She lives on a merry-go-round
senses dulled by blurred vision
maniacal calliope music
rides nowhere every day
mired in circle sameness.

She chose the blue horse
its golden mane rich in gilt
matched her lust then shocked
her as its cold cylindrical pole
ignored her calls to stop.

He rides two steeds behind her
eyes wild, hair disheveled
desperately out of synch
up down to her down up
laps the field again and again.

Hot desire fuels
his mad useless pursuit
anchored by metal plates
bolted to the forever
wildly spinning floor.

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.

Last night’s shooting star
carried my wish
streaking across the sky
someone listening
outside our universe
promised me
tranquility and love
in yesterday’s tomorrow.

leaf
                         misshapen
                         shriveled once green
              donned vibrant red disguise
              to ward off lurking decay
             fallen tendon of skeletal oak
        hardened veins stand out from brittle flesh
                  dull brown age spots on blackened stem
             curled like death’s beckoning finger elasticity gone
                    your smallest pieces granular near dust
                          hearkened back unto your mother soil
                      tomorrow’s wind will hurl you
                         to another place
                           or unthinking footsteps
                            will grind you
                       into
                        no-
                                   thing-
                              ness
'

She was called a pollyanna.
Positive exclamation addicted
she high-stepped and varied her pace
through life's shifting textures.

Retrieving sea glass and a scallop-cut piece of shell
from the day's foam ruffled waves
at the edge of iridescent aquamarine.

She lived as a greeter.
Always expectant, rounding each corner
to meet until-now unfound friends or catch
a coin's shiny glint from the sidewalk's crevasse.

A collector too, she gathered smiles as she
walked past and sometimes toward faces
moving to their meeting places for the day.

She said regrets lead backward.*
Ruminations rehash long ago or too current
memories looking for what-ifs and what-thens
not in her mind the stuff of collectibles.

She chose to live today
and dream tomorrow
always loving forward.

She holds the watering can in hand
too late for dried wispy dandelions
swaying in the slight breeze
seed pods gnawed by nature.

Loosened tendrils float slowly
through thick humid air
memories and dreams of spring
long beyond her clutching grasp.

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.

I stand mesmerized.
Dawn brings serenity’s beauty
rippled patterns glisten on black sea
gulls hover over softly churning wake.

Moving patterns of white wings
against dark greens and grey rock edges
the occasional light house turns its eye
wood frame homes nestle in their woods.

The ship slowly glides in dark waters
silent through Sweden’s archipelago
guardian isles to myriad lines of ancestry
protector, barrier from encroaching cities.

A lone welcome call from among the gulls
pierces the still air with its starkness
primitive in nature and surely also heard
by our grandfather and his and his.

Standing close, head tilted back
with eyes pressed shut,
small curvey hollow of neck exposed
by an open top button on her uniform,
she waits to taste her very first kiss.

NaPoWriMo  Day 7: write about something you value. This poem is from my Cherished series  http://lillianthehomepoet.wordpress.com

The Table

She found the table at Marshall Fields
in nineteen forty-nine, and pictured
her family at exactly half-past six each night
four plates, four forks, knives and spoons.

White oak, the Illinois state tree
with tight growth rings
durable, resilient, and
carved with artisan's care.

Emotions buffed artfully into lustrous patina
over years marred by scratches, chips and burns
tuna-noodle-pea casseroles set forgetfully upon the wood
and forks slammed down in anger.

Keeping up with Rita, Gwen, and Claire
teflon pans and a formica table-topper
emotions erupt with modernity as leftovers
disappear in a single swipe of the hand.