There comes a time. . .

Developing her own voice
testing her wings,
child no longer.
He understood as a poet does,
metaphorically . . .
you cannot tether a bluebird to your wiles,
no matter how loose the string.

Written in response to Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Linda is hosting and asks us to write a poem inspired by one of six particular paintings by Jacquline Hurlbert. I’ve selected Bluebird’s Journey, with permission of the artist. Find all paintings and information about the artist at jhurlbert.com

Eulogy

Lost too soon . . .
gathered in pews
eyes tear-glistened,
memories spill from pulpit.

Amazing Grace reverberates
voices swell in unison.
Hear us missing you,
lost too soon.

Written for Tuesday’s Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Amaya prompts us to “Cry Me a River” — write about a song that brings us to tears or makes us melancholy. 
Photo from Pixabay.com

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth, you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Khalil Gibran

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We Gather Again

Fifty years ago,
we wore bridal veils.
Walked past the elders’
with a cursory but loving nod.

Then family reunions,
joyful raucous gatherings
at the twenty
and thirty-something’s table.

Then babies appeared on hips,
high chairs crowded table seatings,
crayons joined forks and spoons
and the elders watched lovingly.

Too soon,
teenagers rolled their eyes,
talked about whatever they do,
made lists for Santa’s exchange.

Someone tried to reproduce
Auntie Maia’s meringue cookies.
Papa Milt’s son took over
his carving-the-turkey role.

Beloved faces,
grandparents,
uncles and aunts
disappeared from the scene.

And now, tomorrow,
we gather again,
a new generation
gracing a bridal veil.

And just for a moment I see their faces.
Generations
who instilled love of family,
no matter the distance or age.

Then quietly
we walk into the room,
smile knowingly and take our seats.
We now, are the elders’ table.

Summer Invasion

On a rainy summer day, melted cherry popsicle juice puddles on kitchen countertop. The now bare, but somewhat red-stained stick, is a walking bridge from stainless steel sink’s edge to sticky stuff. It’s a veritable picnic spot for sugar thirsty ants. Our kids, unaware of the insect invasion they’ve created, sit on the faux-brick linoleum covered floor playing with colorful legos.

forget dull bread crumbs
summer brings popsicle juice
ants’ debauchery

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It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today, Gina is tending pub and asks us to write about a picnic. Haibun: short prose (cannot be fiction) followed by a haiku. Photo from pixabay.com

Harbinger

A gift unwanted, disdained,
sat untouched.
Please. Pleaze. Pulllleeeze.
Pleas for lessons.
When you can reach the pedals
we said again and again.

And then . . . young fingers
explored the keys.
Eager feet
moved left then right.
Fingers began to dance
and feet to pump.

Hymns at church
rang out loud,
ten year old dwarfed
by massive pipe organ.
Appendages in synch
matched broad grin on face.

Thank you dad.
Your gift, unwanted once,
became our daughter’s future.
If only you could see her now.

Sarah hosts Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to write about a harbinger…..a sign of something to come.  This posts tells a true story. When my parents retired, they basically sold all their worldy goods and traveled the states in a motor home. My dad gave us his very small Lawrys organ and gave my brother a beautiful antique school clock he’d refinished. For years, I was furious that I was stuck with this musical instrument that no one could play and my brother got this fabulous clock!  And then our daughter started to beg for lessons. The rest is history….as you’ll see by this one minute video! 

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At an early organ competition. Love the knee socks!

Still Missing You

Charles Andrew Jr.
birthed before the War,
nine years my elder.

Took leave far too early
buried deep atop grassy hill,
mountain range across the way.

I see your image
every day,
looking out at me.

Framed and under glass,
always smiling.
Forever fifty-one.

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It was Quadrille Monday at dVerse. The prompt word  was “early” and somehow, I’m late to post for it!  Photo is my brother…..hard to believe he’s been gone almost 30 years.
Quadrille: a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.

 

Fashion Forward

Hats . . .
so many in a lifetime
exchanged with curves in road.
Strapped on through squalls,
gently worn on balmy days
stored on shelf when out of style.

Mother-hat,
adjustable as needed
blessed to wear.
Daugher-sister hats
occasions departed,
retired too soon.

Yourlove-hat
once perky, so with-the-times
never veiled.
Labelled vintage now
slightly creased with age,
worn with gentle smile.

Yourlove always,
shining in my mirror.

 

Treasured Kitsch

Mother’s treasured knick knack,
miniature rotary telephone.
Two metal pieces, one with delicate dial,
still turns by clumsy finger tip.
Second piece balances on first,
receiver, small enough I’m sure,
to span from fairy’s mouth to ear,
to listen and to talk.

Mother’s treasured knick knack,
best friend’s gift in ’37.
Yellowed fragile note,
pristine cursive of the day.
My dear sweet Helen,
Always remember,
girl talk makes our days go faster.
Love from Franny, forever.

Mother’s treasured knick knack
sits on dusty shelf,
beside great-grandmum’s cameo brooch,
glass hat pin
and wound-to-tight music box.
Worthless items today,
to you.
Priceless to me.

 

It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Sarah is hosting and asks us to be mindful about a particular object….any object. Pick it up, examine it, write anything that comes to mind from it…and then from those thoughts, write a poem.

Immigrants

Our ancestors. Our families.
They sailed through rough seas.
They worked hard, dreamed big.
We are us because of them.
Their identities may fade but
Their determination remains apparent.
Pictured and posed in family albums,
They live on in sepia tones.

 

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. It’s Meet The Bar Thursday (MTB) and Frank hosts, asking us to write a Reverse Poem. Read it top to bottom. Read it bottom to top. Line by line. It makes sense both ways. Quite challenging! 

Photos:
Left:  Hjalmer Siegfried Hallberg, born in Sweden, 1884. Arrived Ellis Island, NY at age 22, in 1906. My husband’s grandfather.
Right: Adam Gruenwald, born 1857 in Germany. Arrived in U.S. in 1880. Grandfather to my father. 

And here it is in reverse, including the same punctuation at the end of each line.

Immigrants

They live on in sepia tones.
Pictured and posed in family albums,
Their determination remains apparent.
Their identities may fade but
We are us because of them.
They worked hard, dreamed big.
They sailed through rough seas.
Our ancestors. Our families.