Two cats share an old chair by the woodstove An orange tabby and a calico They stretch and bask, sometimes paws interwove One wakes and grooms the other, licking slow
They eat their food together from a bowl Or crouch together watching some poor bird Sometimes they argue ’bout who gets the mole Mostly they don’t care who gets the last word
Companions would be an inadequate Description for this cat-relationship So bonded in a way that’s not clearcut Expressing joy wtih purr and lick and nip
They are true friends — someone with whom they can Just be themselves without ulterior plan
This is my submission for the W3 prompt this week: write a sonnet on the theme of friendship.
“Just hold out the grass on the palm of your hand,” Mom said, demonstrating the open palm to Iain.
Timidly he did it, taking baby steps forward until the heifer snuffled her warm wet snout onto his hand, licking the grass off. He laughed at the sensation: the smooth snout, the strong rough tongue.
“I grew up next to a dairy farm,” Mom said. “It’s where that housing development is now.”
“You were so lucky,” Iain said. “Why do we have to live in a city?”
“Your father has a good job there,” his mother replied.
“Are they [tipping his head toward the heifers] really where we get our milk?” he asked.
“Yup,” she replied.
“But I don’t see the thing they squeeze to get the milk out,” he said.
“These are heifers,” she explained, “young cows that haven’t had their own calf yet. They don’t have full udders until after they calve.”
He puzzled on it and bent his head sideways to try to look underneath. Sure enough, there were teats but no udder.
“Where’s the dad?” he asked. “We learned at school about babies. It takes a mom and a dad, right?”
“Bulls are dangerous,” she explained. “They use AI.”
“ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE?!?” he said incredulously. “Like aliens??”
She laughed. “No! Artificial insemination.”
“What’s that?” he asked. “How does it work?”
She gulped and reddened. “A picture would be easier,” she said.
Back home, she looked up the following picture on her computer.
“Ewwww!” he said.
This is my submission for the Unicorn Challenge. Just write no more than 250 words based on the photo prompt.
Several years ago, I wrote a poem about growing up next to a dairy farm and the experience we had when our pet heifer wandered over. Here’s the poem:
When my parents bought the farm (literally) Pa Jackson was over the hill (euphemistically and literally)
He milked the cows by hand While the barn cats tumbled in the hay (euphemistically and literally) I watched with wide eyes (the milking, not the euphemistic tumbling)
The Jacksons had a bull To do the job of the artificial inseminator And when our pet heifer, Sock-it-to-me-Sunshine, Wandered over To get to know the Jacksons’ cows (literally) The bull also got to know her (euphemistically)
Then, our heifer Was in the family way (euphemistically) She was loaded on a truck And sent to a home For unwed cows
The next summer The Jackson’s cows Were also loaded onto trucks And sent to auction Because Pa Jackson was Extremely Over the hill (euphemistically)
A few years later We read in the newspaper That he had bought the farm. (euphemistically)
And here’s the pet heifer with one of my brothers.
The howling Ah-rooyip, yip (no growling) Wakes me. Or does it? So near! Hear?
And owling hoo-HOO hoo-HOO (no growling) Out my window, I hear life Rife
With wildness Foxes scream – WRAAAAGH! – no mildness (Or growling) Look at the dark! Hark!
It’s early But day is alive, surly Lonely, looking, using sound Found
In darkness Life not visible, starkness Yet teeming, streaming. New day — Yay!
This is my response to this week’s W3. POW Lesley Scoble challenged us to: Create a poetic scene, based on this imagery: It is early morning. You get out of bed and go to the window.
Here’s the thing, though — I go to work at 5 AM, so I get up at 3:30 AM. When I get out of bed and look out the window, I’m mostly looking at darkness. Or the moon. I have written a poem or two about the moon.
For this, though, my getting-out-of-bed moments of late are full of sounds, so I wrote about them.
The coyotes have been so active and loud. And the owls. Fortunately, I don’t heard the fox scream often, but I did the other morning, as I lay in bed thinking about getting up.
