memories

Portrait Etude

lillian9 Comments

She was a collector.

Shelves crowded with knick knacks,
salt and pepper shakers, silver spoons
Avon bottles and beanie bags.

National Geographics on every table,
grampa’s pipe still resting
in the Illinois shaped tin ash tray.

And that was just downstairs.
Climbing up the wooden creaking stairs
revealed a musty attic world.

Windows, long sealed shut
looked down on a weed covered yard,
sidewalks where she drew hop scotches.

Cobwebs bruhsed aside,
we found two trunks, rusty latches
opened decades of memories.

Grampa’s morning coat and grey ascot,
folded atop her yellowed wedding dress,
fragile lace-edged mutton sleeves.

A seed pearl hat pin firmly afixed
to a Juliet cap with fragile tulle veil,
so delicate still.

And there, below the clothes,
the small white leather bible,
wrapped in once white supple leather gloves.

The final layer,
a stack of valentines
tied in faded ribbon.

Their loving epitaph etched
in a tombstone seven miles away,
more alive here
in this trunk of memories.

Emptiness Beside Me – cherished series, opus 6

lillian16 Comments

photo 1

We looked like that.

Proud nine year old, awkward
holding three month me, a treasure
until five years later
pest to your teenage hormones.

You, proud new daddy
me, awkward gawky sister,
new aunt in braces
and lollipop bra.

You, my tuxedo handsome usher
black shiny shoes on white sheeted aisle.
Me, excited oh-so-young bride
barely noticed your proud eyes and smile.

You, father of five
tee ball games and packed full car.
Held your newborn niece,
gentleness on your face.

No photos last time
you so cold and me so flushed.
In front of multitudes
you absolutely still, I wept you.

Pictures stopped. Not you with me,
no you with anyone.
Not in anger, joy or silliness,
just stopped.

Death’s reality lives
in happy photo albums.
Same people, changed by age,
with no you.

photo 2-2 photo 1-2

My brother, nine years older than me. Lost suddenly, too soon at 51.
“Not to worry” he’d say on the phone. Love these pictures. Love his family.

On the Way

lillian7 Comments

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Spread your wings to glide
through sun streaks’ warmth,
to reach and feel the clouds.

          In my best dreams
          I fly round and round
          the confines of my room.

Catch the upward draft.
A lazy float through clear air
colored only by the sky.

Magnificent quiet follows
as you bank left, shift course
to a new everything.

          Strap on wings
          hold tight
          and soar.

In response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge: to interpret “on the way”. 
Pboto from a Baltic cruise. 

Memories Attached: cherished series, opus 5

lillian9 Comments

Her dresser, the last to dismantle.
Birthday figurine, two fingers chipped
sits on a dusty mirrored tray.

Sweater sets and pedal pushers,
one lacey veil, bobby pins still attached
yellow cotton gloves, last worn many Easters past.

Hankies with hand stitched pansies
on delicate tatted corners,
peek from a small silk purse.

Sachet bags tied in faded ribbons
tucked in corners, sweetness long spent.
And then, there they were.

Red glass beads with silver crucifix
nestled on a small satin cushion,
third drawer front.

Ready for gnarled fingers
to move from stone to stone
haunted by her whispered words,

Hail Mary, full of grace.
Now hailed by millions,
minus one.

Wondrous India

lillian16 Comments

My career took me several times to India. A land of magnificent colors, beautiful people, and simplicity beside urgent modernity.  I was honored to share meals and meet relatives of my students, visit holy places, and experience this wonderful culture. 

Wondrous India

Stone mosque bathed in light,
waits in glistening dark sea
an icon of hope.

Cities teem and swarm
with cars parked beside oxen,
new challenging old.

Low tide finds boardwalk
revealed through waste and debris,
pilgrims’ path to prayer.

Land of paradox:
harsh realities mar the
exalted sublime.

Pristine white heron
scavenges beside children.
Innocent dwellers
of this land called India.

Written for a writing prompt to write in a “series.”  I decided to try my hand at a series of haiku within one larger poem. I found the aspect of “hiding” the haiku form a challenge. To have the sense of the poem meet the reader, rather than the form itself. UPDATE:  

Discarded Memories: cherished series, opus 4

lillian4 Comments

Our family bible was leather bound with gilt edges, like a large coffee-table book, except it sat on an out-of-the-way end table. Mother listened raptly to the door-to-door salesman and agreed. Books you own are a sign of pedigree. And then she filed away the precious threads of her life between its pages.

I used to sit fingering the bits and pieces of family history. Poems on scraps of paper with her handwriting: 1944 ~ Bud this is how much I love you. There was yellowed newsprint: Arthur Petitclair, dead at 58 with the smiling face of my grandfather staring out at me. A fragile, stained news clipping introduced Butch, the cousin I never met. …tragically found dead in his bed on Tuesday morning, at age eight, by his mother, Helvie Petitclair. There were holy cards of Mary and Saint Francis, and handmade cards drawn in those primary color thick crayons we had in grade school.

My parents called. We sold the house and everything in it to a nice young family.  Everything? Everything. We just want to move on.

A nice young family? I suppose they held the bible upside down and shook out all those scraps of history. They probably sit and read the real text inside the leather cover.

Sunday’s Pauline

lillian3 Comments

We came upon this lovely elderly woman one Sunday morning in Bermuda. A portrait poem. Can you picture her?

Sunday’s Pauline

She stood at the sloped curb’s edge
pleated red dress and feathered church hat
peering up and down the street
craning her neck looking for, what?

Her walker, with pocket book dangling
faced the street, precariously .
Eyes glued on her wheels
we Good Afternooned in the Bermudian way.

Broad shoulders and broader still smile
white gloved hand extended
Good Afternoon. My name’s Pauline
and I sure could use some help.

My hands clutched the walker’s edge
wheels slowly rattled toward the street
walking backwards, eyes locked with Pauline’s
her black oxfords shuffled along.

The Chevy sputtered and gagged
maneuvered to the curb,
aluminum grey, silver shine long gone
primer splotches added to the vintage feel.

Safely inside, walker stowed
window cranked down low
head out with peppered hair flowing
she caught our eye again.

God sure does give you a neighbor
especially when He knows you need one!

Love Dawns, Envelops Still

lillian3 Comments

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What dreams lie within your mind’s eye
lying beside me this autumn’s eve?

Your chest almost imperceptibly rises
and flutter falls, like the owl’s eyes
staring strong and wise
flicker at a moth passing by the moon.

Soft sibilant sounds escape barely open lips
too soon years before, taped tight
received life-sustaining intubated air
machines whirred fear, invaded dreamless sleep.

My lids droop heavy, sleep demanding time
your dreams rest safe, secret till the morrow.
Our morning rite awaits, repeats these many years
Put down the paper dear, and tell me last nights’ tales.

Veil of sleep lifted by sun’s insistent rays
like my bridal veil, pushed back by eager fingers
you sought a promise kiss before God’s altar.
Not deep like later.

Kisses given one thousand times one thousand
over a world of tomorrows. Today we sit content
in time-withered bodies
wizened you beside my wisened self.

Amazed always, that you chose me
my soul complete, enveloped still.

In response to the Daily Post’s Weekly Photo Challenge:  what does “envelops” mean to you?  Photo taken at dawn in Provincetown, Massachusetts.