Red glass ball,
LILLIAN in first-grade teacher print.
Fragile, egg-shell-thin pink bell.
Crooked winged, the airplane flies
above crayoned Santa, sparse cotton beard,
black boots colored outside the lines.
Me, mother, daddy and my big brother Chuck.
All gone now, save me,
and their three ornaments
carefully hung at the top of the tree.
At this age, spectacles sit precariously,
the bridge of my nose their perch.
Magnify life’s past,
forks in the road, hillsides with ruts
sea side suns and city life,
so many bridges forged.
Looking ahead, the distance is less.
Tread slowly the tunnel etched on the map,
transition away from and into the dark.
Or seek light, transition forward
cross o’er the bridge and soar slowly,
glide through the transom and savor the view.
Photos of Zakim Bridge in Boston, MA. Poem motivated by Daily Post Photo Challenge: Transition. Bridges, of many kinds, transition us from place to place.
Hatless, wind ruffled hair
winter snow flake dandruff
red ears and mustache icicles.
Iowa snow gnome I am
when I see my breath.
Ninety percent of your body heat
escapes from your head.
Well mom, that’s why I’m so cool!
Photo: corner of Boston’s Court and Tremont Streets several winters ago. Story behind the giant tea kettle: manufactured in 1873 by Hicks & Badger; a “sign” outside the old Oriental Tea Kettle shop. Signs were common in early Boston to identify shops for those who could not read. On January 1, 1875 a contest was held to guess its capacity and Boston’s Sealer of Weights & Measures officially measured it. 10,000 spectators stood by as 8 boys and 1 tall man concealed themselves inside the kettle. The court was officially measured to hold 227 gallons, 2 quarts, 1 pint, and 3 gills. An attached mechanism produced steam. To this day, in the cold winter months, steam is seen coming out of the kettle. Starbucks made a wise decision to place their store here!
Poetry prompt: final assignment in Fall 2015 Poetry Apprenticeship with Holly Wren Spaulding: write an “advice” poem — perhaps from shoulds and should nots of your early days!
Dear Iowa,
It was osmosis.
City girl absorbed red barns
waving cornfields and fresh plum jam
tractors spewing dust from dawn
drop-in neighbors and party-line phones
sheets flapping on backyard lines
towns without stop lights
and churches with hats.
Neon lights are not fireflies.
Lillian
Margaret and Kathleen: forever nine years old. Not ones to hold the chalk while others hopped from square to square, they’d met St. Peter at the gates, request in mind.
“Emissary,” was their word for the day that December first. They listened attentively as Sister Mary Kelley used it in a sentence. Henry raised his hand and at that moment, they began to smell the smoke.
And so it came to be. Fifty-seven years later, these cherubic emissaries hovered, waiting by the grave. Soon, a small child would take their hands and be escorted from this world to the next.
100 words. Photo by J. Hardy Carroll and used as this week’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers. Dedicated to those who lost their lives in Chicago’s Our Lady of the Angels Elementary School fire, December 1, 1958.
Red and white stripes unfurled
Old Glory flaps in the wind,
her grommets clank
straining against steel pole.
You loved the flag, its simple beauty.
You lived the flag, patriotism in your soul.
The greatest generation, and you a woman,
a Naval Commander among them all.
People should know your name.
Short in stature, you stood tall
turned boys back into men
healed so many, traveled so far.
Directed nurses, ran the floor,
turned painful rehab into hope.
War time compassion
in the midst of blood and missing limbs.
So many times we sat at your table
ate lemon meringue pie
and rolled the Yahtze dice,
treasured photo above our heads.
You and Admiral Nimitz, side by side.
One hero, honored, known by many.
The other, slipped through time
a silver haired, kind old woman.
Behind one door in a hall of many,
skill and will still intact
you urged your aging friends
Use it or lose it! You’re not dead yet.
You gave again, feet matched spirit
oxford shoes on dirt floors
eighty years old, cross and caring
African clinic, ignored by many.
You can do it, lean on me.
One foot at a time. Move!
And you did
and they did too.
The wind stops, clanking hushed.
Flag quiet. I stand still, missing you.
Commander Frazier, our Aunt Flo.
I remember that faded photo,
just one moment in your glory days.
Photo: U.S. Naval Commander Florence M. Frazier, 1915–2010. On the occasion of her 90th birthday, touring a ship in Charlestown Navy Yard wearing military cap. She was saluted by many that day.
Admiral Chester W. Nimitz was Commander in Chief of the U.S. Naval Fleet in World War II.
Half-pulled shade, headlights dance
in the space before the sill.
Thoughts of nothing and everything
bounce inside my head.
Days gone by reappear, faces blur then clear
generations meld one to the next.
Eye-open dreams change scenes quickly
acts play out in milliseconds.
Like a thousand moths flitting round the light
ideas, words, pictures, feelings, here then gone.
Time moves forward on a nearby shelf,
illumined dial ignores my stalled state.
I watch you beside me, face up, eyes closed.
You wear the night so well, sleep looks delicious.
I match my breath to yours, slow syncopation
like snow flakes falling in the dark of night.
No sound. One by one, breath by breath
and finally I drift.
Cars travel dirt roads
on hot sultry summer days,
dust clouds trail behind.
Cornfields stretch for miles.
Farmers perched on green machines
rumble through the rows.
Keepers of the land,
they rose before the sun
to feed you and me.
Haiku trio. Photos: corn from our Iowa garden many years ago. Tractor: by Loretta Humble.
Memories shimmer
stretched taut
like a spider’s web.
Tubes, wires,
stainless steel
monitors with beating blips.
You lay there in that present space
but somewhere far away.
Then, like a marionette
whose master dropped a string,
your eyes jolted open
and you returned to me.
No photo. Thankful for every day.
Marilyn
Hollywood starlet
Some Like it Hot and she was
dead at thirty-six.
Frank
Hollywood Rat Pack
crooner who liked it My Way
Old Blue Eyes heart throb.
Judy
Her voice came out of
Somewhere Over the Rainbow
spotlight burned her soul.
lillian the home poet 