The Victorian house groans awake
as a full harvest moon winks
through faded window shutters,
thrown wide open.
Smiling dead faces
in wallpapered hallways,
listen from chipped gilt frames
roll their eyes in sepia wonder.
Walls thick with memories
absorb the sounds,
sweet words whispered
mount to passionate moans.
Floorboards squeal
as casters roll in well worn grooves,
planks of wood etched
with scars of love.
This bed of generations,
alive again tonight.
Savoring the sea salt on my lips,
I remember how it tasted on your nose,
the nape of your neck and so much more,
those delectable three months
when you were my summer man.
Thanks to my poetry mentor, Holly Wren Spaulding, who keeps reminding me to seek the “poem within the poem.” This one sentence poem first appeared as part of Life’s Choices.
Home at Sea
Dune shack dweller these many years
she fancied herself a Crustacean
sliding through life sidewise.
She slings words
like Frank at the corner deli
makes the morning special
corn beef and hash.
Her down-home menu
contains one sentence poems
the occasional palinode, and free verse
poached in simmering creative juices.
Unlike the connoisseurs uptown
she licks her word-smudged fingers
content with happy drop-ins
and the occasional loyal customer.
Gateways to the heart
change through the seasons.
Youthful romanticism,
tempted by pastels
sweet scented carnations
valentines in pink envelopes
a rosebud mouth.
Passionate eroticism,
eyes seek carnal depths
lips’ open invitation
rose petal paths
and pulsing tempos.
Love divine, a decoupage,
years layered on years
passion and comfort
within familiar folds,
your skin next to mine.
Photo from a walk in St George, Bermuda.
The lilac family lived on a lane
colorful and ostentatious
in a quiet sort of way.
Muted violet, creamy whites
pastel pinks and deep purples
beautiful dressers and lovers of perfume.
Nestled in a blanket of green
she peeks out with her ruffles.
A bitsy thing among her friends
demure and delicate
the sweet-scented
Miss Lily of the Valley.
She quietly lives the rules of mourning
body drooped in shadows
occasionally sees the sun
empathy personified
destined for sadness
the perennial bleeding heart.
Into each life, a little humor must fall.
Frozen peas on the list
she was pleasantly surprised
to get a two-fer
when a hot flash hit,
leaning into frozen foods
for her favorite brand.
We came upon this lovely elderly woman one Sunday morning in Bermuda. A portrait poem. Can you picture her?
Sunday’s Pauline
She stood at the sloped curb’s edge
pleated red dress and feathered church hat
peering up and down the street
craning her neck looking for, what?
Her walker, with pocket book dangling
faced the street, precariously .
Eyes glued on her wheels
we Good Afternooned in the Bermudian way.
Broad shoulders and broader still smile
white gloved hand extended
Good Afternoon. My name’s Pauline
and I sure could use some help.
My hands clutched the walker’s edge
wheels slowly rattled toward the street
walking backwards, eyes locked with Pauline’s
her black oxfords shuffled along.
The Chevy sputtered and gagged
maneuvered to the curb,
aluminum grey, silver shine long gone
primer splotches added to the vintage feel.
Safely inside, walker stowed
window cranked down low
head out with peppered hair flowing
she caught our eye again.
God sure does give you a neighbor
especially when He knows you need one!
What dreams lie within your mind’s eye
lying beside me this autumn’s eve?
Your chest almost imperceptibly rises
and flutter falls, like the owl’s eyes
staring strong and wise
flicker at a moth passing by the moon.
Soft sibilant sounds escape barely open lips
too soon years before, taped tight
received life-sustaining intubated air
machines whirred fear, invaded dreamless sleep.
My lids droop heavy, sleep demanding time
your dreams rest safe, secret till the morrow.
Our morning rite awaits, repeats these many years
Put down the paper dear, and tell me last nights’ tales.
Veil of sleep lifted by sun’s insistent rays
like my bridal veil, pushed back by eager fingers
you sought a promise kiss before God’s altar.
Not deep like later.
Kisses given one thousand times one thousand
over a world of tomorrows. Today we sit content
in time-withered bodies
wizened you beside my wisened self.
Amazed always, that you chose me
my soul complete, enveloped still.
In response to the Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge: what does “envelops” mean to you? Photo taken at dawn in Provincetown, Massachusetts.
Watch closely. The mundane
becomes sublime, if we care to see.
Fields of timothy grass ruffled by wind
black steed glistens galloping through fields
sinewy athlete leaps to float over highest titanium bar
sunflowers smile, heads turn to bask in their namesake’s rays
Swan Lake dancers glide and spin across soft lit stage
gulls with wings spread wide, soar above the sea.
I look up from crowded city streets
to see this artisan’s creation
shift colors in the wind
urban ethereal
beauty.
Janet Echelman’s aerial sculpture, As If It Were Already There, soars above Boston’s Rose Kennedy Greenway. It’s made by hand-splicing rope and knotting twine into an interconnected mesh of more than a half-million nodes. Whenever any one of its elements moves, every other element is affected. Its fibers are 15 times stronger than steel but appear lace like. Do watch the short videos. They’re breathtaking! We were mesmerized. We’ll go back to see it at night, when it is lit with thousands of LED lights knotted into its threads.
lillian the home poet 