Her red silk scarf
tossed aside in passion
lies still on dew kissed grass.
A slight breeze unfurls,
curls beneath its folds
ripples flow from edge to edge.
The morning storm
not expected,
rolls in stronger gusts.
Gossamer strands arc
higher and higher still
until vivid crimson
shatters darkened skies.
Come join me at the dawn
lift up your hopes,
lay bare your heart.
I promise this, my love
our dreams shall soar
with the morning sun.
In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: the dawn is symbolic of new beginnings.
The sun is a recluse today
exhausted from yesterday’s mirth,
dawn abandoned.
Grey blankets a rain-skewed world
as headlights appear
and disappear
through green wet treetops.
Windows shut tight
shades raised, not flapping
coffee brews and I wait,
staring through drips.
Time-deprived street-lights
shine their night-time faces,
as umbrellas bob through a labyrinth
of puddles on cement.
Tired eyes close, barely awake
I sense the city on a rainy morn.
Coffee gurgles, cars slosh through streets
and a wet flag clangs metal grommets
on its cold steel pole.
She slung words at him like wild pitches
and he shrugged them off for years.
Until one day,
she threw a perfect strike.
Well, what can I say?
The Red Sox are in the basement and we Boston fans need a bit of humor!
Magic shoes! Shiny black with big looped bows
slabs of silver metal screwed on soles.
Best gift ever, when I was oh so young.
And oh how I remember…..
NOISE.
PURE NOISE!!!
Swing a leg. Stomp, march, slap, clang!!
Body all feet. ALL SOUNDS.
EVEN WHen i tiptoed.
Add lessons, Tuesdays at ten.
To learn.
Teacher teaches,
directs, muzzles.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
Shu- no, NO, NO!
SHHHH!!!
Like-this.
Con-trol the-swing,
shor-ter. NOT so big.
Shu-ffle, shu-ffle.
One-two, one-two.
Slow-down. Con-trol the-sound.
Com-press your-space.
And there I was, in the mirrored wall,
shrinking. Like putting reins on little feet.
Learning to be small
while growing big.
Learning to fit in.
I was an Avon lady, in my very early days.
A diehard fan of the Bard that summer,
I fancied myself a Stratford woman.
Today? Well today, here I am.
Lounging in the sun, thirsty and hot
my blue rays turn them green
as I grab a dr. pepper,
antidote to drowsiness.
Stride-rite? But I lean left,
and still seek neverland.
I’ll choose to fly by Wendy’s
every time.
Kate spade dares my counter clubs
and I grimace as victoria’s secret
busts out everywhere.
Target? Not on my back.
The grammatically incorrect hermes
competes with christian dior.
Amen I say to that,
eyes wide shut.
I feel your pain,
branding seared into our hides.
Tall brown spikes on green stalks.
Herd plants, unlike their namesake
stand together, day after day.
Under hot sun, wind and occasional hail
bake into velvet texture
slowly stretch until they burst.
Brown-flecked white fluff stands on end
like the cat, suddenly shocked
sensing threat nearby.
A thresher looms its blades
and they scatter in the wind
seeding their next generation.
Through tiers of life
your spirit
my muse
always.
In response to the Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge: what (or who) is your Muse?
Consumed by work
pinstripe suit sits hunched
fingers click print, delete
legs walk then fold
break time
crystal vase of carnations
on white draped table
lips sip wine, talk at and smile
phone alarm chimes
legs cross the avenue
and return to work.
Consumed with work
hard hats firmly planted
hands pound, lug, drill
bodies climb, squat, and reach
break time
blue lunch bucket snaps shut
legs dangle from ibeam ledge
mouth gulps thermos coffee
foreman shouts warning
legs stand tall
and return to work.
Seven squares sit empty
in front of the number circled in red,
preceded by months of exes. Solid black lines
crossed at the exact middle point.
Belly so big, feet are questionable.
End of season sweet corn devoured,
dripped butter solidified on plate’s edge.
Slab of apple pie about to be devoured.
Fork stops. I stop. Puzzled. Wet.
Not like a dam’s breech,
more like the trickle of a creek.
Not exactly by the book.
Wheels spin, gravel crunches,
rocks spray at mewling farm cats.
Roads rush by.
Do you feel the earth calling you,
my moans stalling you?
Years later, we wait impatiently,
while you adjust lipstick, stalling.
This time, we’re ready.
But you’re not.
lillian the home poet 
