Love.
Snow mist
nature kissed.
Evening stroll
through quiet street.
Bells chime afar.
Carolers’ voices carry
through neighborhood.
Candles glimmer, lights shine.
Thoughts turn to memories.
Eyes tear from cold
or yearning.
Family members gone
still cherished,
warm my spirit
this time
of year.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn asks us to use the word “snow” in our quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image created on Bing Create.
I was not there, the day everything changed.
When was that? When World War II ended?
When Einstein discovered relativity?
When nine-eleven crashed into infamy?
Or when Harry really met Sally?
Or when you simply ate a peach that summer day,
juice deliciously dripping down your tanned wrist.
Somewhere at that moment, I suppose a child was born.
Truth is, everything changes
with every breath we take.
Every pivot, every spin, every loping run,
something new becomes.
Nothing stands still. Except perhaps
sentinel mountains in the Norwegian fjords.
Yet even they are marred by subtle granular shifts
as we gaze up at their rugged rockface surface.
Like when we turned around
and our children became adults.
We noticed when their braces came off that summer,
but we didn’t register the daily shifts.
I don’t understand my image in the mirror.
I know it’s me. But how did it become . . . that?
Wasn’t it just yesterday, I was a brunette
and you introduced yourself to me?
Fifty-seven years later, we walk more slowly,
still hand in hand more often than not.
We’ve passed through so many seasons together,
the path is now longer behind than in front.
And so my love, in this moment
that shall also pass by all too quickly,
I simply must tell you.
I am thankful for every day.
I am thankful for you.
Written to share with dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
Saturday, March 18, dVerse will go LIVE with audio and video from 10 to 11 AM EST.
Folks from across the globe will meet face-to-face via Google Meet to read a poem of their choosing, and to visit across the miles.
Click here between 10 and 11 AM Boston time on Saturday, March 18th to join us — you’ll find an easy link that will open in your browser so you can meet everyone. Be sure to click on the SATURDAY link. Come and read a poem of your own OR just watch and listen. We’re a friendly goup and the more the merrier!
Photos: That’s George, the love of my life, and I our freshman year in college – many many years ago. Second photo is of us this past summer.
Rosary tied to box spring
beneath where my father slept.
God, have mercy on him.
He did not worship You,
but lived You in relationships.
I was taught Papal invincibility
as priests preyed on youth.
They forgave others
behind confessional screens,
required rosaries for penance.
My father,
God rest his soul,
more a father than them.
He didn’t need a rosary,
but many of them did.
Explanation: When I was away in college, I received a phone call from my mother. They’d just had a new mattress and box spring set delivered. And the strangest thing, she said. When they went to remove the old box spring, they found a rosary entwined in the bottom of it. Did I have any idea why it was there?
And then I remembered. When I was in Catholic grade school, learning my catechism, I feared my father wouldn’t go to heaven because he didn’t go to church and he wasn’t a Catholic. So I sneaked into my parents’ bedroom, crawled under their bed and tied a rosary to the boxed spring, on the side of the bed my father slept on. Imagine the indoctrination that happened to make me think that and go to that extreme to save him. I was probably in third or fourth grade when I did this. I just couldn’t understand, I suppose, how such a good man as my father, wouldn’t be allowed in heaven.
Image by Richard Revel from Pixabay
Toddler’s rosy ice-cold cheeks.
Zooming, bumping down icy hills
on cafeteria-trays as sleds.
Crack-the-whip flying on ice skates.
Chocolate ganache, icing supreme,
marguerita on the rocks, please.
Icicle turrets on snow castles,
I scream for ice cream.
Smiling me,
at a list like this.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Mish asks us to include the word “ice” or a form of the word, in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Image by annca from Pixabay
There is a tint of blue
in every Christmas season.
In the midst of Advent purples,
celebratory reds and greens,
in twinkling decorative lights.
There is a hint of blue
despite carolers and tinseled trees,
cookies and gingerbread houses,
marshmallow topped cocoa,
mulled wine sipped from Santa mugs.
Spirits hover round
this special time of year.
Loved ones from generations past,
family members miles away,
those made angels far too soon.
Memories mingle in traditions,
attached forever to ornaments,
long treasured decorations,
holiday photo cards and books,
all brought out this special time of year.
This was hers . . .
he made this . . .
she loved this one . . .
I remember when they gave me this . . .
he made this ribbon rose.
There is a tinge of blue
to every Christmas season.
Reminiscences simmer within our joy.
