Calcutta in Detroit

Photo Credit: William Carter

Even the rich are hungry for love, for being cared for, for being wanted, for having someone to call their own.  Mother Teresa

 

You are so small,

much like a tiny wren
or finch. To all
appearances, broken,
used and oh-so-wrinkly.

Your voice diminutive,
but words you choose
thunder through the nave,
strike like lightning
in the soul.

The church is dark
and cold as winter
in Detroit is wont to be.
Throngs of people
gather in the pews,
stand in aisles
to hear you speak
of love and compassion.

Not a sound except
your message.
We are here
for those in need.

The comfort you impart
is warmer than coffee.
Enough to last a lifetime.
To remind me.
You’ve moved on
but you are here.

 

About 1979 I was in Detroit when Mother Teresa opened a home there. After she spoke in a packed church, some of us had the opportunity to meet her. I count her hug as one I will never forget.

Posted to Claudia’s wonderful prompt over at dVerse Poetics. Have a cup of coffee and a friendly chat with someone you admire, whether from ages past or still with us today.

Our Stories

The night before I plan to take down the Christmas tree,
I crawl from beneath the covers, slip downstairs
and curl up on the couch to read stories of our life together.

The tree rotates, a swirl of colors, as ornaments recount
the years. 1991—“Our First Christmas,”
two critters snuggled in a hollow log.

Photo: D. Slotto

The merry-go-round of the tree unfolds the years,
one-by-one. Cycles of remembrance unfurl—
the hard and happy times, the growth, the losses.

Upstairs you snore gently. Sometimes we sleep
and overlook those subtle changes—the waxing
and waning of our marriage, of our shared love.

Photo: D. Slotto

At eleven o’clock (you set the timer) the tree goes dark.
I steal back to bed, hold tight our memories, hold on to you.

Photo D. Slotto
Christmas 2012

Arriving late to the pub for Claudia’s prompt on change. I wish each of you much joy and good health as we wind up 2012 and plot our course for the coming year. I will be traveling this up-coming week but will do my best to keep in touch.

Each year “Santa” places a new ornament on our tree. The tree rotates and is set up on a timer. It’s all put away now.

Little Things

The kitchen counter’s sticky,
Handprints on the refrigerator door,
And white fuzz on the hardwood floor.
No matter how often I clean, try to
Keep our home perfect, I can’t.
For these small things, however, I’m grateful.
Unless you know I have a husband who
Loves to cook for me,
Little white dogs who want to cuddle,
You’ll wonder why I feel so blessed.

Sparky–Photo: D. Slotto

Today is Thanksgiving in the USA and as I meditated all I could notice was white dog hair all over my newly cleaned house. Then, when I went to the kitchen, everything I touched was sticky as my husband has thrown himself into creating culinary delights. I’m helplessly perfectionistic, but couldn’t help but realize these very things are among the many things for which I’m grateful–someone who cares enough to prepare a special lactose-free pumpkin pie using my special milk that he had to dehydrate, and my two beautiful dogs who teach me all about unconditional love.

Over at dVerse, the challenge for today is to write an acrostic poem centering on gratitude. My offering is not “perfect” poetry, but here it is anyway. We hope you’ll take a few moments to reflect on giving thanks, no matter where you are, or how imperfect your day may be.

Zoe, 2011 Photo: D. Slotto

October Waning

Photo Credit: designwithspine.com via Google Images.

Early morning sun kisses the foothills
with hues of bronze and purple.
You descend the staircase.
I wait for your touch to heal my wounds.

As always, you gloss over my sadness,
take me in your arms as though I were a doll
abandoned by a child in a corner of the room.
Your love restores my hope for the moment.

At noon we wander in a field of pumpkin gourds.
Among a bed of drooping roses one stands tall.
You slice its stem with your pocket knife,
inhale its fragrance then hand it to me.

When evening comes we sit together on the porch,
extract the last ray of light from day’s end.
You hook your arm in mine
and lead me gently back into the night.

Over at dVerse Poets’ Pub it’s Open Link Night where Joy Ann Jones, known as hedgewitch here in the world of poetry, reflects on the mystery of October and thus inspired me to go back into the archives to find and repost this poem. For OLN, you’re invited to post any of your poems…it’s not theme-based.