Morning — even early early morning when it is still dark — is my favorite time of day.
The poetic form is an unpronounceable Irish form: Deibide Baise Fri Toin. Quatrains. 3-7-7-1 syllables. Rhyme scheme aabb: lines 1 and 2 rhyme on two syllables, lines 3 and 4 rhyme on one.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I (I should be telling this with a sigh) Stood at that fork and took it Hey Yogi! Hey Raffi! Look it! Look it! Look it! You know what came next? (What came next?) A knife and spoon! (clink, clink) So I kept on walking down the road With a fork-knife-spoon as my load
On Saturday I was supposed to go to a poetry reading. Mind you, I have done that only once before in my life and it was a terrifying experience. Thankfully an excuse presented itself and I bowed out. The friend who had invited me offered to read my poems for me. I gave her two — neither of which had been the poem I planned to read.
She messaged me later, telling me that the poems were well-received, that I was a rare talent.
To prove her wrong, I’m going to go ahead and publish last week’s tripe, my response to the W3 prompt. The POW gave a lovely challenge: to use 1-2 lines from Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”
Unfortunately Yogi Berra infiltrated my brain regarding that poem. Yogi once said, “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” It’s one of many Yogi-isms for which he is famous. Like, “It ain’t over, ’til it’s over,” and “You can observe a lot by watching.”
Suddenly, too, while writing, I was doing battle with Raffi, who kept singing at me (in my head) about a time he went for a walk.
Sheesh.
Sometimes the muses either just aren’t there or are a couple of clowns.
Do you remember that fish? The one that got away? Yeah — that humongous one That amazing summer day
Oh yeah — do I remember! That battle ‘twixt you and it? You were so gol’darn mad You said that you could spit
[He laughed a hearty laugh] Oh, man, yes, you are right! The one that got away ’cause it put up such a fight!
[So, the both of them chuckled As they stared into the sky And nibbled on summer timothy, Then heaved a mighty sigh]
Yes, this is my own submission to my own W3 prompt.
A few weeks ago, I went with a friend to the Arkell Museum in Canajoharie, New York. They had at least 20 Home Winslows as part of their collection!
If you’ve never been to (or heard of) Canajoharie, let me tell you, it’s a tiny town on the Mohawk River in upstate New York. When I was a kid, we went on a field trip to the Beechnut factory there, where baby food was processed and made. Some summers later, I worked at a camp in Middleburgh, New York, where I passed Beechnut fields coming and going — beautiful, rich, farming field of whatever produce Beechnut needed.
Honestly, the whole area was/is as idyllic as a Winslow Homer painting.
In Canajoharie, as part of their village library, they have an art museum called the Arkell Museum. That’s where they had this collection of Winslow Homer paintings.
Anyhoo — I had just seen (and been blown away by) Winslow Homer, up close and personal. He made (and makes) my heart ache. Hence the prompt.
Honestly, I love that grew up in, and now live in, rural upstate New York. I don’t think there’s any prettier place in the world.
As far as the big one that got away? — boy conversation since the beginning of time. Right?
From there to here and here to there From that to this and this to where From seed on wind to in the ground New growth, slow growth — changes abound
In winter earth and trees are bare From there to here and here to there Snow and ice yield to subtle Spring Or not-so-subtle — hear it sing?!
As birds return and leaves burst out Flowers bloom. They whisper. They shout From there to here and here to there Summer comes with flamboyent flair
Flaunting sunshine on sparkling lakes Eagles, herons, doves, ducks and drakes Some migrate south on cool fall air From there to here and here to there
This is my response to the W3 Challenge this week — to write a quatern on the theme of transformation.
What’s a quatern, you ask? Well, it has four quatrains (four-line verses). It’s syllabic: each line has eight syllables. It may rhyme, but rhyming is not required. It has a refrain. The refrain of a quatern repeats the 1st line of stanza one (S1) as the 2nd line of S2, the 3rd line of S3, and the 4th line of S4.
I feel my Dr. Seuss influence is showing in this one.