Many are with us round the tree,
in our hearts if not standing near.
Merry Christmas to all!
O Tannenbaum,
holding warm memories.
Mother’s eggshell thin glass pink bell,
father’s fragile airplane ornament,
each almost one-hundred years old.
Brother’s handmade Santa
with sparse cotton beard,
seventy-seven years old.
Family long departed from earth,
always here this beautiful season,
illuminated on my tree.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where today Lisa asks us to write a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title, that includes the word “warm” – or a form of the word.
Yes, our Christmas tree is up! And always hung first on the tree, are my three most precious and fragile ornaments: the pink bell was given to my mother’s parents when she was born; the airplane was given to my father when he was about five; and my brother made this Santa Claus when he was in first grade. He was nine years older than me and tragically died of a massive heart attack at age fifty-one – before either of my parents died. All three have been gone for many years. I always hold my breath when I open the box to see if these ornaments have made it to another year. Many other meaningful ornaments on our tree – I actually call it our memory tree. The Unicorn marionette was made by my daughter when she was eight, forty years ago. The orange giraffe with white bird on its head, to the right of the unicorn, was a wooden piece from the mobile that hung on my children’s crib: daughter now forty-eight and son now forty-six. There’s a traditional red ball ornament that has Lillian printed every-so-neatly on it, made by Mrs. Boomer, my first grade teacher. I’m now seventy-five. And so it goes. That’s a cream-colored garland I crocheted many many years ago. I love putting up my tree.
So many families separated
by distance, emotional rancor,
political divides, generational gaps.
I remember large gatherings,
cousins, aunts and uncles,
babies bounced on hips.
Mor Mor’s rum pudding,
homemade pies and breads,
Aunt Pat’s meringue kisses.
And grandparents, our elders,
immigrants from Sweden,
sitting tall, beloved by all.
I remember circles of love
snaking through two rooms,
hands held, singing table grace.
Treasured memories all,
this Thanksgiving morn.
Photo from Pixabay.com
Grateful for every day. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
I was with her when she died,
only positive memories in my mind.
Holding her hand, leaning down close,
my mouth so near her ear.
Faith and love seemed to rush in
overcome all doubt as I said,
“Go toward the light mom.
Daddy’s there, he’s missed you.”
Her eyes opened. She smiled at me –
and then she was gone.
What was the sound I heard
before that last breath?
Not a death rattle. A sigh?
A wooshing? Surely the machines near her.
Or perhaps an angel’s wings?
Helping her soar to another universe.
A place to reunite with my father,
her son, her sisters and brother,
her mother and father.
A place with no pain, no loneliness.
I hope so.
I truly hope so.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We were asked to use the word “wing” or a form of the word, within our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. I got so carried away in the emotional writing of the poem, that I went way over the 44 words. So posting it today for Open Link Night. Photo is one of my favorites of my mom, taken at my nephew’s cabin.
Of course she shed tears
after 70 + years
shared with her one true love.
Since we first saw her Grace
the world is a far different place.
Her long life a gift from above.
I fancied the Royals forever it seems,
listened to their wedding, dreamed my dreams.
In 1947, I was only 9 but in love.
A handsome prince, Philip, stole my heart
but Elizabeth was his mate, never to part.
Little girls like me dreamed of that kind of love.
Mother and I watched Elizabeth’s coronation.
in the middle of the night I was filled with elation.
Crowns, royal robes, jewels reigned from above.
Philip stood tall as she became queen.
Such pomp and circumstance I never had seen.
He looked at her with such love.
Over the years I have admired the queen
wearing colorful outfits, blue, pink or green
matched head to toe, hat, coat, and glove.
Children and grandchildren blessed her life.
We saw very little of her role as wife
until Philip died. Queen’s tears shed for love.
Written by Lindsey Ein and read aloud at our OLN LIVE! So happy to have Lindsey participate and to share her poem with all of you here.
It’s this day again.
It’s come every year
since this day nine years ago.
An emotionally tough day
in this autumnal time of year.
I awaken before dawn.
Sleep elusive,
memories churning.
You cheated death on this day,
nine years ago today.
I lie listening to your breath,
thankful you are here.
Thankful for angels along the way
who helped tether you,
tether you to earth and me.
This afternoon we will walk
meander along the glistening Charles.
We’ll scuff leaves with our feet,
admire fall’s cacophony of colors
and revel in a new day of love.
Photo taken last year along the Charles River in Boston.
Thankful for every day.
lillian the home poet 