The apples at the store were soft Their crispness was long gone Too long sunsets were early And too late was the dawn
Snuggling with her Tigger-Tiger Kept little Molly warm As outside snow swirled and blew Another winter storm
“It’s almost March! When will this end?” Mamma wailed and whined The blinding blizzard hammered down Of Spring there were no signs
Molly hugged her Tigger-cat And cried, “But Mommy look! Since we can’t go outside today Let’s read another book!”
This is my response to Val’s Winter Scavenger Hunt‘s second prompt: Use the following words in a poetry form of your choice: apple(s), sunset, tiger, hammer.
Rubbing fuzzy leaves Releases distinctive smell Pink geranium Awakening memories Mom’s thriving houseplant green thumb
I’m late to the scavenger hunt (thanks, Val, for sharing it with me) but here’s my response to the first prompt: “Write a poem inspired by leaves (dying ones or newly emerged). For bonus points use a Tanka to express your feelings about the leaves…”
Since the scavenger hunt started in the fall, I’m sure it was intended to inspire poetry about the beautiful colors of autumn. However, I’m writing in February, and immediately thought of my sad geranium. It’s the one plant that I’ve been able to keep alive for multiple years. That alone tells me that it’s an easy plant.
Its leaves turn crispy brown starting at the edges when I forget to water it — which happens more often than it should. Now I’ve placed the plant in a place I walk past all the time so I’ll see it.
“Oh, yeah, you,” I say to those brown-edged leaves. “You need water.”
So I give it water and the whole plant perks up.
Once, when I went on vacation, my son was taking care of the house for me. He remembered to feed the cats but forgot to water the geranium.
Priorities, right?
Anyway, I thought the geranium was a goner that time — but just add water and it’s back.
I do love the smell of the leaves when I’m dead-heading and dead-leafing. They make me think of my mom who, I’m pretty sure, never killed a plant in her life.
This is a photo from a few summers ago. The geranium, on the left, is still alive today. Nothing else in the photo is.
You hide, avoiding spotlight and regard, Let others have their moments in the sun Small talk, large groups for you are both quite hard Thus you oft eschew the words, “Well done”
What creature, then, can I compare with thee? An earthworm making soil in the dirt? Or detritivore cleaning up the sea, Hard-working anti-social introvert
A hoverfly works hard to pollinate The lovely flowers everyone enjoys Yet no one pauses to appreciate The busy flying workers of no noise
Some people never see, will never know The one who does, and doesn’t seek to show
W3 Challenge this week: write a love sonnet to yourself.
Let this line guide you:
There is in you something that waits and listens for the sound of the genuine in Yourself … that is the only true guide that you will ever have.— Howard Thurman (1899 – 1981)
For Christmas, my brother gave each of his surviving siblings a mug with a QR code on it. My QR code leads me to a trivia question each day. My sister gets the bird of the day. Another brother learns a little history from his. The gift-giving brother learns about an unusual creature each day. The other day his creature was a Sea-Pig:
This high definition video framegrab was taken from MBARI’s ROV “Doc Ricketts” aboard the R/V Western Flyer at a depth of approximately 1260 meters on March 9, 2010.
Scotoplanes globosa, commonly known as the sea pig, is a species of sea cucumber that lives in the deep sea. It is considered a detritivore, or something that eats detritus, decaying organic matter. These kinds of creatures are crucial to the ecosystem, but we seldom consider them.
Oh, to pocket time It flies one season to next Simply catch a star
This is my response to this week’s W3 challenge which is to create a haiga by pairing a haiku (traditionally about nature) or senryu (traditionally about human foibles) with a visual art form of my choice. The theme: the long-awaited shift from winter to spring.
I think this is a senryu? It is a human foible to think we can control time, right?
The artwork is a little self-indulgent. It’s a collage I made at Christmas. I also made a few ornaments along the same theme, but never did anything with them.
Basswood tree with holes drilled by a yellow-bellied sapsucker
Detailed? Abstract? Both?
I was searching for blogging challenges this morning. Having a challenge keeps me posting. The challenge of Detailed or Abstract — or both came from Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge (CFFC) which, it appears, has been taken over by Dan Antion. Cee Neuner started the long-running challenge. She encouraged blogger/photographers to take photos or go through photo archives and post photograph(s) based on the prompt. Mostly, she said, to have fun.
This was a photo I took in the Adirondacks. I was there with a friend who is very knowledgable about nature. If you’ve never walked in the woods with someone who knows them well, make it a bucket list item. My Adirondack-loving friend knows the common names and Latin names of all the trees. He know the birds. He knows the stories and the lore. I love hearing it all.
The yellow-bellied sapsucker pecks holes in horizontal lines in basswood trees because they like the soft bark. Apparently they also like apple trees, birch trees, maples and more. They drill their rows of holes then leave them for the sap to ooze out. Later, they return to eat both the sap and the insects trapped in it.
To me, I just liked the look of the tree with its vertical bark lines and the horizontal sapsucker lines.
