our wedding day portrait
two made one
misted by years
masked by smoke-filled skies
bobby, gina—two of our three
days seared with sun and a child’s scuffed knee
through spelling tests piano recitals saturday games
kneeling together strokes of unquestioned belief
caps and gowns, crystal and dented brass
degrees in business and medicine
marriages grandchildren colors filling the sassafras
then job losses metastasis scares hospital gowns
loneliness
values smudged
quibbles spatter pigment
no one budged
boredom drowned in tanqueray the glass smelled of pine
blue smoke, screens, two strangers behind painted glass
lost in a bell jar of belladonna
two martini glasses, an untouched olive
the letter’s paper like granite, vows sun-washed away
body mind and spirit—desaturated
a torn canvas split along jagged lines
no reconciliation
reimagining life with unfamiliar faces
a torn canvas becomes two paintings
no masking tape or super glue
can ever repair a canvas torn in two
=======
For my four children I've been working Almost every day
There was never enough time to play with you
There were baseball games, dance recitals That you wanted me to come to
But with all the time working There was never enough time for any of you
On weekdays and weekends, I had to do my chores So it left very little time for you four
I may always say maybe the next time Which I might have said so many other times
Sometimes I had to work all night And I wouldn't see you to the next morning light
I know our lives are short, and days go by fast
And all your children grow up in a flash
Then I finally realized that my children Are no longer by my side And now I no longer have to provide
I still have pictures I can still look at Showing me the past and the laughter
I'm retired now and once I was so busy Now all my body and hands are still
And for me, these days are too quiet and hard to kill
I wish I could go back into the past And change all the ways I reacted
And for my four grown children I want to say I'm sorry, and I want to say you are all One in a million and I love you all
Taking photographs of strangers at the park,
I wonder upon the foundations in which
they were built.
Did their mother sing them to sleep?
Did they not have a mother?
The most important questions
are the rhetorical things.
Did they practice piano
or attend dance recitals?
Creativity is a beautiful thing.
Were they encouraged,
or discouraged?
I think that eventually
you become what you become,
regardless of anything.
Back to my work:
Old couples hold hands.
A Black woman plays jazz.
Newlyweds skip.
Teenagers kiss.
A clumsy kid trips.
A duck quacks.
Fountains spew.
Flowers bloom.
Everyone laughs,
and God smiles.
This world is as ugly
as it is beautiful.
Today,
I am grateful
for all the pretty parts.
In the toffee-brown shade of candle wax light
The stone cloistered walls moist and dark
Silent whispers from the past
Sealed beneath Villiers Street
The lonely watery veins of your eyes
Reflected the space between you and I
Between the hard **** of our desires
And the soft recitals of our measured poise
Your hand loose in the vaulted light
The moment missed and the chance released
Like curling smoke drifting onto the street
Dispersing amongst the Embankment crowd
Silently gone like the cold passing gargle
Of the brown-black Thames
On its way to the sea.
I’ve made a deal,
not much of a price was paid.
One last family meal together—
Dad’s cheeks rosy,
my mother happy,
a playful pinch from my brother,
my sister’s belly laugh.
“What is your favourite room in the house?”
At 8, I said my room.
I was alone a lot,
and convinced myself I liked it.
But now,
in my late twenties,
I cry myself to sleep.
I’ve traded a day of my life
to relive another.
At 25
inside my 8-year-old body—
how do I answer?
The living room.
Where we lived the most together:
movie nights,
salty French toast,
big games,
rewatching recitals—
eating, laughing,
breathing together.
My chest tightens,
my eyes swell.
My dad rests his hand
on my shoulder.
“Well said, baby.
I like this day too.“
The skyline cuts through faded tones,
With moonglow blazing gilded bronze
And fluid my ink is interlaid
As nightfall drifts like a peace shroud
The glass pane teeters in the breeze
With my pen zigzagging on damp papyrus
I hear an old couple laugh on the alley
Their banter rolling , perhaps, of younger times--
Across them, a lone man trots, forlorn
His bent spine enduring road's travail,
Leading his wobbly feet to tangles of blooms
While egrets scuffle homeward bound.
My mixed thoughts wander at this picture show
...Receding off so gradually
From the tip- tap screech of cobblestones
To my pane's sill, fingers reach for verses
Where each day is a page to write new stories
About jagged yet sleek edges of time's folly
My hands sinking into tattered phrases, kneading
Recitals of life with unknown episodes.
