"lottie" poems
Aunt Lottie had a slow and careful walk
every step could jar
the delicate balance
of the fragile grand piano
she had swallowed.
It was no ordinary instrument
it was entirely made of crystal
which added to the fears
of its disturbance
or destruction
by the simplest slip or stumble
or missed footing on a step.
It was a slight inconvenience
she had taken in her stride.
Matters concerning the said piano
were only discussed in hushed tones
on Wednesday afternoons
and only with her dearest nephew, Ludwig
who sensitively seemed to understand
the precious nature of imagination
and the tickling discomforts
of digested furniture and such things
as fancy may create.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
Hot apple cider caused the stinging tongue pain on Christmas day
My mouth exhales, hoping to stop it
It doesn’t stop
But it was nothing
Nothing compared to what they did to me
Exhaling, pretending I was blowing them out of my life
The pain was infinite
lottie
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 11:24 AM UTC
A geranium
pungent smell with scarlet blooms
Grandmother's blue eyes
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
The show must go on, Frogmore
says, and Lottie sits and has
a quick drag on her cigarette and
sips the foul coffee from the
drinks machine. Legs ache, head
banging, back stiff. She inhales
and thinks of Frankie and his
coming to her place the previous
evening and wanting to stay over
for the night. The cabaret takes it
out of her. The eyes on her, the talk
going on while she and the other
girls do their bit. Frankie such a
sweetheart, such a Mr Softy, curled
up on the sofa, his huge overcoat
as a cover, his head sunk into a
cushion, sleeping. She watches the
smoke rise from the cigarette, she
lifts it and the smoke rises in short
circles, like her father used to do
when she was a kid sitting on his
knee. Watch the smoke Kid, see
how it rises like some kind of message
to the gods. And he laughed about
that back then. She felt safe on his
knee even when he used to let it rise
and fall like some kind of riding horse.
Now it is just the cabaret and the lonely
nights and Frankie on the sofa because
his old lady threw him out and he won’t
sleep with Lottie because he’s a good
Catholic boy and anyways, he said, it’d
get too confusing and he’d just lay there
on the sofa on those nights and she’d lay
alone wanting company and maybe someone
to hug her real close. Hey, Frogmore says,
you in this next dance or what? What do I
pay you for, huh? Sit about and smoke
yourself to death? You want to die do it
in your own time not mine. She stubs out
the cigarette **** and drains the foul coffee
in one last gulp. The music has started up
their theme bit for her and other girls and
out there in the audience drinking, eating
and talking, maybe Frankie staring or her
father with his latest flame without beauty
or brains or nice figure or remembered name.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Lottie lived in an old pebble-mashed cottage in the middle of nowhere, with a ***** muzzle tree in the garden. She always wore white glubbs on a Sunday, and going to mumble sales was her favourite pass-time.
All year round a lyre would smoulder in the gate, as the house was not connected to the lucidity grid, which Lottie considered the work of the davel. She liked to recite Shakespeare to her clogs but as she got older would mix up her worms and get her lettuces in the wrong order. At times I was the only one who could stand on her.
There was a lovely orchard out the back in which all kinds of baffles, tums, bears and cheeses grew. She made the best crum plumble you never tasted.
She loved her macaroni wireless, the old type powered by molluscs, although in latter times she accepted my gift of an up to date transittor with a built-in bat pack.
We would ***** away many an hour as she reminisced about her youth, when she had traveled far and wide in the grand old days of steam *****
Lottie kept all her marbles right up to the end in an old sweet jar, kindly leaving them to me when she passed. So now it's up to me to carry the mantelpiece. Dear old Lottie was unusual, but I liked her concentricity.
There's no one quite like Lottie
I'm sure you will agree
To some she didn't make much sense
But she always did to me
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
'flower gleam and glow
let your power shine
make the clock reverse
bring back what once was mine'
from tangled
'wear a dress
and be your beautiful
self'
responding ;
'it's people like you that i am
so glad i have in my life
that make me gooey
and happy'
~
<3
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Ah yes, I remember this well,
The fumbling about in the darkness of the cottage, as the narrator feels his way around the room,
The hair raising sound described,
A pronunciation of his friend's name,
By some being that seemed crystalline rather than organic
And the adrenaline that electrified his whole body upon hearing it.
The odd extra-tellurian reference frame that the creature seemed bound to so that it was not quite perpendicular to the floor...
...but that doesn't quite describe it.
It was, more accurately, that the creature was tied to some external reference frame which doesn't quite match our own.
While reading the story aloud to my children, Modulating my voice as adroitly as I am able, Pausing occasionally to define terms or explain references to the preceding book in the trilogy, I'm struck again by the author's talent; the depth and breadth of it, the power of description to elicit mood in the reader,
The completeness...and I wonder how many rewrites it took.
I notice the breathing of two of my three children has become regular.
They've drifted to that other plane of existence.
I pause...and Lottie's voice, a little too loud, cuts the near silence, "You aren't stopping, are you?", causing her sister to stir briefly. "Nope!", say I, and I continue, doing my best to keep the theatrics in my voice.
But the words are starting to dance on the page as I grow cross-eyed in my languor.
Finally I reach the chapter's end, place the bookmark and say, "And that, my dear, is where we'll pick up the story next time".
I reach to turn off the bedside lamp, and sleep for an hour or so until Lady Di gets home from the hospital.
These beings, surrounding me now, causing me to lie on my side at the very edge of the bed, taught me what love really is. I love them more than I can ever express.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
Christmas at Forest Heights Baptist Church is something to behold,
We are busy elves, making our church beautiful, colorful, and bold!
We are a small church with a big heart for giving.
We give to Lottie Moon, the Angel Tree, Halleluiah Night, Thanksgiving baskets and more.
Our love for Jesus and His grace make us give generously with our time and love,
We--without need for recognition, serve because we serve a loving Creator above!
Forest Heights’ members do not wait for Christmas to help our fellow man,
Daily we serve those who need a helping hand.
Remember, Jesus’ tears were not for the pain He endured.
No! It was for our sins and disobedience to His Word.
So, let us be grateful and kind to others this Christmas and beyond,
God has blessed us with His One and only Son,
and another year filled with blessings, mercy, and grace.
Let’s leave footprints of love until we meet His embrace and loving Face!
Merry Christmas to All!
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 5:57 PM UTC
I spied you in the library
Laying on the glossy wooden floor
Surrounded by a sea of dusty old books.
Your rough hands gently leafed through the delicate pages
Of her most admired novel.
Worn down edges and dog-eared pages
Betrayed the love she and the little book shared.
Laying there, a tender smile crept up and the sorrow in your eyes disappeared as you discovered the blotchy black stain on the back corner,
Remembering your clumsiness in years past
And her quick temper and dismay
At seeing her little, loved book in such disarray.
Your eager eyes somberly read her little discoveries, her quiet conversations with Wisdom
That she penned down in the margins.
Here, in this moment, she seemed close.
The truth seemed to fade away
And here in this moment
Little Lottie was curled up in the library nook,
Quietly reading her most admired novel.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Ik geloof dat gaandeweg de wereld kan
gered, woorden
zonder zingen, los van lopen, min de moorden
die men eerder heeft erkend als toen en dan
het enige dat oplosbaar kan.
Er is niet niets, er is wel wij,
Eris zoveel van ons.
raad maar zottie,
't is ons lottie
om te kletsen op zondagnamiddag
met een koffie en een koek,
tis in eenvoud dat het hoort
behalve als wat anders jou bekoort.
Kies maar
denk ook aan de anderen.
Of *** je alles in een posi+ieve zin
kan veranderen.
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 8:26 PM UTC