Opal Reflections
Perspectives through Prose, Poetry and Photography
Loneliness
Official Dogwood Photography Challenge Week 35: Loneliness
As I post in response to the challenge, I sense a hidden narrative unfolding, behind this closed door.
A Passion for Purple
Photo Friday: #purple
Parallel Paths
Through the drinking glass, I glance a clue,
A stem of unreality unfolds,
A mere illusion or does this ring true,
And how am I to know which story’s told?
We’ll likely never know while living bold,
Pursuing daily chores, ignoring fate,
Perhaps there’s solace in the fable old,
Of lives repeated, souls reincarnate.
My amber goblet shimmers, captivates,
Reflecting lovely images “en scene”
Of sculpted trees and lakes of silver plate,
That hint of dream existences within.
Returned to this reality, I sense
consoled spirit – faith without pretense.
Photo Friday: #Backlit
Family Tree
It was 1944. There he was again, her handsome beau; all decked out, standing at her front door with a small white box in his hand. Soon, he would tenderly pin the simple corsage to her collar. He knocked tentatively, barely able to constrain his anticipation. They’d been seeing each other for three weeks and yet he seemed to grow more interested and more sentimental, with each meeting.
She told herself to stop peeking from behind the drapes and open the door for the dashing, young man. After all, there was no need to make him squirm. They both knew, instinctively, that there would be many evenings, many shared adventures and many gardenias, in the coming years.
It’s 2018. Their firstborn daughter, now a grandmother of five, spritzes the buds and foliage of the verdant plant, positioned carefully on the sunny corner of her deck. Mom and Dad had often shared family anecdotes, and a favorite was that of the gardenia and its special meaning for them.
As the tiny spheres of moisture cling to the shiny, dark green leaves like irrepressible teardrops, she is warmed by the memory of the love her parents knew and the family tree that began so many years ago, with their first gardenia.
Balance of Nature
This scene is replayed each morning, as the long rays of the rising sun highlight the tips of the sparkling breakers. Diving seabirds know that breakfast awaits and each, in turn, swoops swiftly into the crashing surf to snag its prey. I take my place, front and center, at the shoreline to view this extravaganza; on display for all who choose to see.
Illumined, soaring, ‘cross the new-dawn sky,
O’er sun-kissed breakers, teeming life beneath,
Aviators’ staunch formation, regimented, queued
at nature’s balanced table, set for all.
Photo Friday: #yellow
Spinning Silk
This week, when challenged to publish a favorite photo, I leafed through my stunning sunrises and sunsets, my macro pics of springtime flowers and my pelicans and seagulls soaring and swooping into the breaking surf; I paused at this stunning shot of spider pearls, glistening in the morning fog.
I am struck today, as I was on that Sheffield morning last summer, by the exquisite delicacy and incredibly intricate architecture of this miracle of nature. We mortal humans strive to replicate, imitate, and recreate such perfection, but rarely succeed.
Even this photograph, one of my all-time favorites, falls short of capturing the fleeting complexity of that magical moment, of delicate dewdrops clinging to the silken strands of web.
Mornings in The Mist
As summertime returns I feel a sense
of something missing, ne’er to be again,
My Sheffield mornings, fogged-in valleys drenched
in mist, ‘neath Berkshire mountain chain.
These memories will ever play, repeat,
To make me smile, each time I feel the damp
of dewy grasses, wet beneath my feet,
My spirit warmed again, as at my camp.
Days and nights immersed, restored, revamped,
Sabbatical (of sorts), but mainly for the soul,
I’m sad but glad to have my psyche stamped,
These images and scenes of summer gold.
Of misty mornings: mystical, serene,
A pasture garden stand, ‘neath tree of green.
Photo Friday: #Fog
A Twist on Trees
More than lovely, more than seaside shade,
Symbolizing strength, endurance, tempting fate,
Clinging for her life through gales and swales,
Yet ever twisting upward, winding straight.
She’s home to flora and fauna of the isles,
Her gaily painted fruits and leaves grow wild,
She shelters wiped-out surfers for awhile,
Her sinews, often, perches for a child.
Uncultivated beauty, I’m amazed,
I wonder what she’s seen, what tales she’d tell,
Of secret lovers watching sunset scapes,
Or storms that wreak across her inlet: Hell!
Kilmer wrote of “Trees” in olden days,
This fool in awe; God’s grandeur on display.
WordPress Photo Challenge: Twisted
Anticipation
She bathes and sets her hair, and hums Faure
Her nails fresh polished, trimmed and prepped,
“Dona Nobis”, counting in her head,
“Keep it light and airy”, Maestro said,
Her music rearranged in concert form,
Her stockings laid out neatly, ‘side the dress
Her necklace – pearls (of course), and earring studs,
Unlabeled bottle ready for the stage.
It’s concert day and music floods her head,
Instructions, cautions, caveats and cares,
A few more hours, curtain time is nigh,
She loves it all. Tomorrow she will cry.
For though it will have been a joyous time,
It will be over for a while, ‘til next toll chimes.
Ode to Bandit
He wakens with the birds and begs me to join,
Exuberant, racing down the stairs to grass,
Midst scatter’ing squirrels and pre-dawn cooing doves,
His happiness unbridled, life’s a gas.
Reluctant, I begin with aches and moans,
His spirit wins me over every time,
All grumpiness now gone, though old bones groan,
As long as Bandit scampers at my side.
For mornings, though routine, seem new each day
Suppressing newscasts filled with doom and gloom,
His fervent focus: chew treat’s on the way,
And panting at the cupboard door his ploy.
With tailbone wagging, wiggling as he waits,
Joy unrestrained, as expectations rise,
He bounds upstairs, a-twirling, gleeful gait,
To top of bed, to wait for his surprise.
His early antics done, he finds my lap,
I sit and sip, he snuggles fast asleep,
Supine, relaxed and trusting as he naps,
I’m awake and he is dreaming deep.
You ask how I endure this daily trial,
How rising with birds can be okay,
I say: it warms my heart and makes me smile,
No better joy and mirth to start each day.
My Bandit reads my mind (or so it seems),
His wide-eyed happiness the stuff of dreams.
Cape May Musings
Of twines and splines secure alined,
Of rough grain planking, tied to tines,
Of wind-swept railings, white on white,
Of salty breeze; morn, noon and night,
Of greys and whites in contrast stark,
Of summer evenings after dark,
Of cognac shared ‘neath astral scenes,
My seaside porch, the stuff of dreams.
Hibernation
Silent, steadfast, still through the wintry blasts,
Storms return then ebb and rage again,
Immured within, suspended, as in fast,
Colony awaits to reawaken.
Workers huddle, clustered round the queen,
Saving stores of nectar, drones exiled,
Few survive the frigid months between
the warmth of summer and the April mild.
The young and queen secluded all the while,
Protecting eggs, preserving honey stores,
Their destiny’s survival, free from guile,
Yet deep within, the rumbling stirs e’en more.
I cannot see but sense impending birth,
Honey bees will swarm, renew the earth.
Photo Friday: #calm
Lighthouse in the Mist, Cape May, NJ
Bandit
Festive View from the Pub, Peddler’s Village – Lahaska, PA.
Home Sweet Home
Opal Reflections 