Skipping out the door
a spring to my step
’tis the season!
happiness
Woods’ Desire
NaPoWriMo April 24, without prompt. Spending February in Bermuda, we walked many miles on the Old Railway Trail. So many sections were almost mystical – nature can be that way.
Wood’s Desire
The forest seldom traveled
seeks company and joy
trees stand sentinel proud
light rarely allowed upon her ground.
Winds decide to grant her wish
push aside branches high and low
create slivered space amongst the leaves
open pathways for morning sun.
Leaf filtered, bright and spritely shapes
suddenly dance upon her darkened floor
awakened shadows without selves
companions until the calm.
Ode to Puttering
NaPoWriMo day 23 without a prompt. With a shout-out to Lisa Dingle’s Just Ponderin’ blog for mentioning the word “putter” which got me to thinking, then reminiscing. Words do that, right?
Ode to Puttering
Dawn to dusk wage earner kind of guy
one business suit, five starched shirts
Monday-Tuesday
Wednesday-Thursday-Friday
cubicle confined.
Suit shed
like a snake-wriggled-from-skin
sloppy slippers, baggy pants
uniform is no form
Saturday Sunday putter time.
Basement workshop sets him free
Skippy jars stuffed and ready
screws and bolts, drill bits, nails
epoxy glue and old television tubes
scraped sandpaper sits by stained soft rags.
Puttering
that practical art
relax to see to do
replace a blade, splice a cord
refinish renail a peglegged chair.
Dad the doer, mom the asker
knick knack shelves, built-in whatevers.
Puttering, like Jack Benny and Lawrence Welk
a lost art from today’s rush and run, buy and toss
and buy again kind of world.
Choose the Light
NaPoWriMo Day 20: without a prompt. Who needs a smile today? This poem should be in my About.
I choose life in lightness
sun or clouds, day or night
seek the circle’s upturned half
peripheral vision, occasionally required.
We wake up watchful ready
sweetly taste our morning smiles
tickled baby beams a toothless grin
dimples born in happiness and glee.
Grandkids’ knock-knock jokes
silly faces feign gargantuan guffaws
I choose to step lightly through life’s travails
aging knees, fingers stiff, imagination in Neverland.
Dustings by Two
NaPoWriMo Day 19: without a prompt. My mother loved talcum powder. The kind you “dust” all over yourself. I used to go into the bathroom after her and the floor would be slick and the room would have a heavy perfumed scent. One day, after she died in October 1998, I sat on a bench by her yard and watched as several birds found a dirt hole and proceeded to merrily take a dust bath. Sweet sweet memories juxtaposed.
Dustings by Two
Slick wet lavender tiles
window blurred by steam
she gaily sings and trills
pats and swirls a fancy puff
to create lily scented
clouds of talc
her dusting for the day.
Outside the window
hot bereft of rain
a blue bird warbles
wings flap flutter
dried dirt scatters
creates earthy clouds
of cooling swirling dust.
Star Wish
Cold damp sand between my toes
skirt poufs, billows in the wind
eyes squished shut for dreams
open quickly at the whoosh.
Shooting star flashes bling
streaks across my universe
fingers cross to catch magic
I wish upon the star.
Like tinsel, moon beams shimmer
beget a glistened path
smiling slyly, I double-dip
to wish across the waves.
Tillie’s Folly
NaPoWriMo without a daily prompt. Some people are bigger than life, right?
Ernestine by name, Tillie by choice
her steps swish with a joi de vivre
cultivated in French 101 enrichment class.
Blinking an eye, she sees the world in pink
through custom made cats eye glasses
with one fuchsia tinted lens.
Treasured childhood memories
hot vacation drives, windows rolled down
rest stops with pralines and all things Florida.
Collector of girlie things
orange blossom eau d’ cologne bottles
among lipsticks on the mirrored vanity.
Milliner by trade, homemade hats
spill from the antique wardrobe
in a cacophony of colors.
Eons of moons ago, a girl of five
learned to live her dreams
a spark of creativity began it all.
Red and yellow feathers molded to rings
she strutted through kindergarten
hand made tiara fit for a queen.
Tillie’s Folly, hat shop to the stars
sold to the highest bidder
her sashay through life moves on.
Sole Soul View
NaPoWriMo Day 13 is to write a riddle poem. Three descriptive clues/views of the same thing — very pedestrian!
1.
Every day
on floor carpet sidewalk
step briskly to corner office
tap below glass-top desk
by floor to ceiling window
sealed shut to the soul.
2.
Move forward upward onward
stretch tall to top shelf
where dusty books and what-ifs lie
walk run tip on toes
ready-set-go
limp across today’s finish line.
3.
Climb berber covered stairs
to suite with rose trellised paper
quickly untied unshod slip between
slick and silken sheets nuzzling her toes his mates
meeting hopefully so late again this night
like last and last and last.
Spring!
Dawn awakens
morning senses
spring delicious.
Sunrise Return to Sweden
Four years ago, we took a Baltic Cruise, including a day in Stockholm. My husbands’ family is very Swedish. His grandfather, Hjalmer Siegfried immigrated in 1906, at age 22. Painter by trade, he decorated the basement walls to look like the USS Sweden, the ship that brought him to Ellis Island — complete with ship railings, sky, and sea gulls. Some visitors actually got seasick after a Yule drink of homemade glog. Well, honestly, I don’t know if it was the simulated ship or the grain alcohol in grampa’s glog! Criuise highlight? The VERY early morning glide through the absolutely quiet and rustic archipelago, leading into Stockholm. Island after island….stunning! NaPoWriMo day 8 entry, without prompt.
Sunrise Return to Sweden
I stand mesmerized.
Dawn awakens serenity’s beauty
rippled patterns glisten on black sea
gulls hover over softly churning wake.
Moving patterns of white wings
against dark greens and grey rock edges
the occasional light house turns its eye
wood frame homes nestle in their woods.
The ship slowly glides in dark waters
through Sweden’s archipelago
guardian isles to myriad lines of ancestry
protector from the city’s growing girth.
A lone call from among the gulls
pierces still air, a stark welcome
primitive in nature, surely heard before
by our grandfather and his and his and his.
lillian the home poet 