poetry

Bagpipes — A Love Story

Sally26 Comments

The bagpipes loved the little girl
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklirl
He hoped that he could catch her eye
As she went traipsing merrily by
She barely slowed, and so he sighed,
O skirly, whirly, sklirl

’twas lonely waiting to be seen
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleen
The blue-eyed girl was now long gone
Off in the distance he could hear the song
Of bagpipes playing nrrrnn nrrrnn nhawn
O skirly, whirly, skleen

But who should now come into view?
O skirly, whirly, twirly, sklooo
The little girl tugging her mother’s hand,
“Mama, I want to be in the band!
To play these pipes would be so grand!”
O skirly, whirly, skloo0

She picked him up, nestling him dear
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleeer
“Please, can I take this home with me?”
Mom started to say, “Let’s wait. We’ll see.”
But didn’t. She heard the lassie’s plea.
O skirly, whirly, skleeer

And now the rest is history
O skirly, whirly, twirly, skleee
Each is the other’s sole desire
Scotland the Brave, Mull of Kintyre
Making music all day — a girl-bagpipe choir
O skirly, whirly, skleee


This is in response to the W3 prompt this week: Write a nonsense poem with at least one invented word of your own.

poetry

Tyger…………………………………….. Tyger

Sally24 Comments

Tigers don’t like groups, you know

Company isn’t something they seek
It may seem strange, but it’s not unique

Most animals draw strength from their pack or crew
Being alone is strength that only a few
Understand. For loneliness does not ensue
When aloneness is simply a part of you

Groups of tigers are called Streaks
Or Ambushes. Silly names — and weak

Tigers don’t like groups, you know

This is in response to the Tanka Tuesday prompt to: Select an animal collective noun and write your syllabic poem using the collective noun.

The poetry form that I used is the Symetrelle.

  • It begins and ends with a single subject line that is 7 syllables.
  • It has two mono-rhymed couplets that lead you into and out of the subject with a 9 syllable count.
  • In the middle is a mono-rhymed 4 line quatrain with an 11 syllable count.
Life

Three Dog Night

Sally8 Comments

“One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do
Two can be as bad as one
it’s the loneliest number since the number one…”

written by Henry Nilsson

“Pick a number” — the prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday.

Immediately, Three Dog Night was playing in my mind.

But here’s the thing:

  • One is strong. Okay, two is stronger — collaboration and all that. But one is okay. One stands.
  • One is responsible for one, and isn’t pointing fingers of blame at anyone else.
  • One is decisive.
  • One makes progress. One doesn’t get bogged down wondering what two or three would want or do. One moves forward.

Honestly, two can be far lonelier than one.

And crowds can be downright desolate.

Other notable ones this week:

One bottle of Chardonnay purchased this week. Today, actually. Chilled. The glass I had tonight — alone — was so good.

One dinner out — with one son. One of my children invited me out to dinner with him last night. AND he picked up the tab. So nice!

One Otto the Orange appearance — for my one granddaughter’s birthday. My granddaughter is quite smitten with Otto the Orange, so when my son mentioned that they were going to be attending a semi-local Otto the Orange appearance, of course I went.

One really good night’s sleep — I woke up this morning at 5:30am. Unheard of! I’m typically at work at this hour.

A few more numbers:

Two workouts in the Fitness Center this week.

Two days driving down to the house we’re selling so I can pack things ups and get them out.

Three mini-ciabatta rolls with sprouts and tomato that became my dinner tonight.

One disappointment.

One unsettling conversation.

One delightful conversation setting up a talk called “Farming With Dynamite.”

Seven days of goodness.

I think that pretty much sums up my week. In numbers.

poetry

Pantoum for My Child

Sally13 Comments

I wish I could see inside your head
The swirl of thoughts all tangled there
I would take one tiny thread
I’d follow it to who-knows-where

The swirl of thoughts all tangled there
Twisted, matted, snarled, knotted
To follow one to who-knows-where
To open that which has clotted

Twisted, matted, snarled, knotted
Hopes and hurts and harms and healing
I want to open what has clotted
To understand what you’ve been feeling

Hopes and hurts and harms and healing
I wish I could see inside your head
To understand what you’ve been feeling
I would take one tiny thread

Any parent would understand this, but especially parents of older kids, parents of adolescents, parents of introverts, parents of kids who struggle for words.

This is in response to the W3 prompt — write a pantoum with at least four stanzas. A pantoum is a interwoven poem with repeats lines circling through the stanzas. Here’s the rhyme scheme for mine:

ABAB BCBC DCDC DADA

Blather · Life

One

Sally2 Comments

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.

IMG_6284

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.

photography · poetry

Dragonfly

Sally16 Comments

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 —

  • Write: a syllabic poem or: a poem in free verse;
  • Topic: “What inspires you to write?” or: “What inspires you to write poetry?”

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:

poetry

A Trip to the Museum with a 4 year old

Sally12 Comments

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.

Life · poetry · Stewart

Life happens to all of us

Sally14 Comments

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.

poetry

Red-tailed Hawk

Sally7 Comments

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.