A reflection pool lies elongated
surrounded by earth-tone tiles
lacey leafed trees, like still life
mirrored on water canvas.
Serene in symmetry,
myriad shades of soothing green
white clematis peek from vines
cascade down ancient stone walls.
Meticulous care by some invisible hand
so evident in this magical place
we tread lightly, voices hushed
afraid to intrude.
If we can see a pumping heart,
chormosome X and chromosone Y
striations on a bullet and the human spine,
why is the rearing head of prejudice
still veiled within our midst
china bisque faced doll
my aunt’s when she was young
a twin, that’s two, but not really
the second was a boy
christmas tree with big lights
not twinkling like miniature strobes
not like stars on top of Cadillac Mountain
where you waved blueberry stained fingers
mine were smudged from ink
postcards and letters sent back home
left out the sad parts
the stained and smudged parts
bisque fragile life
still beautiful
without the sparkle
Photo: my aunt’s beautiful bride doll. China bisque face with kid leather body.
So many seaside two-weeks
in this place with you.
This time, different.
crack….crack……crack.
Roused awake, I leave our bed
step outside to the dawn’s cool.
Jetty exposed at low tide
long and hard, a battering table
for the single industrious gull.
It hovers, takes aim, releases
crack……scallop shell hits
unyielding rock. Stays firm.
The gull swoops down,
picks up shell, rises, hovers
and lets go, again and again.
CRACK….success.
Morsel quickly consumed,
wings flare to catch the draft and soar.
I follow its path until chill seeps in
bare feet suddenly cold
high tide’s tangled seaweed nearby.
Back with you, under rumpled sheets
my hand hovers, drops down
rests upon your chest, like yesterday.
And yesterday’s yesterday.
Every day, since that day
I feel your every breath.
Inhale, exhale.
Yes, you are here
with me.
Drums pulse.
Whistle blasts methodical pace
soon frenetic. Eyes open wide
as Gombeys march
then run, then leap into view.
Vibrant costumed anonymity.
Histories joined
African, British, Native American
collide in exuberant dance.
Speed increases, blurs.
Cacophony of primary colors
whirl, jump high, bend low.
Wordless loud stories
of ancestral slaves.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge, how do you illustrate Vivid?
She wondered
as she tapped the frame slightly askew
replaced the dirty coffee mug on his Chilewich placemat
shuffled the mail so her bill was on top
and turned their bathroom faucet handle just enough
to let the water drip in slow motion,
will he know she’s still with him,
not quite yet a fully embodied angel
in that other world?
Written from a writing prompt in my June Challenge Course: write within a constraint, IE a one sentence poem.
Cries gracefully to nourish the earth,
spins arms wide to create the wind.
Smiles warmly upon her children,
slow to anger, seldom thunders fury.
Spread your wings to glide
through sun streaks’ warmth,
to reach and feel the clouds.
In my best dreams
I fly round and round
the confines of my room.
Catch the upward draft.
A lazy float through clear air
colored only by the sky.
Magnificent quiet follows
as you bank left, shift course
to a new everything.
Strap on wings
hold tight
and soar.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: to interpret “on the way”.
Pboto from a Baltic cruise.
As the old saying goes, come dance with me. Below is a one sentence poem. Use it as the “poem within a poem”….write words before or after…..free verse, stanzas, whatever moves you. Create the title too. Put the full poem in a Reply or a Pingback. Two minds, better than one today – excited to partner with you!
My dreams flew by
on gossamer wings,
too high to reach today
even on tiptoe.
Her dresser, the last to dismantle.
Birthday figurine, two fingers chipped
sits on a dusty mirrored tray.
Sweater sets and pedal pushers,
one lacey veil, bobby pins still attached
yellow cotton gloves, last worn many Easters past.
Hankies with hand stitched pansies
on delicate tatted corners,
peek from a small silk purse.
Sachet bags tied in faded ribbons
tucked in corners, sweetness long spent.
And then, there they were.
Red glass beads with silver crucifix
nestled on a small satin cushion,
third drawer front.
Ready for gnarled fingers
to move from stone to stone
haunted by her whispered words,
Hail Mary, full of grace.
Now hailed by millions,
minus one.
