Iowa fireflies
dance with stars
against the black backdrop
of eternity.
Once trapped
within a glass jar
their magic dims
like childhood dreams
whimsical
wistful
gone.
memories
Junie Z.
West School, still here.
That metal bar around the schoolyard,
smoother now. So many years
of little hands sliding along its surface.
I bend low, touch its coolness
and you’re with me again.
Junie with the short dark hair.
Eyes closed, I see four anklet socks
in plain brown mary janes
kick up and over the rail,
cotton dresses in laughing faces.
Up the street, a car alarm blares.
And just like that,
your laughter floats away,
my hand lifted from the bar.
WRITING PROMPT in my June Challenge class: recall a memory of someone, what provoked the memory — a scent, a place?
With Apologies to Oscar Wilde
I’d never met a ghost
or a celebrity
so was surprised on the treadmill
when Oscar Wilde whispered
directly in my ear,
the heart was meant to be broken.
Home again,
caretaker roles reversed
your heart beats strong
mine now slow,
blown out from stress
like a Japanese octopus bag.
Takotsubo,
Broken Heart Syndrome.
Not the stuff of playwrights.
I learned again that day
the importance of being earnest.
Talking softly with, not at,
we climbed five stairs
inch by inch,
this time
your steps
matched to mine.
This is NOT Happening
Two hundred fifty square feet of living space.
One glass wall with city views no one sees.
Jagged zig zags roll on monitors
lightning bleeps across the zags.
Your hands still, bloated fingers slightly curved.
My head hears a migraine beat,
while eyeballs stare so long,
they feel outside my face.
This whirring place makes my skin crawl raw.
Your mouth should be pressed on mine.
Like last night. Or speaking simple words
like this, when, or eggs this morning?
Any words from your mouth,
not taped shut
locked inside an intubation tube.
Bisque: cherished series, opus 8
china bisque faced doll
my aunt’s when she was young
a twin, that’s two, but not really
the second was a boy
christmas tree with big lights
not twinkling like miniature strobes
not like stars on top of Cadillac Mountain
where you waved blueberry stained fingers
mine were smudged from ink
postcards and letters sent back home
left out the sad parts
the stained and smudged parts
bisque fragile life
still beautiful
without the sparkle
Photo: my aunt’s beautiful bride doll. China bisque face with kid leather body.
Magical Place: cherished series, opus 7
Everyone has a house, but not like 5018.
We took many a long voyage
at that address, sailing the seas
within basement walls.
Grampa was a Swedish immigrant
young idealist and painter by trade.
He sailed across the Atlantic
right into the heart of America.
Years later, he painted the scene.
Ceiling sky cerulean blue
dipped to meet the walls’ horizon
forever brightened by invisible sun.
Gulls soared in place
their cries imagined real
through misshapen clouds
fluffy white, no rain in sight.
Waves rolled with white caps
dabs of paint that never splashed.
Life preserver, hung lifeless
unused and not quite round.
Dry mops swabbed the decks
while lookouts watched for land
till dreaded words Time to go home
drifted down from too real stairs.
We abandoned ship to heed the call
packed into four-door cars
rode through busy honking streets
back to everyday landlocked homes.
Portrait Etude
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.
Darkened Eve
She sat on the porch,
rocking back and forth
on the glider built for two.
The man in the moon,
her only companion
this anniversary night.
From a writing prompt: Experiment with the “said” and “unsaid”…..leave the reader wondering in the wake of the poem or text.
Emptiness Beside Me – cherished series, opus 6
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.
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
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.
lillian the home poet 
