Enduring Love–a Sestina

Photo: maxipixel
Labeled for non-commercial reuse

Enduring Love
a Sestina

You sit beside the hearth and dream
of years long past, of youth,
those days so filled with dance, with life
that you do not forget.
You walked in worlds of swirling greens,
gave birth beneath the sky.

You revel ‘neath cerulean skies
and catch a glimpse of dreams.
And thus the burgeoning of green
as you reclaim your youth.
Those signs of spring you won’t forget,
for you still pulse with life.

In aging, still you sing of life,
your eyes reflect the sky.
You smile at love you can’t forget—
those memories of dreams
fulfilled when you were full of youth,
midst flowers, in fields green.

You stood by him in days of green.
He held you throughout life.
You gave each other joys of youth,
‘neath bound’ry of the sky.
He was the answer to your dreams;
you never will forget.

A love that’s easy to forget
basks in flowers, and green
of grass and sun, the blissful dream.
Will these endure through life,
when clouds obscure the blue, blue sky
and aging foils youth?

How easy to enjoy one’s youth
and facile to forget
the promise made ‘neath azure skies,
delight-filled days of green.
Yet to endure the stuff of life,
we need more than to dream.

Beyond your youth, those days of green,
(lest you forget) the greatest life
soars to the skies, surpasses dreams.

Another Sestina submitted today to dVerse OLN.

Remembering Summer Nights

Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.

Carl Sandburg, Back Yard

Remembering Summer Nights

I remember summer moons and steamy nights,
the sky, watercolor-washed in silver wings.

I remember light, flooding through gauzy curtains,
breezes, not enough to cool our youthful bodies.

I remember fireflies and cricket songs and frogs
calling for their mates from nearby ponds.

I remember honeysuckle sweet, the bitter
taste of cherries, culled too soon.

I remember early love, the sweaty palms
and kisses stolen on a neap tide shore

I remember yesterday, your craggy cheeks
and rheumy eyes that stare into the void.

It’s for you I write these things, digging deep
into the treasures of our past for you.

Can you remember now?

Photo: Wikipedia Labeled for Noncommercial Reuse

Photo: Wikipedia
Labeled for Noncommercial Reuse

For Tuesday Poetics, Walt invited us to use a summer quote from a well-know poet or writer as a starting point for a poem of our own. I’ve picked up the theme again for Open Link Night, hosted by Grace at dVerse Poets Pub. We would love to have you visit, contribute and read other poets with a poem of your own–any form, any topic.

The ending of  poem is fictional, inspired by my involvement in the care of elderly couples over the years–so often one is the caregiver for the other with dementia. The verses leading up to that are mine.

 

sometimes there are no rules

Photo: Victoria Slotto

Photo: Victoria Slotto

sometimes there are no rules

as when the call of doves defy the wintry morn
or roses flower on desert sand and
in the furrow of a craggy mountain.

sometimes there are no rules–
as when sweet love blossoms in wrinkled bodies
or when the heart knows ecstasy before the face of death.

sometimes there are no rules–
and thus i fly on silver wings
to touch these moonlit branches.

oh, can you hear the songs of stars?

Title taken from Mary Oliver’s Poem: “Three Things to Remember”

A slow start to writing this year, so I turned to Mary Oliver for a jump-start. It’s been a crazy few weeks.

Love Food–Flash Fiction for MMWP

We indulged this morning.

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.

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.

Old Love–One Shot Wednesday

Submitted to One Shot Wednesday: http://oneshotpoetry.blogspot.com/  Thanking my husband, David, for 20 years 1/19/91-1/19/11

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.

Room for Romance: “Old Love”

Here is my first post for someone is special’s Room for Romance. I’m prone to write a bit more on the dark side so this is a nice opportunity to branch out. I assume my seasoned citizen status may break through (but not always). I do believe in love!

 

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.

Old Love–Happy Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day invites reflection on the meaning of love. It’s certain that love has it’s seasons. I’ve dealt with the elderly thoughout my life and I’m growing older myself. Robert Lee Brewer, on his blog, invites us to write a love poem. Here’s mine:

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.