Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
Doors open
Gentle rill
Steady Stream
Come — they will
Some yawning
Some to swim
Some to lift
In the gym
They come here
Start their day
In the most
Healthy way
Surge has passed
Quiet, still —
Then more come —
Gentle rill
Tanka Tuesday prompt: use synonyms of Flow and Wave
This describes my mornings at the front desk at the gym.
I’ve been focusing so much on trying to write poems that I almost forgot to blather write a prose-y stream-of-consciousness post. (By the way, did you know that prose as a verb means writing in a tedious, dull way? Hmm — I’ll have to save that for an appropriate occasion.)
The prompt is one/won. Well, I haven’t won anything this week so that narrows it down. Here are some ones, though.
Number of dragonflies that I rescued from the cat: One.
I thought for sure that the dragonfly was a goner, but when I took it away from the cat, I could see that it was still alive. It flew away. Seriously. And I was left with amazement and questions and wonder and all sorts of feelings that are so hard to describe.
Number of operas that I attended: One.
On a bit of a whim, I went to Candide yesterday. I know it’s not really an opera; it’s musical theater. But it was at the opera house. I loved my seats — cheap seats that allowed me to see the orchestra — except I couldn’t see the French horns or the timpani. Ah well.
Earlier in the summer, I had met the actor who played Candide. Now, mind you, I knew literally nothing about the show, the story, the music — nothing. This guy came into my office to purchase a short term membership at the gym. For the summer. He was with the opera.
“Which show are you in?” I asked, trying to sound like I knew something about it.
“I’m Candide,” he said.
“You’re in Candide?” I replied.
“No,” he said, “I am Candide.”
Silly me, I thought Candide sounded like a female role.
But let me say this — that same wide-eyed cheerful attitude that he brought to the stage sat in my office that day. I highly recommend the show.
Number of times that I swam in the lake: One.
Actually, that’s the number of times for the whole summer. Friday was hot, humid, and miserable. I jumped in the lake and swam back and forth along the rope at far side of the swim area. It was so refreshing.
And those are the ‘one’s that stand out to me.
But then, there was the one time that I got drenched because the heavens let loose and I hadn’t an umbrella and I had to get to my car.
And the one time that fruit flies took over the kitchen because I hadn’t emptied the compost bucket.
The one earring I lost.
The one earring I found.
The one guy who got under my skin in a 20 minute complain-y phone call. I can listen to people, but when you’re calling to complain, please understand that I don’t make the policies.
The one former neighbor who moved back to the area and came in to get a membership at the gym and I couldn’t place him in my mind until two hours after he left.
The one turkey reuben that “hit the spot” as my mother used to say.
The one young man from Romania who tried to teach me how to pronounce his name and I couldn’t.
The one woman from Russia who told me that the rolling hills of upstate New York remind her of home.
This could go on forever.
Must. Stop. Now.
Dragonfly
In my hand
Delicate
Fragile and
Beautiful.
I took you
From the cat —
Still you flew.
I’m awed at
Your mettle.
You shimmer,
You settle,
And then you
Fly away —
The nothing
That you weigh
That fluttered
In my hand
Lingers — so
Fragile, grand
This is my second attempt at a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire, an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.
It is in response to the W3 prompt this week from Sadje —
It’s funny — but I think what inspires me to write a poem is often something that I can’t put into words. Like holding a dragonfly.
I scoured my photographs for dragonflies. Here are two:
Let’s study some art, okay? Can you count the cows?
One, two, three, four — yes, that’s right! How about the swans?
One, two. Now I see some ducks. Can you count them, too?
I agree — they’re hard to count, but good job looking!
Tanka Tuesday prompt: Write an ekphrastic poem about this work of art by John Constable.
This is another Imayo: 4 12-syllable lines, broken 7-5. Literal, no symbolism or metaphor.
Children are SO literal, don’t you think?
Plus — we had a Slow Art Day talk back in April here with our seniors. We just looked at a painting in silence for 5-10 minutes before sharing what we saw. It was very literal. One lady said to me afterwards, “It’s the first time I’ve felt comfortable talking about art.” Too often people jump into the symbolism which is intimidating for those who are concrete thinkers.
You know this could be you, right? You, too, could
Be buffeted by winds and beat up
By trees and cars and birds and kids.
Life could happen to you in
Mean ways. Your student debt
Insurmountable
When medical
Expenses
Overtake
You.
Bank
Account
Empty. Cards
Maxed. Marriage bro-
Ken. A move. All the
Degrees in the world can’t
Float you high enough to miss
All the brutality of life.
That fatal heart attack was mercy.
Don’t judge. Don’t judge. Don’t judge. This could be you.
This was the prompt from Sadje’s WhatDoYouSee? post this week.
This week, in sorting through papers, I came across a box of unopened mail from my brother’s apartment when we cleaned it out after he died from a heart attack nine years ago. Most of it was bills and debt collections notices. Yes, depressing.
High on a telephone pole, your aerie was built
Stick by stick plucked from the ground and flown clumsily
To its new home with a view – where you can spot prey
A mouse or vole or rabbit, and scream from on high
I’ve been watching this nest while it is being built.
The Tanka Tuesday prompt was to write a Imayo about a bird. An imayo has four lines, each line 12 syllables, but divided into two sections: 7 syllables and then 5 syllables. This is my attempt.
