Home built into hillside
Limited where she could go
The little girl stood on the deck
And watched the water flow

“She doesn’t talk!” her mother wailed
And true, she spoke not a word
But watched the river morn ’til dusk
Adults found this absurd –

“Can you say Dada,” her father said
Hoping to break through
“How ’bout Nana,” Grandma said
But she ignored that too

The water flowed. It churned and toiled,
Dirty brown below her
One year passed, then two, then three
Still mute – no one could know her

Then one day, as the river flowed..
Her mother said, “I feel a –“
But her daughter interrupted her
And said, “Monongahela.”

Her mother stopped. Her mother stared.
“What did you say, dear daughter?”
“Monongahela,” said the girl.
“That’s the name of the water.”

From that time on she talked and talked
’bout turtles, carp and bass
And muddy water, boats, and birds
That she had watched go past

Monongahela — what a name
She said it o’er and o’er
The water she had watched so long
That flowed below her door.

Violet (the Poet of the Week for the W³ challenge) said, “Choose one of these three artworks and let it take you wherever it wants. Write whatever it stirs in you — a memory, a question, a scene, a poem.” She had three pieces posted, but I chose Pittsburgh People – (1942) by Reynold Weidenaar.

My sister used to live in Pittsburgh. I remember going to visit her and taking my kids to ride the incline, a cable-car-train thing that had originally been used to transport workers up and down the steep slope.

Pittsburgh also has three rivers — the Allegheny and Monongahela converge to form the Ohio. They were there at the bottom.

Monongahela is just a fun word to say, though. And Violet said, “… whatever stirs in you.” Monongahela.

Is there comfort in a lump,
Or something that is lumpy?
Lumpy screams out IMPERFECTION
Or something that is dumpy

Lumpy gravy is the worst
I think most would agree
But lumps in mashed potatoes
With smooth gravy? HARMONY!

This week’s W³ challenge is to write about a food or drink that brings you comfort.

• Form: Any
• Length: Up to 24 lines
• Include: The word “comfort”

Last night I went out to dinner with a friend. One of the sides that came with my dinner was mashed potatoes with gravy. The potatoes were lumpy — and I loved it.

The fog on little cat feet creeps
Hunting, hunting for some prey
The bustling world, not busy, sleeps
The fog pea-soups as it nears day

Unaware of imminent danger
Deer are swallowed up quite whole
Then it gets even stranger
As fog moves up and down the knoll

A flock of turkeys — gobbled down!
Now I see a wayward pup
Disappear — I’m looking ’round
Sun battles fog to come up!

Tall trees battle, disappear
Birds of every shape and size
So many things that were just here
Meet fog-filled fearsome demise

In my heart alarm is growing
Could I possibly be next?
I think it best that I get going
If I’m swallowed, I’ll send a text.

This is my response to this week’s W³ challenge where we are asked to write a poem of any form, no more than 240 words, that weaves a mystery—delightful or frightening—into its lines. Further, we are asked to have landscape and/or weather be a character in our poem

I happen to love the foggy mornings we’ve been having here. The fog is beautiful and mysterious.

Also, the first non-kid poem that I remember memorizing was Carl Sandburg’s poem, Fog, which begins “The fog comes on little cat feet” — hence the first line.

I close my eyes to the darkness
It’s easier that way to not see
The suffocating night
With its lack of light
Where even shadows can’t be
It’s a deafening deaf abyss

Open your eyes; find the light

Sticking my head in the sand
I can neither see nor hear
Nor taste nor smell
Nor live my life
’tis its own hell
Sans peace, sans strife
This existence of living in fear —
I must be willing to stand

Open your eyes; find the light

I rise and lift my head high
I open my eyes to the dark
A slim shaft of light
A glimmer, yet bright
Catches my eye like a spark —
Engagement is how I defy

Open your eyes; find the light

This is my submission to this week’s W3 challenge.

Kerfe challenged us to write a bop poem titled “Instructions on Not Giving Up.“

A bop poem has three stanzas and a refrain that repeats after each stanza. It tells a story or explores a problem, a bit like a mini-drama.

1. First stanza – 6 lines
   Present a problem or situation.
2. Refrain
   A single line that repeats after each stanza. Think of it as the poem’s chorus.
3. Second stanza – 8 lines
   Expand on or explore the problem in more depth.
4. Refrain
   Repeat the same line.
5. Third stanza – 6 lines
   Show a solution or a failed attempt to solve the problem.
6. Refrain
   Repeat it one last time.

The other night I listened to an artist describing her process. She said that painting has taught her to look for the light. I need to remember to do that.

The water laps at Liberty Island
Give me
Your tired
Your poor
New York bustles on the mainland
Huddled
Masses
Yearning
My friend huddles in her home
O Mother of Exiles
Lift your lamp
Amen

This is in response to this week’s W3 challenge. The italicized words are all from The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus which appears on a plaque inside the base of the Statue of Liberty. The poem is familiar and haunting.

I have a friend who is a naturalized citizen. I met her at the gym where I work and have known her for her journey as an immigrant — the trips back to her home country to see her children and to bring food; finally being able to bring her children to live here in the USA; studying, taking, and passing the citizenship exam; buying a home here.

I hadn’t seen her in a while so I asked a mutual friend about her.

“She works [at her housekeeping job] and goes straight home every day,” the friend said. “When she gets home, she cooks and eats. She has put on a lot of weight, so now that’s another reason not to come to the gym.”

I asked why, although I was pretty sure that I knew the answer.

“She’s afraid.”

I understood that also. She looks Hispanic (because she is). Her English is heavily-accented, and gets worse under pressure.

I understand her fear.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me

We have so lost our way.

Mechanical? I am not!
Any cogs? Not in my brain!
Gears clinking? Pshaw! I forgot –
No – machinery’s a bane
I truly don’t get motors.
Laugh at my utter absence
Of comprehension.  Rotors?
Quite a puzzle. I’ve no sense!  
Use this gizmo? Okay — yes
Explain its operation?
No way! — I’d rather address
This flow’r than mechanization

The W³ challenge this week involved a dive into “vintage mechanical marvels: music boxes, paddle steamers, tractor engines, grandfather clocks, fob watches, steamships, penny-farthings—you name it.” We were told to “Craft a poem inspired by these bygone mechanisms—let your mind whirl and tick with poetic possibility. And here’s the twist: be sure to include the word ‘magniloquent’ somewhere in your poem!”

For the record, “Magniloquent describes language that is intended to sound very impressive and important, or a person who uses such language.” (From Merriam-Webster)

This poem doesn’t use magniloquent — but I did make it an acrostic.

I really DON’T understand mechanical anything. Music boxes are beautiful for the sound that comes out of them. I like tractors because I love the smell of freshly mown hay and the neat rows of it in the field. Fob watches can have beautiful cases, but better I like the way it feels — the ways its curves nestle into my palm, its weight in my hand.