Balloons soar skyward 
writhe, twist, pitching in the wind.
Freedom has its price.
Fireworks explode
colors flash then fall blending.
Lessons in the sky.
photo credits: balloons by Niels Timmer; fireworks by Albert Lazcano
In the midst of the forest, a winter mystery.
Quietly I tread, trail growing in drifts
this midnight walk to escape my emptiness.
One soft breeze, but for a moment,
takes my eyes to the scene.
Wide-winged depression on new fallen snow
sole sign of disturbance this quiet night.
Footprints absent, no tracks, not a soul,
trees stand tall, hushed in veil of white.
An aura of glimmer appears in that shape
lifts slowly, approaches, then hovers
with me in its midst,
that moment of calm, a moment of peace.
Crystals of light narrow to rise
higher and higher, and then they are gone.
Snow mounded where once they lie
and I left in wonder, my eyes to the sky.
snow angel photo by Debbie Shiel
with apologies to Will Shakespeare
So many footlights burned out
spotlight jarred askew
curtains removed, scrim gone
proscenium arch stands stark.
Program says Act Three,
audience hushed, anticipates tragedy.
Director expects me, in shrouded black,
to slump upon the floor.
The script be damned.
Bulges revealed in sequined leotard,
fish net stockings over varicose veins.
Audience gasps at tapping frenzy
shuffles, wings, and Rockette highs.
Grinning, laughing, I finally decide,
this coda shall end.
And in the pit, the timpani booms
as I exit like a flying dervish
to joyous applause.
A new born babe
whose being passeth all understanding,
shall bring joy into the world,
familial love magnified
in a humble manger scene.
And generation after generation
will celebrate the light.
Families will give thanks
as the smiles and laughter of youth
remind us on Christmas morn,
every winter solstice, and every dawn,
hope and love are the true gifts.
May we strive to kindle light and kindness
and spread peace throughout our world
on this day, and forever more.
For all readers, may we celebrate the joy and innocent hope that each newborn represents, no matter the place of birth, the status, ethnicity or religion of the parents. And for those who celebrate Christmas, I wish you the blessings of the season. May everyone have a happy and healthy new year!
Aperture in the universe
newborn, idea, or brush stroke
unfolding, release.
Something unknown
outside the well worn crease,
explodes through bland ticks of time
into significance.
A bit of pyrotechnical grandeur
becomes millions of colored lights,
if only we dare to dream.
Taste of time begins to dull
ticks of spice turn clockwise gruel.
Ink forms script on pages new
memories writ, the present’s gift.
Black on white shall tell the tale
when life deserts the day.
In the darkest of nights
ceiling light turned on
pin pricked scrim draped overhead,
we lie down upon our bed
and revel as the stars appear,
even in our quiet room.
dVerse Poetics Tuesday: First time joining this group. The prompt today is to write about stars….during these winter nights before the winter solstice, their light is symbolic to so many.
In the darkness of early morn
candle light multiplies.
Glows softly upon the shelf
reflects in window panes
and illuminates my soul.
Photo credit: debbie miller
Grocery cart near, she sits
tattered book in lap,
mutters, sometimes yells
talks aloud to no one.
Page eight, crawl through,
into that letter E, straight lines.
They won’t follow, can’t see me.
I fit in this book! FLAT SPINE!
Invisible. I hide in air,
melt on pages with big letters.
Home is no where. Go ahead.
Jump into the story. Whatever it is.
Show them. I AM SOMETHING!
She stands up, unsteady,
lands on top of book,
face first in torn pica print.
And she disappears
from your corner,
into a pauper’s grave.
Photo credit: Wikipedia
He watched in amazement from the fifth floor window. He told Melinda it would never work. Her eyes damp, remembering.
But they were coming in droves. From the subway stop. Riding bicycles. Pushed in strollers. In school uniforms and ragged jeans. All colors. All sizes. Children of hope, many with handmade signs.
Hundreds bowed their heads in prayer, and then began to walk from the old Transportation Building to City Hall. Melinda held the banner high. No More Hurting People. Peace Now. Her locket caught the sun and gleamed at him. Their son’s picture within the small gold heart.
98 words. Written for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers. Photo by Roger Bultot.
lillian the home poet 