Pull down pale green husks
some easily, others with a yank
discover soft fine silken hair,
gossamer strands cling to yellow gems
kernels of sweetness
in perfect rows of delicious.
Assaulted by bubbling water
slathered in butter
ear by ear, cob by cob
they succumb to energetic chomping
sacrificial sustenance
for the Summer Devourer.
The house is quiet again
all things-children put away.
If I close my eyes
I can hear their laughter echo,
see small bodies
clambering on to youth chairs.
Stillness surrounds me
memories sustain me.
Families, and time
move on.
Toys packed away until another time.
Drowsy day snippets
up too late
trying to find some words
pen in _ _ _ _
words flit in _ _ _ out
eyes a _ _ _blurred
mind foggy too
time to give _ _ up
and j_ _ _
take a _ _ _
zzzzzzzzzzz……..
Penciled eyebrows arched in surprise
bright red lips and stiletto heels
short white gloves like her mother wore
and always a billowing skirt,
crinolines attached for extra flounce.
She struts through life to decorate the scene
takes center stage to raucous applause.
Shoes come off, skirt removed
she twirls it above her head
three loops, then let sail
caught by the lucky wide-eyed man
sitting in a front row seat.
Each movement choreographed
her legs curve round the rope.
She ascends high and higher still
seeks the spotlight’s heat,
craves this life,
to dangle and curl
high above the circus floor.
Double-dutch
two ropes twirl like egg-beaters
and I watch
on the outside leaning in
sway to catch the rhythm
wait for that right moment
when the aperture appears.
Take the chance, slip right in
jump one foot, then the other
double-time to the beat
conquer these ropes
or not
misjudge the opportunity
and I’ll be the one
twirling, standing still.
She grew up in a poker face house
curtains drawn, emotions stuffed
inside walls, inside heads, inside everywhere.
Except anger. Sometimes it came flying out.
After a lull. Unexpected.
So loud, it shook the rafters.
No wonder she flew the coop,
using that old vernacular.
Married, with kids, she broke the mold.
Babies babbled, inside and out
sometimes screamed, mouths wide open
no plugs, pacies or binkes allowed.
I love yous and table talk
campfire banter, tell me true
talk it through to eyes that listen.
She insisted on a barcode kind of world
emotions easily scanned
on an every day conveyor belt.
He took to soap and water from an early age,
standing on a stool, sleeves rolled up
playing in the suds.
As a college chap,
he was a regular with his chums,
second stool from the left at Chauncey’s Pub.
Not in it for the guzzling,
he liked to watch the suds drip down his glass
and feel the foam against his upper lip.
Retired now, no children of his own,
he’s become a summer legend
in the neighborhood corner park.
Washtub at his feet,
nets of string on two long poles
he dips and waves, and dips again.
Magic billows out across the lawn
this man, doing what he loves
is now, and always has been
the bubbles man.
Cast your nets wide
let them float o’er time and place.
Savor the brine, its salt upon your lips
antithetical and sometimes complimentary,
to the sweet taste of last night’s wine.
Trail fingers in cool waters
seek star fish and arcing dolphins,
even as sharp-edged crustaceans
fray threads in knotted lines
threaten to disrupt the catch.
Rainbow parrot fish flirt in and out
maneuver through teeming waters.
Beauty thrives, even as leering eel
lurk in darkness, seek their shelter
within life’s disparities.
Sea glass, that human toss-away
tumbled to smooth artifacts
pleasurable to feel, caress, collect.
Dark waters today,
sun kissed tomorrow.
Even the barnacle, crusty and hardened
clings to the worm-holed hull
holds years of secrets in its blight,
another treasure caught
within our thread bare cache.
I’ve searched a lifetime for my soul mate.
I lie here on the ground, looking up, feeling down.
Rock edges poke through new mown grass
like questions nudging through my spine.
I start to ruminate, cogitate
mull over impossible possibilities.
This much I know, our world is round
and I exist right here, right now, on this orb.
If I could somehow push the earth
compress its latitudes,
would I find you, prone like me
somewhere, deep below?
Just a diameter away,
lying still, listening for my breath
through curves in our globe
searching too, looking for me?
To live in shadows doth chill the soul
and thus my invitation,
come with me to greet the morn.
Together, we shall find the sun
the light and sustenance for our way.
lillian the home poet 