In my quest for blogging inspiration, I found a poetry challenge: frozen water that called for using synonyms for the famous “frozen water” in Minneapolis without using the word for immigration enforcement. I’m way over the word count for the challenge, but I’ll put it here FWIW
Winter walk Snow and cold Past a tree Many holed
Does sap freeze? (Water will) Sap won’t run In this chill
What do birds Who eat sap Dine on now Sap’s the trap
People use Something worse [sideways move in this verse]
Intimidation Immigration We are lost As a nation
Take away Legal status Now they are Called non-gratis
They are NOT All worst-of-worst [unintentional outburst]
I sigh a sigh ‘Cause I don’t know How to help Or where to go
At the feeder There’s a jay “BULLY, BULLY GO AWAY!”
“Erasure poetry, also known as blackout poetry, is a form of found poetry wherein a poet takes an existing text and erases, blacks out, or otherwise obscures a large portion of the text, creating a wholly new work from what remains.
“You might begin with an existing text or poem and shape something new by removing words, or write your own piece and then erase portions of it to reveal another layer. You could even place a poem over a work of art and present it visually as an erasure.”
When my oldest brother passed away, I found a couple of books where he had been doing this — blacking out whole pages and only leaving one or two words. It was fascinating. But, then, my oldest brother was literally a genius.
I don’t know what the heck I’m doing with this. Clearly.
I muddled through books yesterday and today trying to come up with something.
Here’s one:
Al e x pre tti fought bravely Can you see him? Who is he?
Then I put in this (less than) valiant effort:
I do not know I do not know Do you know? No, said the farmer’s wife
Do you know? Why yes, I know
I know Do you know? I am going away all alone Good-by!
What does it all mean? I’m with the farmer’s wife. I do not know.
Warm My lap Come sit here Let me stroke you Let me run my fingers all over you You nibble on my fingers while I do Yes, you want more I feel it My dear Cat
This is my response to the W3 prompt and to the JusJoJan prompt which is prompt.
This week’s prompt for W3 is to write a Double Tetractys — a 10-line poem with a fixed syllable pattern.
Theme: something spicy or a little naughty. Keep it suggestive rather than explicit. Let tension, humor, and implication do the work.
A Double Tetractys is made of two Tetractys poems joined together:
The first five lines build up
The next five lines mirror them in reverse
Syllable pattern (per line):
1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 10 / 10 / 4 / 3 / 2 / 1
Yes, I have a friend with a cat that can’t get enough of me. She sits beside me, on me, nibbling at me. It’s love.
The fog comes on little cat feet Highwayman comes riding First loves In poetry become heartbeat This love is abiding Because
The moon’s tossed upon cloudy seas And meanwhile the wild geese Fly home i thank you God, for rhymes like trees That become gentle breeze Poem
This week’s W3 challenge is to write a Memento — a poetic form created by Emily Romano. A memento poem captures a holiday, anniversary, or meaningful moment held in memory.
The poem is written in two stanzas. Each of the two stanzas follows this syllabic pattern:
Line 1: 8 beats
Line 2: 6 beats
Line 3: 2 beats
This pattern is repeated once per stanza, for a total rhyme scheme of a / b / c / a / b / c in each stanza.
True story: I wrote a Memento poem about what I thought was the first poem that I ever wrote. My mother had saved the paper witten in my blocky large first grade printing. She told me that it was the first poem I wrote. I always thought it was a pretty darn good poem for a six year old.
Then I fact-checked my mother this morning. I did NOT compose that poem. Oh, I wrote it on a piece of paper and got a gold star from my teacher, but it was not my original words. [sad face]
So, I tried to remember when my love affair with poetry began.
It was probably One Fish, Two Fish by Dr. Seuss. He still influences my writing.
But Carl Sandburg’s poem Fog is the first stand-alone, non-nursery rhyme, non-Dr. Seuss poem that I remember loving.
I memorized The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes a few years later. That was the beginning of my love affair with story poems. We had a book of story poems that included Casey at the Bat and The Cremation of Sam McGee, but I loved the melodrama of The Highwayman.
I found that story-poem book in a box recently. It was in sad shape. Such is the fate of much-loved books.
So what was the first poem I ever wrote? I have no idea.
Distorted images, truths, faces, facts They grow, shrink, grow again, moving all the while
What am I seeing? What is true? I must escape this cave…
This song, The Cave by Mumford and Sons, has long been a favorite of mine. When it was in its auto-repeat phase for me, I was fascinated by the lyrics.
What does it mean to “Come out of the cave walking on your hands”? I looked it up. Those lyrics are a reference to both Plato and St. Francis of Assisi, who both sought to understand life.
The song challenges us to look at the world differently.
While not using the word “philosophy”, it IS a response to Sadje’s JusJoJan prompt: philosophy.
It’s also my attempt at a Cherita, the W3 challenge for this week. Cherita is the Malay word for story or tale.
A traditional cherita unfolds in three verses, each growing in length: Verse 1: one line Verse 2: two lines Verse 3: three lines
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 