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!
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.
Pas de deux — a dance for two. Literally, a step of two.
When I was in high school, one summer our school arranged some trips to Saratoga Performing Arts to watch the NYC ballet. That’s where I learned what a pas de deux was. I’m not sure I know which ballet it was, though. Was it Swan Lake?
My best memory from all the ballets that summer was watching Edward Villella perform “Prodigal Son.” The fact that I can still remember his name and that performance says something because it was close to fifty years ago. The man had more muscles than I ever remember seeing on any human being.
Faux pas — literally, a false step.
A social blunder. Saying the wrong thing, or having something come out totally wrong. Since I’m telling high school stories, here’s a faux pas that I still remember all too clearly. I was maybe 14. We were in high school band and discussing uniforms. Had we ordered new uniforms at that point? I don’t remember.
When we started talking about what to wear on our feet, the band director suggested overshoes that we could put on over whatever shoes we wanted to wear. It would be cost-effective and give a uniform appearance. You know what I’m talking about, right? Galoshes, aka rubbers. I never liked those things. They were hard to get on and hot. I couldn’t imagine marching in them.
I raised my hand and said, “I don’t like rubbers. I don’t like the way they feel.”
The sniggering that ensued started small. It grew and grew until it totally surrounded me. I didn’t know what I had said wrong, but my cheeks burned with embarrassment.
That was the day I learned that a condom’s nickname was “rubber.”
No true band uniform, no overshoes
Je ne sais pas — means I don’t know. It’s a useful term. There are a lot of things that I don’t know. I’m still learning.
Je ne sais quoi — a term I like even more –is something indescribable. I love this phrase, but it captures the feeling I have when my mind is searching for the right descriptor but there isn’t one.
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.
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.
Write a Shadorma of a minimum of 2 stanzas on the topic of strength (physical, emotional, mental, ethical, or of character…)
A shadorma is a poem comprised of six-line stanzas with a syllable count of three syllables in the first line, five in the second, three in the third and fourth lines, seven in the fifth, and five in the sixth.
This is also in response to a situation at work, where I chose not to immediately lambast the person who had caused the problem. I literally vacuumed my office and then sat for a few minutes before tackling the issue that needed to be dealt with.
The lesson for me (and maybe for you, too) — when frustrated and angry, it’s important to take a little time.
Yoga class: “Take a deep breath in” My lungs fill, inhaling slowly The act of breathing is so holy Inhale, exhale; there, time begins
Or does it stop? Air held within Bronchial ducts, alveoli Yoga class, restorative Yin Lungs empty, exhaling slowly
Peace settles where tension has been I engage mind-body wholly On the floor, time passes slowly Meditative haze, then again – Yoga class: “Take a deep breath in” My lungs fill, inhaling slowly
Write a sonnet or any other 14-line poem about “The concept of time and how it affects our lives.”
Side note from me: I got the 14 line part right and I said something about time. Does that count?
This is also my attempt at a Rondel. Lines 1-2 were supposed to be repeated at 7-8 and again at 13-14. I took a few liberties at the 7-8 version. I figure that I’m fairly new at these forms and can cut myself a little slack.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 