952

[image courtesy dVerse poery pub]  

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—–by Oliver Wentdell Holmes Sr., from The Chambered Nautilus

LAZY DAYS AND MONDAYS

A song sings to the heart, from a deep place of lazy being. It gathers strength in its silence, reaching on unseen wings to a clever site of understanding.

 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings, a song so clear and smart, that a mundane Monday understands the hearts yearning for more than its lazy care.

I get up in the rhythm of serious understanding and reverent obedience. I go to the washing machine. It is time to do the laundry. Two tubs are whirled and swooshed, and hung out to air dry.  Well done to me, lazy retirement days are sooo very embracing.

 © gillena cox 2022

BLOG HOPPING TODAY WITH

dVerse — Prosery Monday — A Voice that Sings

Prompted to: Write a piece of flash fiction or other prose up of up to or exactly 144 words, including the given line from the poem.

REVISIT

20160815

Prosery August 2020
Prosery May 2022.

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 Welcome to Monday WRites # 359

A HAPPY AUGUST to all my visitors and friends

You've heard about the Monday Blues ❧✿❧well this is  Monday WRites  (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance for eg the rite of afternoon tea). 

Copy this code, pin my button to your blog

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Monday WRites 239

[In today's mosaic an old photo from my garden redone with stickers from Picsart]


While i grew up in Trinidad, schooled, and churched as Roman Catholic. I was born on another Caribbean island, Grenada. In St Georges the capital of the island. When i was growing up, and lived with my parents, the area we lived was considered country. Not so today though. It is now a bustling borough. I live now in an urban area of St James, in the city of Port of Spain, and i like it more that the area in which i grew up as a child.

When i think back to the island where i was born, My choice memory is of my vacations going to stay at my uncle's house and going to the beach in Grand Anse every day of my stay. But i think my fondest, though haziest memory, is of my grandfather, who i didn't have for very long in my live but still is my fondest.

He was an electrician back then and also worked with his hands crafting wire planters and other household items. I remember growing up seeing in my parents home a wire basket where my mother stored newspapers. When i came to my own home, somehow i wanted it. When i finally asked my mother she willingly gave it to me. I have painted and repainted that stand-up basket my times in a different colour. I have used it as planter, magazine holder, and presently it stores potatoes onions and garlic, standing in a choice corner in my kitchen.

these hot dry days -
in a corner of my heart
there stays my grand pa
© gillena cox 2020

Linked back to DEAR GRANDPA

[For Kim's challenge... asked to go back into our archives to search for an autobiographical poem, one of which particularly fond or one that lends itself to the task in hand.
Write a prose background to the chosen poem, giving more details of when and where it happened, who else was involved, the how and the why, including a link to the original poem if you wish, and then sum up the poem in a haiku. Aim to write no more than three tight paragraphs, followed by a traditional haiku that includes reference to the season]

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Hang in there, heed the cautions, be safe, be healthy
You've heard about the Monday Blues well this is Monday WRites (musing on the definition here of rite, as any customary observance or practice eg the rite of afternoon tea). Welcome to Monday WRites #239: A Happy Monday to all ❧✿❧

Copy this code, pin my button to your blog
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Blog hopping today with

Mosaic Monday
#73: Lockdown


AND



Haibun Mondays
Snapshots of our lives




REVISIT
30 March 2015


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404

HOLES
The wall clock is round, but, the holes in the lacy table centerpiece were hooked in, with the art of crochet; my grandma taught me about chains and trebles; she slipped through the hole of existence, gone to the other side, quite a long time ago and I'm still looping these tiny bits of nuances together, lacing her memory into beautiful reminders.
© gillena cox 2017


Blog hopping with

Bits Of Inspiration ~ Mixed Media Art
[Susie's prompt is to write a poem from your immediate surroundings.]

403

[internet image]

THE BICYCLE
Two wheels
their spinning magic
and soft whirring

took me to kindergarten one day
the green dots
dotted a white cotton dress

My father rode his bike
in poverty
proud
way back then
THE BICYCLE © gillena cox 2017

Blog hopping today with
Poets United Midweek Motif
~ Bicycles, Tricycles or Unicycles
[Susan says "There are far fewer poems with a cycling motif than  there should be.  Let's fix that!" Susan is prompting today]
This year is the 200th anniversary of the bicycle, introduced in  Germany in 1817.

