At the Beach

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse Blogspot

 

At the Beach
“The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach.” Henry Beston

We sat on beach towels on the sand
watching the waves and gulls,
cooled by the breeze.
I held the shell I had found on the beach
just an hour ago.
I held it up to my ear and said,
Mama, I can hear the ocean!
She grinned.
But of course you can!
She took a sip of her iced tea
from the thermos.
I sat in front of the ocean
and continued to listen to the ocean
through my shell.

Lilacs

Lilacs
“We are ghosts in Victorian gowns, lilac apparitions with parasols…” Simone Muench

lilacs droop in the rain.
their scent mingles with the scents of honeysuckle.
I remember the lilacs in the garden of our family’s home,
stretching up to just beneath the
third floor windows.
I used to hang out of those windows
touching the tips of the blooms
bringing my hand up to my nose.
lilacs in the moonlight –
intoxicating to a child –
intoxicating to an adult.
I remember those lilacs
dancing in the soft May breezes.
I remember those lilacs
scenting the rooms of that house
like the ghosts of young girls
drifting past luring you to follow,
to dance with them in the moonlight.
I remember those lilacs.

 

 

Haibun: Neighborhood Music

For Carrie’s Sunday Muse #48

Haibun: Neighborhood Music
“Time is the longest distance between two places.” Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie

Mrs. Williamson was a crochety old woman. She had a thousand sets of collected salt and pepper shakers, windows hung with handmade lace, and a hand wound old Victrola up in her bedroom. Sometimes through the neighborhood you could hear the scratchy music winding through the neighborhood. “You can bring Sal she’s a real nice gal but don’t bring Lulu” or, “He was going down the grade making 90 miles an hour, His whistle broke into a scream, He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle, Scalded to death by the steam”. The wreck of the Old 97 was her song when she was melancholy and sipping on sherry. Of course she died, in the midst of 1950’s rock and roll and bee bop aloo-ing whining. She left me her Victrola and half of her salt and pepper shakers because I would play with them when I visited.
summer nights seem empty
without the sound of old songs –
stars fall from the sky

Smells of Home

For Gina’s prompt at dVerse:  Comfort smells of childhood.

Smells of Home
“As you move through this life and this world, you change things slightly; you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life–and travel–leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks–on your body or on your heart–are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.” Anthony Bourdain

Ivory soap – pure white and floating.
My mother scrubbing me clean and later
Mme scrubbing myself clean.
My father shaving off bits with his pocket knife
and putting into a bowl of water to melt
and then blowing soap bubbles.

Fresh laundry – the smell of sun
and later starch, ironed and fresh.
Diving onto the bed and rolling from one side
to the other – reveling in the clean crisp scent.

My grandmother’s lipstick and face powder,
my father’s Old Spice,
my mother’s clean fresh smell
as she came in from the outside.

Smells of cooking fresh green beans,
frying chicken, freshly baked bread,
freshly squeezed lemon juice into the
pitcher of sweet tea,
the fresh coconut cake, the scent
of tomatoes fresh from the vine.

Cedar and pine for Christmas,
oranges and cloves.
Carnations spicy and rich for Valentine’s day
and magnolias in a crystal punch bowl,
roses and honeysuckle and newly mown grass
In the summer.

Smells of childhood take me back to happy times.
Smells to remind me the dead are always with us.

Long ago rooms

Day 11 of NAPOWRIMO….the prompt at Real Toads is to use the phrase “long ago rooms” from a Maya Angelou poem and to use 12 or less lines to write the poem.  #30 in 30.

Long Ago Rooms
Through open windows drifts the scents
of honeysuckle gardenia magnolia –
Books are covered with dust
And unread – memories sleep
in these long ago rooms.
Childhood has become old age
laughter has been stilled –
the night lasts forever.

dVerse Poetics: Recipe Poems

Today, Mish is our prompt giver for the Poetics section of our Pub. She is asking us, in spirit of the Season, to give us recipe poems – but not just recipe for food, recipes for solitude, disaster, happiness, peace, war, well being, love, etc. The recipe is my Grandmother’s recipe for old fashioned tea cakes and in the pic, is also her original enameled wooden rolling pin she used when baking over 90 years ago. My mother came to live with my husband and I about two months ago. She has Alzheimer’s and is in frail health, but she remembers these cookies!

Recipe for Memories

She looks puzzled.
Why didn’t anyone tell me I had a child?
Why didn’t mama tell me I had a child?
I sigh deeply and explain,
that when she lived in Tennessee I called
her twice daily –
That she and papa raised me.
That she never mistreated me or left me,
that I always had the best she and papa could afford.
She will nod and sometimes request to be taken to bed.
When she awakens and joins me again in the kitchen,
I mix together softened butter, eggs, vanilla, flour.
I shape and cut and put into the oven.
She sniffs the air.
I remember Mama baking these when I was a child.
I remember her rollingpin with the green handles.
Why didn’t Mama tell me I had a child?

copyright kanzensakura

copyright kanzensakura

The Necklace

Open link night at dVerse tonight. You can submit any one poem of your choice. Come join us. Bjorn is tending the pub all the way over in Sweden!  He has a special guest today – Sean Michael – a prisoner in the California penal system who frequently posts on dVerse.  Open Link Night #178 – Saving Grace

The Necklace

After you left I kept thinking you would return.
And because you so loved the small beauties
and the simple things, I kept the memories.
I wanted to embed them in molten glass
and string them on a fine gold chain
that you could wear under your clothes
close to your heart,
to pull the chain up and look at those simple things
and see them through my eyes that saw them without you:
the way the mist lay close to the ground
in the late autumn,
or the sound of birds the morning of the first snow.
The tiny new kittens boneless and blind
opening their pink mouths and silently hissing.
The last string of geese flying south
in the apricot dawn,
the velvet eyes of the young heifer in my friend’s barn
and the warm smell of the animals and hay,
the first tiny pink cherry blossom opening slowly
in the cold of early spring
or the ever spreading ripples in the koi pond
made by slow rain.
you never returned.
and the necklace of memories sleeps
in a small wooden box
never touched by your hand or seen by your eyes.

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