the circle of love
family
My World
memories
Gone
The house,
filled with yesterdays.
Sirens in the night
its newest memory.
Frayed rug askew
on cold oak floor.
Empty mirror
waits for her return.
…and the bloom shall fade
Her garden suffers from end-of-season neglect. Nutrients wane as days shorten. Young trees, now mature, cast their presence in shadows. Flower petals and fronds wither to veined brittle frames of their former beauty. They bend closer day by day, to the earth from which they came. Winter’s cold reality approaches, as sure as the moon changes face. Life hovers on a thread.
She sits patiently
window blurred with veins of frost
waits for children gone.
Susan Judd is hosting dVerse for Haibun Monday and provides us with her beautiful photography and the descriptive phrase “beauty in decay” as a prompt for writing today. If you’re not familiar with dVerse, stop in for a visit. It’s a great gathering place for those who enjoy poetry! Also using for NaPoWriMo day 25. 30 poems in 30 days, that’s April – National Poetry Writing Month.
Remembering…
Morning elixirs
hot steaming coffee
light spring rain
sweet baby at the breast
mornings measured in sighs.
Day 17 NaPoWriMo 30 poems in 30 days. Image of Gustav Klimt’s mother with child.
Notes from a Musical Interlude Fantasia 2
It was the big band era, lots of brass
Billy whalin’ on the drums
while Johnny waited for his riff
makin’ the keyboard swing.
And me, standin’ on the riser
my long arms waitin’ too.
“Wing span of a hawk” mama said,
just the ticket for a trombone man.
Yeah, I could slide that brass
hear the notes clear and smooth
no strings or keys,
just that long sleek glide.
And Mabel at the mic,
feathers clipped in henna dyed hair
sultry voice in the sweet spots
hips, always swingin’ to the beat.
Never made it big like the Duke
but we had our gigs.
A glass of gin between sets
and smoke swirlin’ round our heads.
They’re all gone now.
Pawned my ‘bone long time ago.
But sometimes, while I’m sittin’ here
I can put myself there.
I close my eyes and start to sway
Mabel leanin’ real close like she did.
I wheel this chair around a bit
and I can feel us back there again,
swingin’ to that big band sound.
Rescored for dVerse Poetics Fantasia. This was originally posted in 2015, inspired by Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia. I’ve reworked it a bit — thinking it a good one for today’s prompt. I am hosting dVerse today — wonderful experience. In the words of Carl Sandburg, Go to it oh jazzmen!
What Was, Never Was
Devout small child, sought cave
lit by red-orange candle flames,
mysterious grotto somehow carved
into side of large gothic church.
Dark stone curved inward
away from gold tabernacle,
winged angels and all the saints
beside mother Mary, gowned in blue.
Solemn under flickering shadows,
knees on kneeler, eyes squeezed shut.
Surely god listens, even to the young
deep within this special place.
Why did I return after decades away?
Priest stands at makeshift altar
watches people, back to tabernacle,
shining not. Statuary stands about,
coarse in detail. And there. . .
dim plastered niche. Grey stones layered
upon layer of faux black, some askew
like mislaid bricks. Yellowed plastic electric
candles flutter, dull and duller.
This off-to-the-side
push-a-button prayer place
is not, and never shall be
what was for me.
Written for Wednesday Poetics, dVerse Pub for Poets. If you’ve not checked it out, this is a wonderful virtual spot — great group of folks — and always interesting challenges. Today, Mary tends the “bar” and talks about rooms, citing some wonderful poetry, and asks us to write about a room we remember. I did return to this place of my childhood some five years back. I wished I had not. So many things seem so large and magical when we are young. Somehow with height comes a different perspective. Photo Credit: Therese Branton.
Scissor Me You
Two young blades were we
all shear joy
making lacey hearts
and peek-a-boos too.
Red crayons broken,
black marker now dry
we’re older, less sharp
and rusted with age.
In synch through the years,
our curves more rounded
our pace less quick,
we still meet at the heart
you and I.
We make each other
our valentine.
Photo credit: Julia Freeman-Woolpert
Victorian Love
It was a summer of letters,
you there, me here.
The days of thinking slowly,
rolling words around
until they landed just right.
The days of ink to vellum
and a blotter for splotches,
hand heavy with emotion
or tear drops of missing.
And sometimes our words crossed
like a wind shift, dropping seeds
too early to be devoured or take root.
That summer of letters,
so many years and memories ago,
carefully bundled with dried lavender
tucked away in the back closet shelf.
Photo Credit: Alex Drahon
What Death Lies Here
The tall waving grasses are always green
in this blessed and hallowed place.
Tombstones crumble, long passed souls embrace
‘neath palmetto fronds, while angels pray unseen.
And one lone cherub, an alabaster figurine
guards still the lad beneath her, quiet in grace.
The tall waving grasses are always green
in this blessed and hallowed place.
The sea nearby crashes waves of aquamarine,
spews salted grits of sand through air to stone efface.
Sacred words, names and years, all but erased
yet bones and dust beneath, feed this earth serene
the tall waving grasses are always green.
Gayle, in dVerse, asked us to create a Rondel: 3 verses (2 quatrains and a quintet). It must have a refrain: Lines 1 & 2 are repeated in lines 7 & 8; and line 1 must also be line 13. The rhyme scheme must be ABBA ABthen-line-1-and-line-2 ABBAthen-line-1. The challenge is to have the form “disappear” within the meaning of the poem. Photos: from our walk yesterday which included meandering through St. Peter’s cemetery, established in 1854, located atop a hill in St. George’s Bermuda.
…and She is Beautiful
A merry heart does good like a medicine
the yellowed brittle fortune
rest where he’d last touched it.
Beside the faded red envelope,
embroidered stitches now soft to touch.
She sipped her green tea, waiting.
The sun had set long ago
and now the rains were here.
Soon the streets would be a cacophony
drums, shouts, tourists and parades.
And from her window, she would see
the dragon dancing down the street,
her sign ever present, every new year
even in this approaching time,
the Year of the Monkey.
Closing her eyes, she saw again
mother, father, the land, and river
heavy rains bringing fish to the fields.
Images swam in and out in waves,
and memories filled her heart.
She sat, and sipped her tea,
waiting patiently.
Written for Toni’s Chinese New Year’s prompt at dVerse, a Poet’s Pub. Toni provided several fortune cookie slips and we were to choose one, and use it as the first line in our poem.
Photo credit: Yenhoon
lillian the home poet 