Je ne sais pas what to write. I suppose that’s the purpose of stream of consciousness writing, right?
I kind of like that Linda included a French word in her prompt.
Please don’t assume that I know French. I took it for a year in high school and recently started learning it on Duolingo. Pas (noun) is a step. Pas (adverb) negates.
Pas — all sorts of phrases run through my head.
Now I’m off to do my Duolingo. I have an 1134 day streak going — mostly Scottish Gaelic. Today I’ll work on my French some more.
In
Eighteen
Ninety-four
Great-grandmother
Pedersen arrived
In the United States
From Denmark with three dollars
And four children under the age
Of seven to join her husband who
Was a tailor working outside Boston
Her super-power: hospitality
Her home became a hub where Danish
Women gathered to drink coffee
And converse with each other
Without all the mental
Gymnastics that go
With translation
They relaxed
And smiled
[sigh]
My
Mother
Received that
Super-power
Hosting dinners and
Welcoming newcomers
And people in need to our
Home, church, and the community
She made it look so very easy
I thought I had missed that DNA
One day I was sitting at my desk when
A person peeked around the corner
“Can I talk to you?” he asked me
“Of course,” I said, so he came
In the office and told
Me a small story
A wee sliver
Of something
That was
large
I
sat and
I listened
To his words, awed
That he had chosen
Me to share his thoughts with
One day a woman sat down
With me and she started to cry
She told a wee sliver of her story
And I listened, gently holding her tale
They come. I listen. So many people
Some sad, some angry, some joyful, some tired
They all share different stories
“You should get paid for this,”
One man said to me
He doesn’t know
It is my
Super-
Pow’r
This is a double etheree times three. Does that make is a sextuple etheree?
An etheree is a syllabic poem — 10 lines with syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. A double etheree has 10 more lines, counting back down 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.
For the record, I work at a gym and when I’m in the office, I sell memberships.
And listen.
This is in response to this week’s W3 prompt: Write a poem of any style and any length on the topic of “Power.”
SPF
Thirty-three
Slathered on
Sun, sand, sea
Sound of surf
Hitting land
Whoosh shhh ssss
Sea sun sand
Sinking down
I can’t run
Grit twixt toes
Sand sea sun
Red as beet
Seaweed scent
Sandy feet
Day well spent
Tanka Tuesday prompt was to use this picture as inspiration and concentrate on imagery.
This is a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire, an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.
Haven’t spent a day at the beach in a long, long time.
~ a stream-of-consciousness post ~
~ aka blather ~
For the record, I had a great week despite it starting off with a high level of anxiety.
I had had one of my hare-brained ideas — and this one involved taking a group of seniors to a bluegrass festival.
My contact person at the festival was one of those people who, like Bartholomew Cubbins, wore at least 500 hats. In addition to being the Office Manager, Contract Coordinator, Vendor Coordinator, Logistics Manager for that festival, she also coordinated a bunch of other events. One day when I called her she was out purchasing food for a camp or something. Another time I tried multiple to times to call her only to learn that she had dropped her phone in a lake where she was working and it was gone, gone, gone.
It stressed me out because I had trouble reaching her. I wanted confirmation of these tickets and didn’t actually get that until the morning of. Because it was my first time going and I didn’t know the lay of the land, I was worried. Add to that a couple of octogenarians, a bunch of septuagenarians, a few people with mobility issues — well, you can imagine how I asked myself many times, whose dumb idea was this?
A week ago I was out for a walk. Sometimes, when I exercise, it’s like the idea generator turns on in my head. I start having ideas — admittedly most of them dumb — but one idea leads to more ideas that lead to more ideas.
I have a friend that I haven’t seen since the last high school reunion I didn’t attend (he sought me out at home). While walking, a song he wrote popped into my head. Idea! Must get him to come sing that song for my seniors! When I got home I immediately reached out to him.
Over the course of a bunch of text message, I learned that he was going to be at the festival to which I was taking this group. To make a long story short, I called him the next day and he told me more about the festival. Then he met me shortly after I got to the festival. While my charges were eating gyros and bloomin’ onions, my friend showed me the lay of the land. Later in the afternoon, when folks were happily settled in various tents listening to or participating in sessions, we sat together and talked.
Have you ever been hungry for good conversation? I left that day feeling full.
The next day I went to the opera — La Boheme.
If you want two diametrically opposed musical experiences, go to a Bluegrass Festival and then go to an opera.
I listened to the orchestra warm up, the clarinet, french horn, and violin all skittering up and down the scales.. I love the orchestra. I could listen to them all day. Even when they’re just tuning before they begin, there’s something magical about it.
The orchestra violin? Just the day before everybody had been calling it a fiddle.
The opera musicians were all dressed in their orchestra black and sat unobtrusively in the orchestra pit.
The day before the musicians were on stage wearing t-shirts and hats and sunglasses. One mandolin player bobbed his huge mop of hair in time with the music. Sometimes the band members were barefoot.
The opera audience listened from their seats, clearly loving the amazing music, but also following the protocol of an opera, where you listen and then clap at appropriate times.
The bluegrass audience danced and clapped and cheered and sang along.
Which did I enjoy more? I would be hard-pressed to choose musically.
But the full day bluegrass experience definitely fed my soul.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 