seasons

Summer Ditty

lillian27 Comments

Freckledee doobie
summer me toonie,
singin’ some sillies with you.

Suckin’ orange slurpees
racin’ thru sprinklers,
singin’ our goofy-do tunes.

Hopscotch my sidewalk
ten in pink chalk,
singin’ hippity hoppity, bippity bop.

Friendship and freckles
grow in the sun.
Besties forever
singin’ as one.

It’s Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Mish is hosting and asks us to include the word “freckle” or any form of the word in our Quadrille (a poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo from Pixabay.com

There comes a time. . .

lillian19 Comments

Developing her own voice
testing her wings,
child no longer.
He understood as a poet does,
metaphorically . . .
you cannot tether a bluebird to your wiles,
no matter how loose the string.

Written in response to Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Linda is hosting and asks us to write a poem inspired by one of six particular paintings by Jacquline Hurlbert. I’ve selected Bluebird’s Journey, with permission of the artist. Find all paintings and information about the artist at jhurlbert.com

Calendar Crazed

lillian41 Comments

March,
that month after February,
thirty-one days before April.
A season unto itself.

A time for bluster. . .
pushy blow-hard March winds,
nature’s  ill-tempered signal
she is ready to move on.

Impatient crocus tips,
tulip and joinquil crowns,
clamor beneath the soil
desperately seeking warmth.

Sun tries to abide.
Sharpens her rays,
pierces leaden skies,
melts errant snows.

And we, with pens in hand,
cross off calendar days.
Like Sousa leading the band
we march forward . . .

wanting so badly
to pick up the pace,
to quick-step
our way to spring.

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I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, asking folks to think about the verse from Ecclesiastes quoted below. It was set to music by Pete Seeger in the late 50s and became a full-fledged hit Turn! Turn! Turn! by the Byrds in 1965. We’re writing a poem about “a time to/for ______.”  Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time, so you can find the exact prompt there.
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven:  a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.”

Seasonal Ditty

lillian58 Comments

Winter kisses.
Snowflakes on lashes
tip of nose
caught on tongue.

Winter fury.
White-out curtain
howling winds
sleet and ice.

Winter warmth.
Wooly mittens
snuggle downs
‘neath gramma’s quilt.

Winter leaving.
Snowman drooping
puddles form
days grow long.

Winter gone.
Crocus pop-ups
daffodils shine.

5378634594_1149da7a53_b (1)De is hosting dVerse Quadrille Monday. She asks us to include the word (or a form of the word) “kiss” in our exactly-44-word-poem (sans title). Thought I’d go lighthearted today. Seems to me we can always use some smiles. Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time….come on over for some smooching! Image from Bikes And Books on Flickr.

Ruby at her window . . .

lillian31 Comments

Frost-shimmer blurs window glass, like her lucidity,
as winter bundles trudge in faceless frigidity.
Memories sync with candle flicker, seem to come and go,
vague blizzard of anonymous insipidity.

She sits quietly peering through pane at what’s below.
Her mind, once clear as bright sun filled days, now lies fallow,
unaware of winter’s certain approaching demise.
The promise of warmth, rebirthing wild blue indigo.

Frank hosts Thursday’s MTB at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, and asks us to write a Rubaiyat:
* a Persian form of poetry, written in quatrain stanzas (4 lines to a stanza).
* Originally, 13 syllables to a line with variation on the pattern of accents.
Rhyme scheme is AABA, BBCB.
Quite the challenge!
Wild blue indigo is a flowering plant native to much of central and eastern North America and is particularly common in the Midwest. 

Music Returns

lillian58 Comments

Earth warms herself
sun gazes more deeply.
Snow crystals liquify,
trickle downward
through softening hillside,
quicken to rushing rivulets.
Winter stillness disappears.
Stream babbles, meanders,
gains strength through shifting pebbles
as plant life regenerates.
Grasses wave to river’s symphony.
Nature steeped in spring song.

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Mish is hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. “Steep” or a form of the word must be used within our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title). Photo in pixabay.com

Fall’s Egress

lillian4 Comments

Melancholy autumn rain.
Nature weeps as color takes its leave,
once golden amber, streaked through brown.
Droplets cling momentarily,
cleave to hawthorne crimson berries.
Lover’s farewell kiss.

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Photo taken outside our Boston high-rise yesterday. Coincidentally, our building is called Hawthorne Place and yes, this is a hawthorne tree after the morning’s rain.

Window on Her World

lillian41 Comments

Inside, she looks out.
Seasons change
confined within her pane.

Stripped by cruel winds,
branches clatter
nodes exposed.

Charles River, ribbon slight,
below low slung sky,
scene through barren trees.

Relieved, she slowly smiles,
espies her Charles again.
Silent vow worms her mind.

Before spring reblooms in pane
I shall join you, sweet Charles,
an afterworld away.

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Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, on Open Link Night. 
Photo from Pixabay.com

 

Her Leaving Time

lillian45 Comments

She’d been left behind by her son and husband many years before. Left to grow old without them. Legally blind. Too much effort to live. Too many pills to remember each morning. Each night.

Now, this cold autumn afternoon, lying in a hospital bed, she simply said Lillian, I’m tired. And I knew. I bent down, leaned close to her ear and whispered. I told her it was all right. Find the light, mom. They’re waiting for you. And she suddenly sat up and smiled. Eyes bright. A broad big smile. And then she flopped back and lay still. The kind male nurse who’d been at her side looked across the bedside at me. He simply nodded. And I nodded back.

golden amber leaves
blow off trees, hit closed windows
nature’s death displayed

Photo by Jena Backus on Pexels.com

Haibun written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Merril is our guest pub tender and asks us to write about a transition. A haibun is two or three short succinct paragraphs of prose (must be true) followed by a haiku that, in the traditional sense, contains a kigo (reference to a season).