solitude

Dustings by Two

lillian2 Comments

NaPoWriMo Day 19:  without a prompt.  My mother loved talcum powder. The kind you “dust” all over yourself. I used to go into the bathroom after her and the floor would be slick and the room would have a heavy perfumed scent. One day, after she died in October 1998, I sat on a bench by her yard and watched as several birds found a dirt hole and proceeded to merrily take a dust bath. Sweet sweet memories juxtaposed.

Dustings by Two

Slick wet lavender tiles
window blurred by steam
she gaily sings and trills
pats and swirls a fancy puff
to create lily scented
clouds of talc
her dusting for the day.

Outside the window
hot bereft of rain
a blue bird warbles
wings flap flutter
dried dirt scatters
creates earthy clouds
of cooling swirling dust.

The Framed Dream: cherished series, opus 3

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NaPoWriMo  Day 17 without a prompt.   A constant in everyone’s life is the ability to dream. In your sleep and in your waking time. But what do we do when that dream is unfulfilled – stopped dead in its tracks?  Sometimes by a conscious choice, sometimes by circumstances that present themselves, wanted or not. 

 

The Framed Dream

It was a short notice: Helen is predeceased by Bud
and Charles Gruenwald Jr, her husband and son.
God knows, she’d lived the last eight years
impatiently waiting to join them.

It moved with her when she was left alone.
An eight by ten picture from a 1930s
Life Magazine: young nurse in white cap
surrounded by glowing light.

Her nurses training lasted six months.
Instead of earning a nurse’s pin
she eloped and eight months later
put my brother to her breast.

The room was empty when I took it down.
Water-stained backing, script barely readable
My dearest Helen, No one can take this away
from you. Sister Everista 1937   For sixty years,
she’d kept her dream in a plastic frame.

From the Depths

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NaPoWriMo  Day 14:  write a poem that includes or is a dialogue and potentially expresses two points of view
———————————————————-

She sits alone, staring quietly
as tears slowly fall, untouched.

Hands in lap, formless and limp
speak emptiness into the wind.

Shoulders sag, spine slumps
the image of despair.

Her loss, once unimaginable
signals unending tomorrows without.

Uninvited, somewhere from within
the whisper comes, there are angels nearby.

This Holy Place

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NaPoWriMo  Day 11: no prompt. 

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The candle is lit.
Her resolute hand
sparks bright yellow flames
as gold iconography shimmers.

Statuary bears witness.
Tears spill sadness
as hearts laid open
silently name their fears away.

Well worn kneelers
impress needlepoint cross or dove
on bared knees of any age
bent in supplication.

Tourists shuffle
up and down aisles
whisper loudly
ignore the calligraphy hush.

Believers turned gawkers
their occasional donation
a tip for service
we pay for with our souls.

Prism + Palinode

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NaPoWriMo

Day 8 National Poetry Writing Month Prompt is to write a palinode: defined as when a poet retracts a statment made in an earlier poem.  Prism was previously posted under One Sentence Poems. Posting these just under the wire today.

If you’ve not seen my Sunrise Return to Sweden, published this morning — please do scroll down and take a peek — one of my favorites.

 

Prism
When I’m asked, How do you see the world?
I squint a bit under the bright light
looking for the crimson of her scarf
and answer, Through a kaleidoscope.

Palinode
As she slips through the crowd
 not acknowledging me again,
I clear my throat and add,
But mostly as a labyrinth.

Shadow of Mine

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Shadow of Mine

We walk, you in front of me
one created flesh and bone
the other born of sun
elongated faceless gray.

Seamlessly
we stroll the beach
arms out wide now close in
darkness plays with light.

I stop you stop
your head turns as mine
we follow a gull’s flight
as it rises from the sea.

If I turn and reverse my course
will you dance behind me
like the kite that zigs and zags
when its master loosens his hold?

Secrets One and Two

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We all have them, right?   Secrets can be delicious or debilitating, wonderful or horrific. So here’s the question to think about. At some time in our lives, have we all had both?
 

Secret One                                                  

A secret so sublime
you long to swirl it
relish it slowly
like the first pour
of fine red wine
as it coats the glass
anticipation heightens
the tasting as divine
as the telling.

 

Secret Two

A secret so potent
like anger
wind-whipped current
roaring through
the sea wall of your mind
unrelenting persistent
batters forward
again and again
through rock hard edges
until released in spews
shattered feelings spent.

Waiting

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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.

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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