Spring Harvest
We searched that day
for morels and fiddleheads
no words, no sounds, except the wind.
The rock laden stream followed us
deeper and deeper into wooded fields,
side by side seekers.
Heads bowed, eyes on nature’s floor
suddenly spied the curling greens
and soft brown spongy shapes.
We knelt as one, upon soft damp earth
hands outstretched to pluck the harvest
foretaste of the meal to come,
wild succulent edibles of spring.
So many seaside two-weeks
in this place with you.
This time, different.
crack….crack……crack.
Roused awake, I leave our bed
step outside to the dawn’s cool.
Jetty exposed at low tide
long and hard, a battering table
for the single industrious gull.
It hovers, takes aim, releases
crack……scallop shell hits
unyielding rock. Stays firm.
The gull swoops down,
picks up shell, rises, hovers
and lets go, again and again.
CRACK….success.
Morsel quickly consumed,
wings flare to catch the draft and soar.
I follow its path until chill seeps in
bare feet suddenly cold
high tide’s tangled seaweed nearby.
Back with you, under rumpled sheets
my hand hovers, drops down
rests upon your chest, like yesterday.
And yesterday’s yesterday.
Every day, since that day
I feel your every breath.
Inhale, exhale.
Yes, you are here
with me.
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.
The Victorian house groans awake
as a full harvest moon winks
through faded window shutters,
thrown wide open.
Smiling dead faces
in wallpapered hallways,
listen from chipped gilt frames
roll their eyes in sepia wonder.
Walls thick with memories
absorb the sounds,
sweet words whispered
mount to passionate moans.
Floorboards squeal
as casters roll in well worn grooves,
planks of wood etched
with scars of love.
This bed of generations,
alive again tonight.
Savoring the sea salt on my lips,
I remember how it tasted on your nose,
the nape of your neck and so much more,
those delectable three months
when you were my summer man.
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.
We came upon this lovely elderly woman one Sunday morning in Bermuda. A portrait poem. Can you picture her?
Sunday’s Pauline
She stood at the sloped curb’s edge
pleated red dress and feathered church hat
peering up and down the street
craning her neck looking for, what?
Her walker, with pocket book dangling
faced the street, precariously .
Eyes glued on her wheels
we Good Afternooned in the Bermudian way.
Broad shoulders and broader still smile
white gloved hand extended
Good Afternoon. My name’s Pauline
and I sure could use some help.
My hands clutched the walker’s edge
wheels slowly rattled toward the street
walking backwards, eyes locked with Pauline’s
her black oxfords shuffled along.
The Chevy sputtered and gagged
maneuvered to the curb,
aluminum grey, silver shine long gone
primer splotches added to the vintage feel.
Safely inside, walker stowed
window cranked down low
head out with peppered hair flowing
she caught our eye again.
God sure does give you a neighbor
especially when He knows you need one!
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.
Follow the Clouds
Stairs direct eyes, climb to clouds
holy canopy to this house of God
inside wooden warmth minus marble cold
simplicity defines Divine.
Four elderly black women
dressed in crimson choir garb
raise voices in praise
sing hymns as ancestors sleep
I sit ramrod straight, cedar bench stiff
then kneel on threadbare cushions
and for the first time in many years
my spirit soars.
My Photos: Her Majesties Chappel, St Peter’s Church, is the oldest surviving Anglican church in continuous use outside the British Isles, and the oldest Protestant Church in continuous use in the New World. Located in St. George, Bermuda, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the interior is filled with pew boxes and ceiling rafters of cedar wood that was long ago, plentiful on the island — and then depleted by ship building and disease. The land to the west of the church was reserved for burying slaves prior to the British Empire’s emancipation of slaves in 1834. We were privileged to worship here every Sunday in February, 2015. Also using this for a photo challenge on CLOUDS
May12: All poets, even house-poets, share bits and pieces of themselves every time they set pen to paper. My poetry writing started in February, with an online class, and then another and another, with a wonderful teacher/mentor. A recent assignment: write a poem of celebration, in an exhuberant mood, made from a list, possibly including negatives and positives. Tall order. This is what happened!
Those Were the Days
There’s Florida! I’ve got Maine. Shout outs
from the license plate game. Insert tapes.
Sesame Street morphed to Aretha.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T at the top of our lungs,
windows down, rolling along. Campfires
and that sloshing green water jug we lugged.
German shepherds, standard poodles.
One cat named Blossom, not mean like Siamese.
Recitals and running for yellow school buses.
Clouds of Aqua Net created almost asphyxiation.
Legos and taco suppers accompanied by
Circle of Love, our sung not said table grace.
Saucy beef stroganoff caused upturned
noses, just like Alice’s jello salad – green not red.
Escanaba cabin seven, just steps away from cold
Lake Michigan. Real play pens. Emphasis on safe and
play, not pen. RC Cola and Cool Ranch Doritos. Cold milk
and Oreos, no oatmeal and definitely not fish.
Birthday parties in 613’s orange and yellow family
room not at Chuckie Cheese or bowling alleys.
Singer sewing machine hummed near clunking
barbells by the chest freezer. Teenage angst appeared
with hot hormones. Not bad. Just challenging
and sometimes loud. Cymbals swished by foot thumping
bass drum while sticks twirled and beat. Juxtaposed
to sonorous organ chords or piano arpeggios.
Sweet Iowa corn with fresh-from-the-garden red
tomatoes. Melted butter and cherry juice slid down
licked fingers. Tractor tire sandbox in a city yard.
Pals walked to grade school with metal lunch boxes.
Not metal detectors. Split foyer house with upstairs
kitchen and one shower for all. Those Were the Days.
** Title inspired by the folksong, Those Were the Days….watch and listen to the original song by the Limelighters.
lillian the home poet 