I stand here, you there
separated by a chasm of disbelief.
I know me, I feel me.
Who then, are you?
You must be from another place
or time or universe.
When I turn my head away,
will you laugh at my derision?
Will you reach out,
pat my back and mutely say
There there, you’ll be alright.
Are you sympathetic to what I see?
My memories are inside of me,
hidden to the outside world.
I do not wear them for all to see.
Why then, do you?
Photo by Torli Roberts
Plop
Patter
Ping
Slow steady nocturnal rain
taps on the yellow-green ceiling
of my ancient canvas tent.
Comfort seeps in as I burrow deep
in my cocoon zippered bag,
crisp cold nose, just outside the seam.
Lids shutter slowly as ears perk to listen.
Thoughts float in a cool haze.
A hooting owl sits sheltered
by spring’s green-yellow canopy.
The drip, drop, patter
plops above its feathered head.
Dreaming now,
a moon sliver guides me
to a sleep moment of clarity.
These rain notes are nature’s evensong.
A prayer
for all who sleep in this forested place.
Revised from one of my very first poems written in February, in my first class with Holly Wren Spaulding. Posted so early in March (as Rain Song) , I doubt but five people saw it!
UPDATE: I am in Alaska, as you read this! Will be posting every other day for two weeks until I return. Mostly new — poems that is — although I will be rejuvenated (love that word!) even more upon my return to Boston, our city by the sea.
She grew up in the heartland
with ribbons in her hair
and saddle shoes that skipped to school,
unlocked doors with swings on front porches
yards strewn with bicycles and holly hocks.
She kept a carefree heart these many years,
her memento of those bygone days.
The earth belches and spews forth her fury.
Oh Pele, goddess of volcanoes,
your power and passion are evident
as you hiss and ooze red-hot anger.
You are the earth’s psyche
and we the defiant trespassers,
over cracks and fissures
glass-sharp edges of your hardened crust.
Arrogant though we are
we step gingerly,
awed by your magnificence
as we retreat to cooler ground.
Posted in response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: Beneath Your Feet. Photos from our 2005 Lava Walk on the Big Island in Hawaii. A once in a life-time experience, to feel the volcano beneath our feet!
The house is quiet again
all things-children put away.
If I close my eyes
I can hear their laughter echo,
see small bodies
clambering on to youth chairs.
Stillness surrounds me
memories sustain me.
Families, and time
move on.
Toys packed away until another time.
They sit behind closed closet doors
in back of the shoe rack, gathering dust.
Two-toned in black and white,
four inch heels to elongate the leg
toes so narrow their tips turn up
after years of emptiness.
Ground-in talc mottles the inside
used oh so many times to smooth the sole,
pressure points etched in long dried sweat
from happier bare legged days.
Witness to her previous life
they sat primly crossed in corporate talks
hid behind podiums and knelt at pews
clicked down hallways, sat quietly grieving
in cold rooms filled with overwhelming floral scent,
danced at weddings and stood higher still,
tips of heels up off the floor
for a lifetime of New Year’s kisses.
These Spectators, aptly named
sit waiting to see the sun again.
Centenarian rock
diamond set in golden rings
still shines the passion of youthful love.
Three generations of women
hands adorned in conversation
gestures through time.
My hand, etched with fine lines
like my mother’s
and her mother’s.
Ancestry defined by blood
through blue hills of vein
solidified in stone.
Daily Post Photo Challenge: Up-Close.
My dad was a whisper whistler.
You know the kind.
Instead of puckering up your lips
into a little oh,
you put your tongue between your teeth
sort of in a smile, and then you blow.
Anyone can do it.
Except most people don’t.
He’d come walking down the hall,
the whisper whistler,
to the tune of Hail Hail the Gang’s All Here,
and how I wish they were.
She tickles my funny bone
two front teeth, gone
bare space, a badge of honor
exchange rate higher now
fairies demand more.
In this place
we lived life without reins
walked quickly, surefooted and headstrong
enjoyed the sleep of youth, less but deep
savored black coffee and devoured Kierkegaard.
This hill
tread so many times
landscape changed, more green, more lush
more steps, surely higher, climb to a different space
new buildings rise above refurbished old.
The trees are bigger, the shade more dense
as we seek the shadows of our past.
lillian the home poet 