Unpredictable.
Lightning flashes,
hot licks that seared your soul.
Rosary beads tucked in drawer
near lace-edged handkerchiefs
and candy wrappers.
Pinochle, canasta
she held the deck,
played war occasionally.
A one-man woman she
danced to big band sounds.
Buried sister, son
two birthdays apart,
hers not theirs.
Gone these many years,
she still pops in and out
unpredictably.
Walt is hosting dVerse Poets’ Pub today, asking us to write about a character.
She was indeed.
Sit and be still with me.
This quiet bench beside daffodils
ruffle-edged tulips and hyacinth.
Savor sun as do these flowers of spring.
Memories seared in my mind.
Sharing dreams of spring
‘neath comforter of down,
lifted up by love to sound of song.
Seasons’ promise from death to life,
blooms of rebirth near my feet.
I cry out loud so silently,
my questions float upon the breeze.
Why can’t my love return to me?
Your body too deep to feel this sun,
craves warmth from mine, a simple plea,
to sit and be, still with me.
Photo taken this morning. Spring abounds in the beautiful grounds around our condo building in the city. Written for Open Link Night at the dVerse Poets’ Pub. If you’ve not come for a visit, drop on by and meet some of these amazing writers – or post a poem of your own. The more the merrier at a virtual pub!
Junie Z and I,
we had a lot of fun
watchin’ Winky Dink and Me
eatin’ PB and J sandwiches
in front of her black and white tv.
But she liked Gene Autry
that singin’ cowboy,
and Roy Rogers and Dale
croonin’ Happy Trails to You,
like it was just for her.
Me? I was the silent type.
Who would guess it now.
The Lone Ranger was my guy.
No sissy singin’ – just that masked man
ridin’ into those far off hills.
So imagine my surprise
hearin’ good ole Gene
on the radio today
preachin’ at me in song,
There’s no back door to heaven.
And I guess he’d know,
at least in the eyes of Junie Z
after all these years,
but not for tone-deaf me.
Couldn’t resist putting up a more light hearted one for the prompt. Take a listen — ah the childhood memories of me and Junie Z! Posted for Dverse Tuesday Poetics, a poem somehow related to “doors.”
I’d read Blueberries for Sal as a young girl. Robert McCloskey’s 1949 Caldecott winner, set in rugged Maine. And so I recalled that book many years later, spending three glorious days in Acadia National Park.
We spent our indoor time within the cozy confines of a knotty pine cabin. Mornings of hot steaming coffee mugs, looking out windows that opened to the northern woods. Bedtime, covered in faded down quilts, noses chilled as our fire turned to softly glowing embers.
Afternoon walks took us along the coastline, climbing over rock strewn paths with views of crashing waves. Trail number three turned inward, passed ruins of a wall, crumbled stones scattered in wild tall grasses. We walked through a dense birch tree stand. And in one magical moment, the wind whipped up and the canopy of branches swayed. Sunlight streamed in, creating a shimmering lacework overhead.
Our last evening, in denim shirts and hiking boots, we made our way at dusk to the top of Cadillac Mountain. We lie back and watched the sky turn glittering black. Specks of incandescence gleamed light years away. The only sound was our intake of surprised breath as a shooting star streaked from left to right, to another place in time.
sun light dances
through birch tree leaves and disappears
as stars skitter into view
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets’ Pub with Bjorn tending the virtual bar, asking us to write a haibun about a walk we’ve taken. Photos from Acadia National Park, Bar Harbor Maine.
Telephone chatter,
chirps heard round the neighborhood.
Eunice knows
what clara knows
what maybeth knows
what celia knows.
Biddies gathered round the wire
in times gone by.
Word Count: 27. Written for Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers (photo prompt appears on Wednesdays) Photo credit: Roger Bultot. Apologies to those expecting fiction here….saw this photo and could not resist! When we were first married (early 1970s) we lived in Marengo, Iowa — the last place in the USA to have 4 digit phone numbers (think about that!) and of course, we also had party lines. For those of you too young to understand, those were the days of rotary dial phones where 5 or 6 or sometimes more families all shared the same “line.” We always picked up our telephone receiver (the piece you listened to and spoke into) carefully, and didn’t start dialing until we knew it was “free.” OR, chuckle deviously here, you could listen in to what was going on in the neighborhood!
i remember
skip-to-my-lou
kukla, fran and ollie
days of the week underpants
and uncle howie’s store
the wisconsin dells’ wooden indian
my lone ranger lunch box
howdy doody’s freckles
miss tews’ ballet school
and kindergarten with junie z
any one out there
remember me?
A quadrille (44 words) written for dVerse using the word “skip.” Skip to My Lou is a popular children’s song – begun in 1826 as a lyrical game in Abraham Lincoln’s youth in southern Indiana and Kentucky, it became a partner-stealing dance in the 1840s. In my childhood, we literally skipped along the sidewalk singing this song. Photos: The Lone Ranger; Kukla, Fran and Ollie; and Howdy Doody – tv shows popular in the 1950s. Me playing dress-up with Junie Z, on a Wisconsin Dells vacation, and ready for a Miss Tews dancing recital.
the circle of love
family
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.
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.
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.
lillian the home poet 