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Revisit
17 May 2016

398

[image courtesy Poets United]


MIRACLE
How could i have known
That one day
My body would be used
To produce
A miracle
And yet again another
How could i have known
MIRACLE © gillena cox 2017

Blog hopping today with

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Childbirth
Prompted by Susan


Enjoy The Music

368

[image from google dot com]

ORANGE BUTTERFLY
orange butterfly -
flight of fanciful thoughts spin
the stuff of dreams

"Ah I see you have cut off your dread locks. You look very handsome. I was just about to get dressed for church. Would you like to go to church with me. We can carry the gran with us. I will have to get her ready though.

I have never seen you with your hair cut this low. Do you remember when we first met? Your hair was styled in a blown out Afro. You looked handsome then too. But I like this older more somber, matured look.

After being apart for so long and living with this longing to see you, it was so shocking to see you in grey dreadlocks. I had seen photos you sent to your mother when the dreadlocks were still young-looking.

One of your friends had met me on Frederick Street one day. She told me she had seen you in Brooklyn and she was shocked at how old you looked. She said,she had stopped to talk to you and when she was finished talking to you and walked away. Her little grandson of five asked her. Granny is that your grandfather. I smiled at that story. Still not in my wildest imaginings ever thinking I would see you looking this way.

I couldn't grieve at Uncle Lincoln's funeral. Not because I wasn't sad at his passing. No, not so at all. I couldn't grieve because I was so happy to lay eyes on you again. Isn't life strange? A happy family - was that too much of me to ask of life?
Maybe this was your uncle's way of saying to me I know how much you love your husband. Be happy. Don't be sad."

The light of morning is my gift on returning from dreamscape; where colours are real, only more intense and longing is etched, only deeper.

a watering can -
enough water filled to clean
bird crap off the steps
ORANGE BUTTERFLY © gillena cox 2017


Blog hopping today with
Prompt Nights
Women are the real architects of Society – International Women’s Day Special 🌹

...

361

GOLD DUST
The crowd on Jerningham Avenue is anything but somber. You dust my bare belly with the golden dust of fun and frolic. An anointing, a passage into Tuesday play-mas. A day so much like today, with a sun, golden and scorching. Wind and dust, married in hot torrents of mesmerizing mantras. Yet my only chant, to the touch of your fingers caressing, is husband.

a throng of hips
answer to every beat -
Carnival vibe
GOLD DUST © gillena cox 2017

blog hopping with
Midweek Motif ~ Nostalgia

AND

The Tuesday Platform



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Revisit
22 feb 2016

48

DEAR GRANDPA
Your magical fingers still echo, in the memory of today, and tomorrow.
A lovely wire planter, you so skillfully wrought, like the song of a sparrow,
Holds the beauty and sincere fragrance of a desert rose. Petals furl as if waving,
Waving to heaven, only because you are there abiding.
You are there, savouring this poem, and every word written, against a flawless
Background, of blue birds and ground doves, grackles and kiskadees. Chorus,
From heaven’s abode; candied into sweet soft whispers, so tender and true,
Of knowing you’re fine, and i love you
© gillena cox




Written for the prompt today at
Poems In April DAY TEN - Dear Past, Dear Future
CHALLENGE: Think about your ancestors. Think about your future descendants. Write a letter to either or both. Word count is wide open.

20

image from google dot com


ST GEORGES TO PORT OF SPAIN

I remember the scent of lime,
Not a flower, a fruit; citrus, like the acid passage of time;
Wave upon wave of Caribbean salt in a hazy vast,
Not seeing, just understanding, feelings of gast;

The scent of lime, would settle the stomach
Not withstanding, and however, some will vomit
This i later came to know
Hearing grown-ups talk, "this and that and so and so..."

Not withstanding, age and status, how come?
Ha!!! the march to the adult's drum
No one told me of this before, me and my mother
To be womb-ed at sea, in a boat, going further

Than the market place, down Market Hill.
St Georges to Port of Spain; i'm still
Age about four or five. I remember the scent of lime.
In my contemplation..... like the acid passage of time;
© gillena cox



Written in response to the prompt at Poetry Jam 'Journey'