TO MY GROWN CHILDREN
For my four children I've been working
Almost every day
There was never enough time to play with you
There were baseball games, dance recitals
That you wanted me to come to
But with all the time working
There was never enough time for any of you
On weekdays and weekends, I had to do my chores
So it left very little time for you four
I may always say maybe the next time
Which I might have said so many other times
Sometimes I had to work all night
And I wouldn't see you to the next morning light
I know our lives are short, and days go by fast
And all your children grow up in a flash
Then I finally realized that my children
Are no longer by my side
And now I no longer have to provide
I still have pictures I can still look at
Showing me the past and the laughter
I'm retired now and once I was so busy
Now all my body and hands are still
And for me, these days are too quiet and hard to kill
I wish I could go back into the past
And change all the ways I reacted
And for my four grown children
I want to say I'm sorry, and I want to say you are all
One in a million and I love you all
When I was little, before I started school,
my dream was to be a professional dancer
for I knew I had that natural talent instilled
in me, talent that was not taken seriously.
The magic, beauty of dance stayed in me.
Although, I never had any dance lessons,
I was always selected to perform at my
schools, recitals and community events.
Life took over and as I navigated the many
twists, turns, inclines and descents of my life,
like a roller coaster, it became loud and clear
I was not meant to be a professional dancer.
My burning desire to dance flickered, as it
was put on the back burner for many years.
It was set on fire after I retired and started
dance lessons and living the time of my life.
It has been six years since I have been doing what
I love, dancing to express the beauty of dance in
my feelings, grace, agility, moves that the people
around me watch and feel the liveliness within me.
Yes, they come and tell me ….
I awoken with a song on my heart
As my mind recites, Jesus
In my pointing vision I'm receiving
Views dreams in part
I'm totally found not lost
Awakening in the arms of Our Father
Listening to the bird's recitals
I join in we All praise God
5/22/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr 2o23
Sixteen years ago he left me,
I was only two years old.
He chose a life of crime instead,
At least that's what I've been told.
He never tried to come back,
No gifts, cards, or calls.
While he was drinking and running from cops,
I was learning how to crawl.
He missed my first steps,
Missed my recitals and my first play,
He missed all my brothers football games,
I wanted to know why he didn't stay.
I thought it was my fault,
I turned toward men and drugs.
I was only eleven years old
Meeting up with plugs.
I replaced him with pills and powder,
Their love in place of his.
For seven years, I road the high,
Until the overdose had proved what this life really is.
Mom forced me to detox,
To rid my body of the addiction.
The drugs, the drinks, and the wanting to know
How my father could cause such an affliction.
I've been sober for a year now,
Sober from drugs and my need for him.
And though it took some time, I know,
The truth is rather grim.
He’s never coming home again,
He chose the life he leads.
And from him and all of my hurdles,
I have finally been freed.
The movers wheeled the piano in the apartment
my tutors revealed plateaus climbed as an artist
hours flying pages turned black and white keys charted
scoured trying ages I played packed plight I started
recitals, concert halls, from practicing hardest
reprisals, my art calls, the piano sits modest
In my twilight years I teach children to harvest
the wild bright light nears, to each the piano harnessed
Life skills for the modern woman:
POSTURE & BALANCE
HIGH TEA PROMINADE
SONG & DANCE RECITALS
ENGLISH GARDEN ETIQUETTE
FASHION & STYLE SYMPOSIUM
INTER-MURAL BADMINTON & CROQUET
GENDER INFLECTIONS: SAYING 'YES' WITH YOUR EYES
DEAN WORTHINGTON’S CATNIP SOCIAL (BY INVITATION ONLY)
If it’s serious, call Poise and Control
1-800-con-trol (266-8765)
ADVERTISEMENT
Tiny seed with embryo in toe
awaits the sower to decipher
all it's wants and needs,
to grow captive, in plots and pots.
Nature knows the needs of seeds off by heart.
Growers learn the code of what and when
by rote declension recitals of scripts,
and wasteful trial and error plantings.
Such failed trials and tribulations prove
costly to seeds left to rot, freeze-dry and die
when sown in cold, parched and barren,
foreign lands.
Fresh blossoms of tall oaks
Cherry tree’s tender flowers
Rose bush’s charming buds
Shimmering wraps of emerald
Butterfly skipping around creepers
Duck pair wooing in pool waters
Family of deer grazing upon pastures
Keen songbirds’ euphonious recitals
Blooming vines’ meditative fragrance
Coolness of breezes carrying it over
Mother Earth’s flair of splendor
Rays of hope and assurance
Smita Kulkarni
04/07/2021
sorting through memories
of concerts and piano recitals
rheumatoid fingers tickle
broken forgotten keys
inlaid with the laughter of
ebony and ivory
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.