Tag: poem

poetry

Blue Heron

Sally4 Comments

This is my response to this week’s W3 challenge from PoW Heather. She challenged us to have a conversation with nature! “Choose something from the natural world: an animal, insect, plant, rock, or whatever catches your attention. Address it directly and look at it with fresh eyes.”

I’ve been in coastal Maine all week, enjoying nature, especially the birds. I decided to write a poem about the Blue Heron and use an Irish poetry forms, the Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire — which is three syllable lines put into quatrains with an abab cdcd rhyme scheme.

I wrote it — and then felt like it didn’t do the heron justice. Today I wrote a Shakespearean sonnet. So — here are two, not one, poems for the beautiful blue heron. The first is the sonnet; the second is the Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire.

You pick your way along the craggy rock
You pause, you watch, you listen all the time
Is that a fish? Above, is that a hawk?
You freeze, become a statue – so sublime

But once a year you gather in a throng
You court with sticks, choose partner, build a nest
Together warm the eggs, hatch, raise the young
Then leave because alone is where you’re best

You curve your neck into an “S” and fly
Drag spindly legs behind you as you go
Broad wingspan, steady rhythm thrums the sky
Time to return to living life solo

To be alone does not make you forlorn
It means this is the life to which you’re born

You stand tall
Motionless
Feathers grey
Opalesce

“Why are you,”
I inquire,
“Always lone,
Grand flier?”

You stand still
Carved of stone
Blink your eye
Cover blown

Single bird
Blue heron
Rule the strand
Beach baron

Being one
Not a curse
Be unfed
Would be worse

All alone
You can fish
Minnows, eels
You vanquish

Solitaire
Tall and proud
Hermit life
Head not bowed

Life · poetry

Hygge in a Mug (an advertisement)

Sally11 Comments

Hygge (pronounced Hoo-gah) is a Danish word with no direct English equivalent. It is a cozy contented feeling that involves being in the moment, and feeling safe and comfortable.

Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug
The warmth of which permeates my soul
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

This hygge feeling gives my heart a tug!
Pre-dawn moment makes my whole day whole
Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug?

I know, I know — caffeine is a drug
(I say that with a serious eye-roll)
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

In my big house, I sigh and give a shrug
Aloneness — part of this season’s role
Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug

I curve my hand around, feel warmth so snug
Sipping joe, I write words to extol
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

If I could advertise one thing, I’d plug
Java! Cuppa! Have some! I’d cajole
Who knew a drink could comfort like a hug?
Freshly brewed coffee in a mug

W3 Prompt this week: This week, let’s write a villanelle about enjoying your favorite beverage, whether alcoholic or not. What’s in your cup?

Here’s a link to my favorite villanelle of all time: https://malcolmguite.wordpress.com/2011/10/06/a-villanelle-for-national-poetry-day/

family · Life · poetry

Genealogy

Sally9 Comments

It started with a phone call
“Who are you again?”
The letter arrived yesterday
I was full of curiosity

“Who are you again?”
His answer meant nothing
I was full of curiosity
Slowly the pieces fell into place

His answer meant nothing
I scribbled down some names
Slowly the pieces fell into place
Somehow we were related

I scribbled down some names
She mailed the letter with photos
Somehow we were related
She took me up the family tree

She mailed the letter with photos
She wrote stories of people I knew
She took me up the family tree
Naming people, naming places

She wrote stories of people I knew
The letter arrived yesterday
Naming people, naming places
It started with a phone call

This is my submission for this week’s W3 prompt. PoW Reena challenged us to “to explore the music of repetition by writing a pantoum on any theme or subject.

A pantoum unfolds in four-line stanzas, with each stanza carrying two lines into the next:

  • The second line becomes the first line of the next stanza.
  • The fourth line becomes the third line of the next stanza.
  • Add new lines in the second and fourth positions, letting the repeated lines gather fresh meaning in their new surroundings.

Continue for as many stanzas as you like. To bring the poem full circle, the final stanza traditionally uses the opening stanza’s third line as its second line, and the poem’s opening line as its closing line.

This is a true story. I got a strange phone call at work one day with someone asking me for my home address. We chatted for a while. I had no idea who he was — but I did eventually give him my address. I knew this could end badly and even joked with him that at least he wasn’t asking for my social security number or credit card information.

Just the other day the letter came from a distant relative. She had actually found me through this blog! She was out of the country, but wanted to send me something regarding a relative we had in common — so she recruited a friend to call and get my address.

aging · elderly · family · Life · poetry

The Bath

Sally9 Comments

I ran the water
Helped her get into the tub
That was when I knew

She who had bathed me
Could no longer bathe herself
Our roles had reversed

This week’s W3 prompt: Choose one specific object or place from your childhood—a bedroom doorway, a schoolyard swing, a favorite toy, a familiar street—and write about the moment when it began to feel different: when you sensed that childhood was receding and something else had begun.

Does it count if I was in my 50’s when this happened?

Mary Cassatt, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
Life · poetry

Dealing with people in general

Sally2 Comments

Kind dealing
Comes not through whim or feeling
But a choice to act with tact —
Fact

This poem is in response to the Ragtag Daily Prompt: Whim. It’s an Irish form called Deibide Baise Fri Toin which is written in quatrains with the following syllable count per line: 3-7-7-1 . The rhyme scheme is aabb, with the first two lines rhyming on a two syllable word and the last lines rhyming on a one syllable word.

poetry

Modular

Sally3 Comments

Modular home – not for me
Standardized rooms feel empty
Hobbit house fills me with glee
Better yet – home in a tree

This 3-story treehouse is somewhere near Revelstoke, British Columbia.

