solitude

7th Floor Morning

lillian5 Comments

The sun is a recluse today
exhausted from yesterday’s mirth,
dawn abandoned.

Grey blankets a rain-skewed world
as headlights appear
and disappear
through green wet treetops.

Windows shut tight
shades raised, not flapping
coffee brews and I wait,
staring through drips.

Time-deprived street-lights
shine their night-time faces,
as umbrellas bob through a labyrinth
of puddles on cement.

Tired eyes close, barely awake
I sense the city on a rainy morn.
Coffee gurgles, cars slosh through streets
and a wet flag clangs metal grommets
on its cold steel pole.

Cul de Sac Season

lillian2 Comments

She sits on a faded brocade chair
brown age spots and blue veins
eyes clouded by cataracts
lace curtain pulled back.
Her house is on a cul de sac,
last one on the end curve.

Yard swings, long quiet
moved wistfully in summer winds
now shrouded in new-fallen snow.
Nearby holiday displays
draw a slow parade of cars
like moths drawn to light.

Cold drive-by strangers
slip past the lone dark house.
Her solitary reading lamp
turned off at seven
A Christmas Carol splayed open
on the wood planked floor.

Crayon World

lillian14 Comments

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Color me rainbow happy
your Red Sox cap next to my blue visor.
We sat in bright colored Adirondack chairs
kite string loose, then tight,
as you played with the tension.
Our dreams sailed high into cloudless sky
paled only by your art deco shades
as you stared out, looking for words.
Color me livid when you talked about her,
like lightning flashes in a raging sky.
Anger fueled by heat, dissipated over days of grey.
Rainbow chairs sit empty, lined up, waiting.
Color me invisible, when the door closed.

Photo:
from Provincetown, on Massachusetts’  Cape Cod. Poem and photo in response to the Daily Post Photo Challenge to interpret ROY G. BIV — the memonic to remember colors of the rainbow.

Not True

lillian5 Comments

Do not say that to me.
I fall asleep just like you
just not for all night.
Shades down, lids down,
on my eyes, and on the loo too.

Do not say that to me.
Words fail everyone.
Talk stumbles when stress does not
children crave repetition. Repetition
teaches that sink-in kind of learning.

Do not say that to me.
My feet walk through that park
across the street, just like yours.
Except you’re accompanied by two wheels
and one foot pushing that scooter thing.

The one I gave Johnny for his birthday,
I think. I push four wheels in front of me,
all by myself,
and sing merrily I roll along
in perfect pitch.

Do not say that to me.
I will not leave my home.
I am not a hermit crab
that leaves one house for another.
And I am not ready to molt.

Do not say that to me.
I am NOT getting old.
You are.
And I’m pretty sure God is too.

 

Will He Know?

lillian4 Comments

She wondered
as she tapped the frame slightly askew
replaced the dirty coffee mug on his Chilewich placemat
shuffled the mail so her bill was on top
and turned their bathroom faucet handle just enough
to let the water drip in slow motion,
will he know she’s still with him,
not quite yet a fully embodied angel
in that other world?

Written from a writing prompt in my June Challenge Course: write within a constraint, IE a one sentence poem.