Writing in the Second Person

Some of the most effective poetry or prose that I’ve read is that written in the second person. The voice automatically becomes conversational and creates something of an intimate feeling.

Second person prose is often a challenge and tends to be confined to pieces of short fiction. Either prose or poetry can be addressed to a person, an object (ever say a few choice words to your laptop), God, a pet, or even yourself. There is no limit to span of emotions that you can express: anger, sadness, and quite often, love. The voice may be formal, informal, written in dialect. Grammar can be perfect or full of errors that will help to develop a character. Working with second person prose is a great asset for the fiction writer as he or she works to develop skills in writing dialogue

For today’s prompt, conjure up a person, place or thing–real or imaginary–and speak to it in poetry or prose. Consider the mood you wish to create and the voice in which you want to write.

To participate:

• Write your short fiction, essay or poem and post it on your blog or website;
• Access Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post and add your name and the direct URL of your post;
• Take a few minutes to visit and comment on other participants’ work and return visits to those who’ve commented on your work.

For my poem, I chose an older one that celebrates Spring as the season of love. If it looks familiar, it’s been out there before. I will also link this to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets’ Pub, with apologies for not coming up with something new. If you’ve haven’t stopped by the Pub this week, you don’t know what you are missing! Come on down..

Spring

Do you remember the cloud
that looked like a white dog bounding
across the empty gray sky?

Or the coupling dragonflies,
their wings shaved slivers of
shimmering moonstone or fire opal?

Nearby, something moldered in dank earth.
Its smell mingled with
the scent of our sweat and sex.

A chorus of crickets undulated
in an outdoor theater,
unabashed by our nakedness.

You told me to get on top because
the grass beneath our blanket scratched me.
A breeze licked my body.

Do you think that it was love?
Or maybe because tomorrow would be spring.

 

Photo credit: Wikipedia

The First Time

Image via Wikipedia

The First Time

The first time that I witnessed birth,
saw the crowning of the head,
that shock of thick black hair,
heard the melded cries of mother
and her son, the pain and ecstasy
in resounding dissonance,
the joy and fear and victory
of shattered boundaries—
that first time I beheld the
mystery of newborn life
I shuddered in the face of Awe.

The first time that I prayed in silence
without words or thoughts and stood
like Moses by the burning bush
that would not be destroyed and
offered (to the One who is and was
and will be) all that I have been and
am and shall become without limit
that first time I embraced
the mystery of the divine
I shuddered in the face of God.

The first time that I tasted love,
sought urgently to touch and hold,
looked into eyes that knew
my secret sacred spaces,
longed to please before receiving
pleasure, lost track of time, luxuriated
in the scent of passion,
that first time I received the mystery
of you, of all we could become,
I shuddered in the face of Bliss.

The first time I attended death
and held an old man’s icy hand and
looked into his eyes that saw beyond
me, wiped a brow expressing
nuances of sorrow and of joy,
the scope of everything we can imagine,
that first time I received a dying breath
and closed those eyes
I shuddered in the face of the Unknown.

The last time that I said hello, goodbye
I shuddered in the face of Wonder.

Come one, come all. The Pub is open for poetry and cheer at dVerse Open Link Night. Come by, bring a poem, warm up with some hot brandy and good friendship and share your work.

Love Food–Flash Fiction for MMWP

Image via Wikipedia

Love Food

The scent of baker’s yeast communing with cinnamon wakens me and I know Dale is in the kitchen. Coffee’s brewing and I hear the chitter of a lone blue jay, trying to defy the reality that cold weather is upon us.

The rain seems to have let up. Staccato drops pounded our window most of the night and last night, rather than lull me into sleep, it accompanied disjointed thoughts that battered my exhausted mind.

Now I toss aside the comforter and steady myself before dragging my old body from the bed. When Dale starts the day in the kitchen, I know how it will unfold. Chicken and dumplings is what he promised and I bet you anything, he’ll make a pie. Fall does this to him—rouses his inner chef. And by evening I know my already-wrinkled hands will shrivel even more from hours of washing pots and pans. I guess great creative spirits aren’t exactly prone to being neat and tidy. At least Dale isn’t.

