Posted in Blogging, Poetry

Writer’s Block

03baa057116b7d001eaea6914be2ffa6

I gaze upon
this blank page
like the times before
the cursor
taunting me to write
what won’t come anymore
What I love
the passion, the spark
has fizzled inside
swallowed by the dark.

Writer’s Block.

© 2018 LC

Photo Credit to Deviant Art

 

Advertisements
Posted in Poetry

Photographs

645189bf79b8402d3e38c87c03dcb5e6

 

Flipping through pictures,
I’ll find your car, the dog, and
sometimes the kids, but
where am I? You photograph
what you are afraid
to lose–our memories are
absent. As absent
as we are from your cellphone.
You make excuses–
“I’m a private person,” and
my memory is
“excellent.” Yet you
never considered what I
might like. For me, I
will need those chubby pictures,
the teenage eye-rolls,
the pictures of when
we loved, and hated each other–
to reassure my
failing memory .
I am not perfect like you
and I do not know it all.
I take pictures of
what I’m afraid of losing.
I smile when I’m sad.
Every picture has
a story to tell.

~~ Photographs

© 2018 LC

Image Credit to Greta Tuckute

Posted in Blogging

Apologizes!

If you are trying to access the site this morning, it may be glitchy.  Has been for the last couple of days. Constantly looking upon how to improve! 🙂

I did write this morning– a plus.

Have a great day!

Lynne 🙂

Posted in Poetry

When I’m Grown-Up…

I want to sit on an old, wood porch swing with you
wrapped up in a coccon of your love listening to your
heart swelling in your chest as you breathe–
feeling the warm, summer breeze on our smiling faces
watching the sun slowly make her way up the horizon
the sky awake with color, the darkest blue clouds
against a wave of pastels- pink, purple, orange, yellow
the clouds fade to light puffy, cotton candy the
bright yellow sun makes her home in the sky
we make eyes at one another like two high school
sweethearts over our coffee as we talk about the
children and listen to the birds perched in the tall, Oak
trees as they sing their sweet songs. I want to grow old with you
in this old country house. You and me. This old, rusty swing.

~~ When I’m Grown-Up LC  ©2018

Posted in Poetry

Summer Mornings

The warm, summer sun peeks through the kitchen blinds
the delicious smell of coffee brewing hypnotizing my tired body
to wait impatiently for my vice I open the blinds and welcome
the sun like a long lost friend as I feel her salutation on my skin
I feel like a child ready to abandon my chores to play outside
I need to connect with nature to calm my restless soul to shake the
feelings of yesterday.  Keep dreaming! Always live for today.
I grab my favorite, cracked mug full of motivation, and walk outside at last.
~~ Summer Mornings. © 2018 LC

Posted in Loss, Poetry

Father’s Day

It’s a bit early, but enjoy.  Might be another.  – Lynne 🙂

On Father’s Day,

I am writing this poem for you.
Some say you are not my Father.
But you are the only “Father” I knew.
Simply calling you “Grandpa” will not do.
What makes my Father so special
is the man he lived to be–
he had so much love in his heart
for his wife and family
and I’m thankful for what he’s taught me.

And the memories…

I remember your hand
reaching out to grab mine
giving it a squeeze
comforting any anxiety
I had in my mind.
Your easy-going smile
put my heart at ease.
The songs you made up (although funny)
they drove me crazy!!
But you loved to tease.
You took me places
and you told me tall tails–“The Genies.”
Always your side-kick,
when we visited Aunt Ruth, or your friends.
You never failed me–
you held me up when I was weak.
I knew I could count on you for everything–
you wouldn’t put up with bullies across the street!
My faithful companion–
We watched cartoons and played games.
You were down for whatever I wanted to do.
I thought, “I have the best Dad in the world!”
You never, ever complained.
You helped me with math.
And I gave you a hard time.
I should have listened, but I was a little girl–
I thought I knew everything.
Like my daughter does sometimes.
They don’t make men
like you anymore, Dad.
I’m trying so hard to raise my children
to have the kind of family we had.
Things are not the same, and it is sad.
They say it’s different for me
since I was raised by my grandad
that Dad’s don’t do what you did for me
children don’t have the childhood I had.
But I was happy, you did everything with me.
I thought that is what being a good Dad was about?

— Father’s Day Poem  LC© 2018

9ebab93a643092872bea622ac36979de