family

Elegy for Childhood

lillian18 Comments

Do not grasp or fear the sifting sand
savor instead, sweet memories.

Tippee cups and imagined friends
popsicle sticky smiles.

Unabashed big bigger Balooka bubbles
popped on freckled nose.

High pitched yells with a Mary Jane stomp
knock knock jokes giggled silly.

Proscenium now disappeared, curtains askew
props and costumes gone.

Mourn not the little ones of yesteryear,
loose your hand and revel now.

Their roots are strong, let go the sieve
tis time to change the scene

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WP Writing 201 prompts: the word “flavor”, enumeratio (listing), and the elegy form. Elegy: usually in couplets, first line longer; can be a longing, loss, mourning, and/or a celebration of life.

Secret No More

lillian14 Comments

Like a bruise on peach skin
her flushed face was mottled
from too much handling.

He stood across from her
tapping his spit polished
wing tip shoes.

Quiet, festering
until his fist slammed
into the glass table top.

Cornucopia upended
plastic fruits
clattered to the floor

as she stood, silent
eyes cast down
waiting for the barrage

she knew
would come.

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WP Writing 201 Prompt for Day Four: Limerick, Imperfection and Enjambment (poetic device where grammatical sentences spill into next verse. It seems I’ve slipped to the “dark side” with this poem, using the idea of imperfection and enjambment. Obviously, this is not a limerick – for that, go to the Humor Category and see the G-tarian poem. 

Life Regifted

lillian20 Comments

Angels here among us
dearest, stay with me.
Over and back you hover
return to earth my plea.
Extinguish not, like inifinity
deny death’s call and stay with me.

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This poem, dedicated to the love of my life. Life regifted for two years and many more: you came back to me. Thankful for every day. This poem is an acrostic:  the first letter of each line spells out a message (Adored). Photo from on board ship on a Panama Canal cruise.

Helen Cecile

lillian5 Comments

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.

AMy House Amy plaque Amy mom

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.

Memories in Black and White

lillian8 Comments

Phyllis Groat, Billy Behr and Timmy Drew
Francis somebody with Jimmy Fisher
and Mary Buckley too.

Black robed nuns that seemed to glide
feet and hair a mystery
rulers that reached a mile.

Lunch time stools swung in and out
from tables that disappeared
into Mary blue block walls.

Holy card for first place prize.
Priests mumbled Latin mass
and girls watched holy backs.

Third grade fell out of mother’s drawer,
a stained photo stuck between dried up pens
and a Tupperware orange peeler.

Three days after we buried her
in a Catholics only plot,
she made me remember
what I deliberately forgot.

uniform      communion

Photos:  3rd grade class photo mentioned was tossed….but these were also in the drawer.  Me in my 3d grade Immaculate Conception School navy blue uniform  and my first communion picture. I actually won a third grade competition to see who could learn the altar boy responses in Latin first (our third grade boys were lagging in this important task — it was thought this would spur them on). Silly me – I thought if I won I could be an altar boy. See that word?  “Boy.”  Nope.  I did win a gold embossed holy card of St. Francis of Assisi and the boys all went on to assist with Mass.  Memories…..

Color Their Love: cherished series, opus 10

lillian5 Comments

Their love never showed itself
in word or touch.
It simply travelled
through a colored atlas
of their own making.

Sunday rides in a battered Buick,
state highways traced in orange.
Twenty-fifth anniversary in Hawaii,
circled in pink
like their matching floral shirts.

Retired early, she insisted,
they sold all their worldly goods.
Left a three bedroom colonial
for a small motor home,
and rambled through forty states.

College towns starred in blue
for the young at heart.
Green highlights for favorite parks
and the Grand Canyon’s purple X,
the greatest site of all.

Now, in a pastel assisted living center
map of colors upon her wall,
she gazes out the window
at red and yellow tulips,
his ashes beneath their blooms.

With quaking hand
she touches coffee cup to pane,
then slowly to her lips.
This, their morning kiss, a ritual
now the road is still.

momanddad

Cool Waters

lillian5 Comments

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.

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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. 

Time Descending

lillian9 Comments

I flung my arms out wide
to feel the wind
that sun baked day
danced, skirt billowing

cool sand between my toes

I stretched my arms out wide
to erase the fear
eyes locked on yours
step by first step, second, third

you chortled, giggling towards me

I curved my arms out wide
to envelop your leaving self
joyful sad, then turned and watched
the airport swallow you

emptiness descending

I raise these arms
tissue thin sagging skin
eyes search yours

name descending

shawl droops down legs
dancing somewhere
a thin filament

within this brain

disappearing into mist

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You Are Me or Am I You?

lillian2 Comments

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The glass is clean today
and we are quiet on either side.
One hand at rest,
age lines etched in black skin
fingers curled.

Mom sits closely by, always watching.
Her babe with impish chatter,
swings away
quickly scampers home
safely tucked inside those long warm arms.

You sit, eyes not meeting mine,
lips pursed, a sadness to your face.
Which of us, in this family,
is behind the glass,
and which of us in front?

Where does this zoo begin,
and where does it really end?

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Photos from our visit last year to San Diego Zoo.  Post in response to Daily Post Photo Challenge: Connected.