When I emerge from the hot shower, it is with images of glaze melting over the hot cinnamon rolls, of steaming cups of java and a sweet morning kiss. My senses are so acute that I begin to salivate.

I dress slowly now. That’s the way it is when arthritis has its way. Then drag a comb through my white hair. I remember how long and full it was when we were young. I take a moment with my make up. Dale cares enough to fix me comfort food and so, I take the time to fix myself for him. Our love is always young.

Walking down the stairs, I grip the railing, but still my heart is quickened as I know the love that waits for me below.

I enter the empty kitchen and only then I remember. We buried him yesterday, didn’t we?

Written in Response to my Monday Morning Writing Prompt where I invite you to share your thought about autumn’s FOODS. Poetry, flash fiction, essay, recipes, photography…all are welcome.  I hope you will join us. Please note, this is FICTION. My wonderful husband/chef is alive and well.

Song of Songs–a Sestina for dVerse

Photo: David Slotto

Song of Songs
a Sestina

All the world’s a stage set to music.
You stroke my life like strings of Your guitar.
We’re born to fly so Your touch of gentleness
sounds a chord in my core that thrills.
Round and round You lead me in a dance—
the whirling rhythm swirls in my heart.

Rejoice, oh world; you hold grief in your heart.
Defy those who claim silence lacks all music.
Refute the clowns who refuse to dance—
Who, though called to joy, strum a dirge on their guitars.
Avoid the fool who rejects life’s thrill,
who sinks into the void with gentleness.

At dawn, mockingbird chants a song of gentleness
awakens the earth, enlivens her heart.
You stir in my Spirit-womb, Your Presence thrills.
Your promised love resounds of music,
Your hands play me as You would play Your guitar.
Our beings entwine and we enter the dance.

The earth and stars conspire to join the dance.
Ocean waves lick the sands with gentleness,
winds pluck the strings of willow tree guitars
while rain plants seeds in Earth—the Mother’s heart.
By day, the sun sings bliss—at night moon-music
plays arpeggios You designed to thrill.

I hear the door You open with a thrill,
arise to greet Your entry with a dance,
breath in the air You fill with sounds of music,
surrender to the call of gentleness,
responding to the rhythm of Your heart—
the wild beat of a classical guitar.

Submit my soul to music, the stroke of Your guitar,
Your voice, Your gentleness, never fail to thrill.
I yield to the tempo of your dance, lay down my heart.

Thanks to Gay (Hollyheir) and Matt Quinn who posted this challenging prompt over at dVerse’s Form for All.  http://dversepoets.com  I hope to see many joining us at the Pub.

Neon Kisses–Open Link Night at dVerse Poets’ Pub

Neon Kisses

I didn’t notice the color of your jacket
or your eyes.
Battered by rain and wind
we walked side-by-side.
Neon lights reflected on wet asphalt
blinked their messages in blurred colors.

Nor did I notice where you took me
or that we had to wait for hours.
Your words hung, suspended in air
like notes of a symphonic chorus,
at times harmonic chords,
reverberated, crashing down around me.

I didn’t notice that the rain had stopped,
leaving in the air a fragrant breath
of moon-fresh night.
Nor did I grasp the fact that when you left
the cold closed in, enveloped me like a shroud.

The only thing I hold in memory:
kisses. The taste you left upon my lips,
your touch,
your smile.

Linked to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub where we share a drink or two, great poetry and friendship. Come on over! http://dversepoets.com

Old Love

Linked to One Shoot Poetry http://onestoppoetry.com/ in response to the photo-prompt. Photography by Fee Easton.

Old Love

The Love that’s tinged
by Eros
is easier to write,
to live and
to imagine:
the silken touch
of water—
cool caresses in a Lake—
a kiss that tastes
of wine
and sweat.
Subtle sounds of
breath, and
pounding pulses
and images that linger
in the darkness of
a new-moon night.

But as the days grow old
and we, along with them,
diminish,
winter shadows
cannot overwhelm
enduring Love.
You probe the
memory of
a day gone by
and stroke
a shriveled hand.
Then Spring breaks through
in songs of mockingbirds.