The nothing weight of a bird (the word is zero zilch nil) In my hand, I thought it dead But its head moved. Later still
The indigo bunting flew Brilliant blue away on wing Wonder, marvel, such splendor I surrender to this thing
This idea that beauty (nature’s duty) is oft found In small overlooked moments Whose components astound
When examined or seen Like the green praying mantis Spindly legs folded in front — A hunt? Or holy practice
The wooly bear in my palm A psalm of security As it curls up –in that pose Choosing to trust surety
I would get it ‘cross the road. I sing an ode to efts (or Are they newts?) turtles, toads Crossing roads. Yes, I adore
The fact that I can hold them Avoiding mayhem of cars Moments of peace in my hand – So grand – if we but stop, ours
This is a Welsh form: Awdl Gywydd (pronounced “ow-dull gee-youth”)
Four lines
Seven syllables per line
The final syllable of the first and third lines rhyme with the 3rd-5th syllable of the following lines
The second and fourth lines rhyme.
It’s my response to the W3 prompt this week. Selma Martin (the poet of the week) challenged us to write a poem of any form on the theme of the beauty and perpetuity of the natural world that surrounds you. I am a nature-rescuer, in my own very small way, helping small cross the road on a daily basis, and very occasionally, like the indigo bunting, being surprised at life where I assumed death.
Praying in a pew on well worn kneeler Darkness flickers while light streams Sinner. Beloved. Which?
That shadow in the back — did I see something? Tiny glimpse of disquiet Lurking, lurking, lurking
Yet, there is light casting rainbow colors Through tow’ring stained glass windows Overwhelming peace
Praying in a pew on well worn kneeler Tiny glimpse of disquiet Overwhelming peace
This is my response to this week’s W3 challenge — to write a Garland Kimo on the theme of good vs evil.
The ‘Kimo’ is a short syllabic poetic form of three lines. The syllable count per line is 10/7/6.
Also, the kimo is focused on a single frozen image (kind of like a snapshot). So it’s uncommon to have any movement happening in kimo poems.
The ‘Garland Kimo’ is a series of four ‘Kimo’ verses, in which the fourth Kimo verse is composed of lines taken from the previous three Kimo verses, using the 1st line from the 1st Kimo, the 2nd line from the 2nd Kimo, and the 3rd (last) line from the 3rd Kimo.
You may have tangible wealth untold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be– I had a Mother who read to me.
~~ Strickland Gillilan
My mother read to me. She read and read and read. She taught me to read, maybe so I would stop the pestering. One memory, small but big, was a time I asked her to read One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish For the 729th time And she sighed, like she didn’t really want to read it, but she did. I loved this book. It wasn’t the intricate plot. It was rhyming words, silliness, and a mother who read it to me over and over.
One fish Two fish Red fish Blue fish
Love to look (fish) In a book (fish)
Love to read (fish) “MORE!” I plead (fish)
Snuggle, snuggle next to Mom Dr. Seuss? He is the BOMB!
Reading ’til my eyes grow bleary Marguerite Henry, Beverly Cleary Jim Kjelgaard, H. A. Rey I think I could read books all day
Late at night, late at night I get out my big flashlight Hiding underneath bedsheets I wander down literary streets
Mixed Up Files, Desert isles, Big Red, Misty Bring me smiles
It all began with One fish, two fish My love for reading Grew and grew (fish)
The W3 prompt this week is to base your piece, a mix of prose and poem, on a childhood memory. I remember my mom reading to me.
This poem is a Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire. I can’t pronounce it, but I can tell you that it’s an Irish poetic form that requires 3 syllable lines in quatrains. The second and fourth lines rhyme.
The W3 prompt this week is to write a food-related poem in any form. Okay, I thought, I’ll just write down everything I eat for the day and make a poem about it. Here was my first verse:
Farmstand egg Whole wheat toast Smoked Gouda It’s the most
But I realized that almost everything else I ate was garden-related, so I nixed my egg sandwich and just put verses in that involved fresh produce.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 