born. He was a wonderful uncle and as my childhood memories recall, had a lot of fun with his kids.
PS: here in the U.S., this is no time for any of us to be escape artists. It’s time to speak out, stand up, and resist!
lillian the home poet 