Iowa fireflies
dance with stars
against the black backdrop
of eternity.
Once trapped
within a glass jar
their magic dims
like childhood dreams
whimsical
wistful
gone.
live for today
Crayon World
Color me rainbow happy
your Red Sox cap next to my blue visor.
We sat in bright colored Adirondack chairs
kite string loose, then tight,
as you played with the tension.
Our dreams sailed high into cloudless sky
paled only by your art deco shades
as you stared out, looking for words.
Color me livid when you talked about her,
like lightning flashes in a raging sky.
Anger fueled by heat, dissipated over days of grey.
Rainbow chairs sit empty, lined up, waiting.
Color me invisible, when the door closed.
Photo:
from Provincetown, on Massachusetts’ Cape Cod. Poem and photo in response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge to interpret ROY G. BIV — the memonic to remember colors of the rainbow.
Bytes
That dog bit me.
Out of nowhere he came flying
like the proverbial bat out of hell
only bigger, with big teeth
a big bite
not like those feasting mosquitoes
on our sand dunes bike ride
not like the needle bite from
the tetanus shot
when you rushed me to ER.
So where were you this time?
When the dog bit me.
With Apologies to Oscar Wilde
I’d never met a ghost
or a celebrity
so was surprised on the treadmill
when Oscar Wilde whispered
directly in my ear,
the heart was meant to be broken.
Home again,
caretaker roles reversed
your heart beats strong
mine now slow,
blown out from stress
like a Japanese octopus bag.
Takotsubo,
Broken Heart Syndrome.
Not the stuff of playwrights.
I learned again that day
the importance of being earnest.
Talking softly with, not at,
we climbed five stairs
inch by inch,
this time
your steps
matched to mine.
This is NOT Happening
Two hundred fifty square feet of living space.
One glass wall with city views no one sees.
Jagged zig zags roll on monitors
lightning bleeps across the zags.
Your hands still, bloated fingers slightly curved.
My head hears a migraine beat,
while eyeballs stare so long,
they feel outside my face.
This whirring place makes my skin crawl raw.
Your mouth should be pressed on mine.
Like last night. Or speaking simple words
like this, when, or eggs this morning?
Any words from your mouth,
not taped shut
locked inside an intubation tube.
Not True
Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.
Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.
Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.
The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.
Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.
Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.
Bisque: cherished series, opus 8
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.
Off-Season Romance
We waited
consumed with work
climbing the ladder
no time for escapades.
Now, in our winter years
past summer’s torrid heat
we meet on cool chilly nights
sailing into our dreams.
Your gentleness touches me
beneath a black sky lit by stars
until we blossom
in this off-season romance.
Written in response to the DailyPost Photo Challenge to interpret “off season”.
Photo is from Provincetown, Cape Cod. Muse to many a poet and artist.
Summer Peach
Peach juice dripped
indolent rivulets down her wrist,
as she felt the soft blushing
fuzzy peel on her tongue
and tasted its cool sweetness.
Low Tide Morning
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.
lillian the home poet 
