Memory spiders twirling thoughts.
Nurse-white whisper shoes
sidle by. Clocks in freezer
stopped time when I knew me.
Thawed too fast, so they came
in loud tapping shoes.
And we danced ourselves into lucidity,
spotlight shining bright.
I remember tomorrow
like it was yesterday.
Quadrile 1 for dVerse Pub for Poets. Word count 44, using a form of the word dance – as in dance into a condition.
It was all they wanted for their anniversary. They’d traveled every state and hiked so many trails together. They just wanted to go back to the beginning. The old amusement park.
We brought them to the litter strewn vacant lot. We’d heard the story so many times. The Tunnel of Love where the boat rocked in dark water, pulled forward by chains. Their first kiss.
They saw the rusted turnstile; ride long gone. And as is if we weren’t there, embraced. Their kiss, strong, passionate and deep. We blushed. Our father and mother, a man and woman at their core.
Word Count: 100 Photo Credit: Amy Reese. Written for Friday Fictioneers, so deftly organized by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
The weather shifted suddenly. For weeks, I walked along the tree-lined path with Sakura. She and I wrapped warmly in our love. Mother ignored the almanac’s provisions, coaxing cherry trees to bloom again. Shades of pink daring to be seen among branches stripped bare in their dormant season. They did not understand, the calendar progresses relentlessly.
And so I walk alone today, Sakura gone. Cold seeps into my bones and the sentinels of this path. New fallen snow blankets branches and lands upon my face. But it is not a comforter to me, nor to these delicate blossoms, still life in this winter scene.
She shall shroud your love
like new fallen snow upon the bark
and the buds shall be stilled.
Word Count: 131 including title. Posted for Haibun Monday in Dverse Poets Pub. Haibun: a Japanese poetic form that includes prose followed by a haiku. Haibun frequently includes fugetsu (natural scenery) and kaketoba (use of words with double meaning). Sakura is the Japanese word for cherry blossoms and also used a woman’s name. Comforter can be a blanket or someone who comforts. Still life refers to a painting (as this photo almost is) and to dying. A Haibun should also include an eternal truth or a theme that can be understood by many. Photo Credit: copyright Kanzensakura all rights reserved – Used by permission. With apologies to Toni: I just went back and read your prompt and it indicates this is a quince blossom. I looked and immediate saw cherry blossoms!
Gathering place after.
Buffet of chatter and remember whens,
mourning turned noon nosh.
Black suits balance white plates
as coffee urns pour and pour
like earlier tears during amens.
You always could draw a crowd.
She enjoyed decorating for the season
memories gently removed from tissue paper,
placed about the room.
Christmas cards from years gone by
ornaments of glass and styrofoam
some misshapen, now glitter bare.
Each year’s new wreath carefully selected
artificial greens bedecked in happines
meant to last well beyond her window.
And as Epiphany dawned
she readied herself for church
donned this year’s circle of golden stars.
Her wreath of choice, her Sunday hat.
And she wore the Christmas spirit
well beyond the new year.
In response to the Daily Photo Challenge to let a familiar shape, the circle, inspire you. Poem motivated by photo, taken at the White House December 2015.
“I’d like a cup of hot chocolate, please.”
She’d walked out of the nursing home, no interest in the craft for the day. She couldn’t handle origami and hated working with glitter.
So here she sat on Christmas Eve day. Across from a young couple who chatted quietly, packages beside them. She remembered those kind of stolen moments with Ben. Their kids home with the sitter, last minute shopping done.
She sipped the sweetness, eyes closed, remembering.
“Mrs. Ambrose? You need to come back now.” She pulled the old coat closer to her chest and walked back across the street.
Word Count: 100 Photo credit: Jean L Hayes. Story motivated by Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers photo. Thank you Rochelle, for your work this past year and here’s to an inspirational 2016!
Pop beads.
You remember them.
Plastic, in white or pink.
Pop ‘em on. Pop ‘em off,
accessorize or not.
Kind of like he treated her.
Pop-it beads: a 1950s fad. Anybody else remember them?
News on reels, envelopes sealed with spit
new was last month or a week gone by.
Today it interrupts my present,
becomes a never ending loop.
Sunday drives with i spy and the license game
morphed into get-me-there robots.
Talking heads decapitated
into monotone maps.
Family restaurants turned mausoleums.
Mommy, daddy, Ashley and Drake
eyes down and mouths shut.
Thumbs talk…with imaginary friends.
Paris in Paducah and Chicago too,
a world of twitter and bird shit.
Color me shrink wrapped
and struggling to breathe.
In response to dVerse Poets Pub, December 17 prompt. Write about the times we have lived in – describe the life of the decades you have gone through. Free-write whatever comes to mind and then create your poem around those ideas. Cut it down but keep that raw feeling from your initial free-write.
Taste of time begins to dull
ticks of spice turn clockwise gruel.
Ink forms script on pages new
memories writ, the present’s gift.
Black on white shall tell the tale
when life deserts the day.
Coffee cup in hand, she focused on the shapes coming into focus through the morning mist. James said they’d be a family science project. Bat houses. She’d agreed, only if they were a good distance from the house…
A good distance from the house…in-state college would have been nice. She smiled softly, thinking about the “Roots and Wings” adage on the plaque above her bureau. He sure spread his wings…
The telephone startled her. Coffee sloshed as she grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
“Oh, sorry mom. Did I wake you? It’s noon here. Just wanted to touch base. I miss you.”
Word Count: 100.
Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Flash Fiction written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers.
Learn more about bat houses!
lillian the home poet 