This is my second attempt at a Tanaga which is  a traditional Filipino poetic form, similar in its brevity and depth to the Japanese haiku. It often uses rich metaphor, or talinghaga, to offer wisdom, advice, or vivid imagery. There is absolutely no wisdom or advice in my Tanaga — just a cool treehouse.

The rules for a tanaga are:

  • Write exactly four lines.
  • Use seven syllables in each line.
  • Follow an AAAA rhyme scheme. Modern variations such as ABAB or AABB are also welcome.
  • Traditionally, tanagas are untitled, allowing the poem to speak for itself.

This is also my response to the RDP prompt: Modular

Life · poetry

Low Tide at the Bay of Fundy

Sally7 Comments

Shadows fall upon us all
Currents carve, water erodes
Creating cliffs strong and tall
Wisdom worn bears heavy loads

For this week’s W3 , we are challenged to write a tanaga inspired by the theme “Life and Wisdom.” Explore the lessons we learn from living, the choices we make, and the experiences that shape us. Even a simple image from nature can become a metaphor for a deeper truth or moral lesson.

The tanaga is a traditional Filipino poetic form, similar in its brevity and depth to the Japanese haiku. It often uses rich metaphor, or talinghaga, to offer wisdom, advice, or vivid imagery.

Your tanaga should follow these guidelines:

  • Write exactly four lines.
  • Use seven syllables in each line.
  • Follow an AAAA rhyme scheme. Modern variations such as ABAB or AABB are also welcome. (I used a modern variation)
  • Traditionally, tanagas are untitled, allowing the poem to speak for itself — but my inspiration and the photo are from when I visited the Bay of Fundy about this time last year
poetry

One Candle

Sally10 Comments

created using AI

(For clarity sake — the picture was created using AI. The poem is 100% me.)

Deep inhale
Seventy-eight years travail
For what to wish? A new roof?
[poof]

I’m confused
One candle still lit! Excused
Not extinguished. Did I goof?
[Foof]

Voice speaking
From the flame. Eerie. Creaking.
“ElAinE” – glimpse of frilly rouche
[SWoosh]

If even
I blow harder, believing
It will work, I hear “SHhhHsh“
[WHOosh]

Oh, terror!
Who is this message bearer?
She speaks again — one word — “iF“
[WHIFF]

“iF ToDaY“
TODAY?? Today is my day?
My lungs are squeezing for breath —
Death?

[gasp weakly]
NO! It can’t end so bleakly!
At once — candle smoke, voice spoke
“jOkE!“

This week’s W3 is an interesting prompt:

An old woman blows out 78 candles on her birthday cake, but one refuses to go out, no matter how hard she blows. It burns with a blue flame and whispers a name she hasn’t heard in 40 years. Your poem is her conversation with that candle. What does she decide to do: let it keep burning, or pinch it out?

I found the prompt challenging and didn’t exactly follow it.

The form I used was Deibide Baise Fri Toin, an Irish form. It is written in quatrains with the following syllable count per line: 3-7-7-1 . The rhyme scheme is aabb, with the first two lines rhyming on a two syllable word and the last lines rhyming on a one syllable word.

The last word in the first five stanzas is supposed to be the sound of her attempting to blow out the candles.

poetry

Monday Morning

Sally4 Comments

[to the tune of “Jingle Bells]

Dashing through the house
In a Monday morning rush
I laid in bed too long
Where my’s favorite brush?!
The forecast is for rain
What I would give for sun
I haven’t time to think or sigh
I’m always on the run!

Oh! Monday morn, Monday morn
Tell me why you’re here?
I am really not a fan
Can I make that part clear?
Monday morn, Monday morn
Can you please go away?
I’d like to rest in my warm bed
Let’s try another day

Sitting at my desk
I try to do my part
I scratch my head and rub my neck,
Pull up another chart
The Excel numbers swim
Won’t do the things I ask
I think I’ll shut the program down
And try another task

Oh! Monday morn, Monday morn
Tell me why you’re here?
I am really not a fan
Can I make that part clear?
Monday morn, Monday morn
Please just go away
My brain won’t shift into work mode
Let’s try another day

This is my contribution to the Monday Wordle (MLMM) where the challenge is to use any or all of the prompt words in a piece of writing. Today’s words are dashing, morning, bed, forecast, sighed, give, neck, head, warmth, laid, and part.

Leaning In · poetry

Again

Sally8 Comments

It seems natural, so simple
Impulsively holding
Hands — an honest symbol
Nimble fingers folding

Intertwining; act of sharing
Bearing with a person
Touch that asks, how are you faring?
Caring lest things worsen

Could be a sister or a mother
Hovering and steady
Or a new romantic other
Druther — am I ready?

Feeling again perhaps tingles
Mingles with fear sincere
[oh dear!] back among the singles
Fingers, hands — meet, cohere

2014 — When my father told my mother that my brother had died, he reached for her hand.

The week’s W3 prompt is to use the word “again” in a very specific context: Write a poem about experiencing something familiar as though it were happening for the first time again.

I thought about the act of taking or holding a hand, the simple spontaneous touch between two people who care for each other.

The dechnad mor is an Irish poetic form that employs quatrains with these guidelines:

  • Four-line stanzas.
  • Lines one and three have eight syllables and end rhyme with each other.
  • Lines two and four have six syllabes and end rhyme with each other.
  • Each end rhyme is a two-syllable end rhyme.
  • Each line features alliteration between at least two words. (I did not do this one)
  • The end of the first line rhymes with the beginning of the second line.
  • The end of the third line rhymes with the beginning of the fourth line.