They boil in hatred,
witness disregard of life
violence erupts.
She simmers in pain,
cancer invades her body,
prayer uplifts her soul.
December Poetry Challenge, Day 1: Write a two phrase poem: begin by looking out and away from yourself. What do you see, hear, find? Then narrow your gaze, almost as if you were tightening the focus on a movie camera. What’s close at hand? Make these two elements speak as one poem. Employ brevity. Dedicated to a dear friend.
At this age, spectacles sit precariously,
the bridge of my nose their perch.
Magnify life’s past,
forks in the road, hillsides with ruts
sea side suns and city life,
so many bridges forged.
Looking ahead, the distance is less.
Tread slowly the tunnel etched on the map,
transition away from and into the dark.
Or seek light, transition forward
cross o’er the bridge and soar slowly,
glide through the transom and savor the view.
Photos of Zakim Bridge in Boston, MA. Poem motivated by Daily Post Photo Challenge: Transition. Bridges, of many kinds, transition us from place to place.
houseboat river meander
sun glistened water
rain ping roof and ripple swish base
doe eyes stare from woods across
myriad shades of green
priceless time away
feeds my soul
soothes my mind
city life be gone
It is a wicked time.
Pride and prejudice run amok
fueled by devices and desires.
Politicians play the confidence game,
endangered values center stage.
The dreams from my father
seem so very long ago.
Sunday drives in the family car,
unlocked doors, porches with swings.
That used to be us.
Today I watch appalled.
Certain trumpets spew vitriolic words.
In cold blood stories litter newsprint pages,
stained red in televised image
too often unseen by too many.
Let us pray for a still life
with bread crumbs for everyone,
hope we are not racing a timeline
to the end of [y]our life book club.
Amen.
Created from book titles found on a Chicago book shelf: Wicked by Gregory Maguire, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, Devices and Desires by P.D. James, Confidence Game by Christine S. Richard, Dreams From My Father by Barack Obama, That Used To Be Us by Thomas Friedman and Michael Mandelbaum, Certain Trumpets by Garry Wills, In Cold Blood by Truman Capote, Still Life With Bread Crumbs by Anna Quindlen, Timeline by Michael Crichton, The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe.
soft puffs of air
you beside me
exhale, exhale
night quiet sounds
I smile, loving you
eyes close shut
lullaby of puffs
Prayer beads grasped in hands
tears falling, fingers trembling,
she prays for her sons.
As of Nov. 14: Dedicated to Paris
Photo Credit: Nico van Diem
Margaret and Kathleen: forever nine years old. Not ones to hold the chalk while others hopped from square to square, they’d met St. Peter at the gates, request in mind.
“Emissary,” was their word for the day that December first. They listened attentively as Sister Mary Kelley used it in a sentence. Henry raised his hand and at that moment, they began to smell the smoke.
And so it came to be. Fifty-seven years later, these cherubic emissaries hovered, waiting by the grave. Soon, a small child would take their hands and be escorted from this world to the next.
100 words. Photo by J. Hardy Carroll and used as this week’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers. Dedicated to those who lost their lives in Chicago’s Our Lady of the Angels Elementary School fire, December 1, 1958.
Red and white stripes unfurled
Old Glory flaps in the wind,
her grommets clank
straining against steel pole.
You loved the flag, its simple beauty.
You lived the flag, patriotism in your soul.
The greatest generation, and you a woman,
a Naval Commander among them all.
People should know your name.
Short in stature, you stood tall
turned boys back into men
healed so many, traveled so far.
Directed nurses, ran the floor,
turned painful rehab into hope.
War time compassion
in the midst of blood and missing limbs.
So many times we sat at your table
ate lemon meringue pie
and rolled the Yahtze dice,
treasured photo above our heads.
You and Admiral Nimitz, side by side.
One hero, honored, known by many.
The other, slipped through time
a silver haired, kind old woman.
Behind one door in a hall of many,
skill and will still intact
you urged your aging friends
Use it or lose it! You’re not dead yet.
You gave again, feet matched spirit
oxford shoes on dirt floors
eighty years old, cross and caring
African clinic, ignored by many.
You can do it, lean on me.
One foot at a time. Move!
And you did
and they did too.
The wind stops, clanking hushed.
Flag quiet. I stand still, missing you.
Commander Frazier, our Aunt Flo.
I remember that faded photo,
just one moment in your glory days.
Photo: U.S. Naval Commander Florence M. Frazier, 1915–2010. On the occasion of her 90th birthday, touring a ship in Charlestown Navy Yard wearing military cap. She was saluted by many that day.
Admiral Chester W. Nimitz was Commander in Chief of the U.S. Naval Fleet in World War II.
Memories shimmer
stretched taut
like a spider’s web.
Tubes, wires,
stainless steel
monitors with beating blips.
You lay there in that present space
but somewhere far away.
Then, like a marionette
whose master dropped a string,
your eyes jolted open
and you returned to me.
No photo. Thankful for every day.
This prayer I say as dark draws nigh
and she slips off to sleep,
may angels stand their guard nearby
as she dreams softly deep.
And when the sun begins to dawn,
wake to the new day’s light,
tell her she should continue on
the hope is near, within the fight.
Photo from visit to an Orthodox church in Estonia. Post motivated by Daily Photo Challenge and dedicated to my dear friend Louise.
lillian the home poet 