Gateways to the heart
change through the seasons.
Youthful romanticism,
tempted by pastels
sweet scented carnations
valentines in pink envelopes
a rosebud mouth.
Passionate eroticism,
eyes seek carnal depths
lips’ open invitation
rose petal paths
and pulsing tempos.
Love divine, a decoupage,
years layered on years
passion and comfort
within familiar folds,
your skin next to mine.
Photo from a walk in St George, Bermuda.
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.
Sometimes, things happen in life that truly truly make you thankful for every day. I’ve been 46 + years now with the love of my life — and we are grateful for every day in this “rejuvenatement” period of our lives (see my About for an explanation of the term). This poem was motivated by a poetry class assignment: look very very closely at things around you and write about something you want to save from oblivion. The mind jumps around and makes various connections, the pen writes, scratches out, and writes again…and this is the result.
Forever
Two gulls skitter about the shore’s edge
leaving track upon track, their dance notation.
Voices sound cacophonous shrills
wings flap, contract, and flap again.
Two children skip, swinging hand in hand
suddenly unjoin. Side by side, in unison
arms wide, they leap and jump
like gulls ahead who splash, lift and soar.
Waves rollick and return, out and always in.
Sea, animals, and children seen in twos
assault my oneness, so recently assumed
etched into being, sears and spills my tears.
Hands rest upon this familiar rail
seek coolness from the seasons’ heat
instead, send chills from hand to heart
my body, an eclipse of the sun.
Let go the rail. Come stand with me, my love
your life, not death, forever.
Last day of challenge to write a poem every day during April, National Poetry Writing Month. FYI: will be taking a hiatus from the blog until Monday, May 4. Taking a trip to visit family and slip into my mom and grandmom roles. Please do join me again on Monday!! Happy weekend to all and congratulations to all my fellow poets who completed the NaPoWriMo challenge!
Blur
She lives on a merry-go-round
senses dulled by blurred vision
maniacal calliope music
takes her nowhere every day
mired in circle sameness.
She chose the blue horse
its golden mane rich in gilt
matched her lust then shocked
her as its cold cylindrical pole
ignored her calls to stop.
He rides two steeds behind her
eyes wild, hair disheveled
desperately out of synch
up down to her down up
gains no ground moving still.
Hot desire fuels
his mad useless pursuit
anchored by metal plates
bolted to the wildly
spinning floor.
Live life
savor love
delectably delicious!
I sit rocking beyond dusk
eyes closed, lips parted, catching
the soft scent of nearby lilacs.
Eyes within this face of mine
cannot see me, but painfully
know my averageness.
Hours later your hands meander
the lines and hollows of my face
and somehow, my beauty is unleashed.
Spending February in St. George, Bermuda was, as they say, food for the soul. The waters are truly iridescent. We were fortunate to see a bright parrot fish on one of our many hikes. When I got my camera out, it was gone. Gone — but remembered as I wrote the poem below. Post Script: Once spring has truly arrived in Boston, I’ll change my Photo page to the amazing Bermuda coastline.
Parrot Fish
The water so clear he can see
the parrot fish glide in and
out among the rocks
and Sargasso sea grass.
Eyes shaded, he tastes the salt air
and looks out at the layers of blue
from navy to azure to sky melting
into sea. Slowly, he remembers.
Her eyes. Pools of iridescent aquamarine
with feathered lashes opening and closing, half shut.
The blue so deep he wanted to dive into the pool,
possess it, feel the coolness on his skin.
Gazing downward again, the bright crimson
parrot fish is gone. Escaped. Riding the waves
as foamed breakers leave ridges in the sand’s
edge. And once again, he is left behind.
This winter, our month stay in Bermuda was many things. Lush comes to mind and is certainly evident in many of the photos I took (flowers, and the luscious fruit of the loquate tree). Sitting on the porch in the warm morning sun, letting my mind wander – the idea of waiting came to mind.
Waiting
she sits on the garden porch
deep purple morning glories
framed by loquat trees and palmettos
hands on her filigreed watch still
its mechanism stopped and exhausted
like her it was twisted and turned daily
eyes closed straining to see
his face in her lid covered darkness
head tipped backward upward
toward wispy clouds
imagining finger like threads
of white embraced by blue
it seemed in her mind
the perfectly timeless time
to feel his face
his hands
his breath
as the wind touched her body
and stroked her hair
In today’s age of Twitter, LOL, BFF, etc, you’d think writing one sentence poems would be easy…..but to be grammatically correct, have meaning….tough stuff! This is my first try 🙂
Tantalizing
Standing close, head tilted back
with eyes pressed shut,
small curvey hollow of neck exposed
by an open top button on her uniform,
she waits to taste her very first kiss
And so it begins today.
Rejuvenatement, not retirement.
Poetry, my voice from within, now has the time and the space.
I’ve always found the sounds and sights of the ocean mesmerizing.
My spouse of 45 years and I spend two weeks every year in Provincetown, MA, the very tip of Cape Cod. Many have found the magic of this place as their muse: playwrights Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams; Pulitzer Prize winners Norman Mailer (author) and Mary Oliver (poet).
Glisten
Our footprints disappeared
in the cool damp sand ridges,
walking farther and farther
into the wetness of low tide.
Heads bowed, we shaded our
eyes from the sun’s glare,
the glisten it created as the water
deepened in the distance.
We shared our solitude
quietly grateful
we chose the off-season
to rediscover our togetherness.
lillian the home poet 