My darling, Much better than quarreling Is this: I will stroke your hair, Swear
Devotion To you while you’ve no notion (Have you?) of whose side I’m on. Yawn
My pretty; Sleep on my lap. I pity Your great surprise when you wake. Take
Care, dumb thing. Out of the strong came something. Sweet fool, you yielded to me Key
Expertise That I might put you at ease And take from you that which God [prod]
Had conferred On you. Soon the deed’s occurred — Come take the hair of this mutt! Cut!
The W3 prompt for this week was to write an ekphrastic poem about the Rubens’ painting of Samson and Delilah.
The more I looked at the painting, the more I disliked Delilah. She’s so false. What did Samson see in her? Well, I think that’s pretty clear in the painting, too.
This is an Irish form I’ve used before: deibide baise fri toin. Syllable count for each quatrain: 3-7-7-1. Rhyme scheme: aabb. The first two lines rhyme on two syllables, and the last two rhyme on one.
The poet of the week gave an additional challenge of including a line from Samson’s riddle: “Out of the strong came something sweet.”
Dear Barbara, Remember when We used to pray And say amen
To all of our Troubles and cares Passing them on – Gone – to “One Upstairs”
Who heard our words Read our mettle Enclosing us Thus to settle
And face what came– Oh! Life was hard Especially Yours. See — one card
Then another — Life dealt you crap Death, illness, hell Fell in your lap
Week after week We bowed our heads We wept, we prayed Life frayed to shreds
Why did we stop? I don’t recall Did we give up? Our cups to fall
And break, as did Our friendship? I Wish I knew what Shut that door. Why?
Why do people Move on from God, Friends, prayers, tears? Fears? Fatigue? Fraud?
I am a fraud Yes, yes. That’s true But we did pray A day or two
I was out for a drive with a friend the other night, and suddenly I recognized the landscape, the roads, the buildings. It had been years since I had driven out there but I used to meet weekly to pray with a friend. She lived out there.
We stopped meeting rather abruptly some 20 years ago — and I don’t remember why. I don’t remember a falling out. I don’t remember a lot of things from those years. They were so stressful.
But the stresses in my life were miniscule in comparison with hers.
This poem came out of the hashing around of those memories.
I need to add that faith failures — the doubts, the fatigue — they are all MINE, not hers. Pretty sure, anyway.
“Please select Me!” She wanted to direct The gardener as he scanned, Hand
Already Full of flowers, gaze steady. He looked for one final bloom. Gloom
Just settled Over her. Her gold petaled Head drooped in an oh-so-sad Bad
Way. Downcast, Rejected, again outcast, Passed over. But then he stopped Dropped
His pruner “I wish I’d seen you sooner,” He said to her. “You are sweet! Meet
Your sidekicks.” [snip!] She joined the spray, transfixed By the beauty around her. “We’re
Delighted You can join us!” She sighted A welcoming rose and mum. “Come!”
This is for the W3 challenge this week. Heather (Sgeoil) challenged the participants to do a little personification. I had an idea for a flower being plucked from the garden for a bouquet (inspired in part by the bouquet that was on my bedside table when I stayed at my son’s house). My idea involved going in that sacrificial direction of losing life for the sake of something bigger. But, as you can see, it went in a totally different direction.
I wish I understood my own process.
AND — because I like Celtic forms, I went with a Deibide Baise Fri Toin, and Irish form with aabb rhyme scheme and syllable count of 3-7-7-1 for each stanza. The first two lines rhyme on a 2 syllable word and the last two lines rhyme on one syllable.
The poem is made up of quatrains with an aabb rhyme scheme. Syllable count 3-7-7-1. Lines one and two rhyme on a two-syllable word; lines three and four rhyme on a monosyllabic word.
The prompt on January 4 from the 64 Million Artists creativity challenge was to write a short letter to yourself from the perspective of an object that you use, or maybe misuse everyday. Honestly, I NEVER use my yellow pens. I have a basket full of a variety of pens in a variety of colors.
My favorites are brown, green, grey, and blue — earth, ocean, sky.
My least favorite is red. It feels too corrective — probably going back to my school days.
I like yellow. I just can’t always see what I’ve written when I use yellow.
“Can I have a little kitty?” I asked my dad one day. My mother put me up to it; she knew what he would say. When I had first asked her, she said, “You need to ask your dad.” The thought of having NO kitten made me rather sad – So in my simple six-year-old heart, I began to pray.
When I first saw those kittens, much to my dismay, The lady said to ask my mom and I knew I must obey So I asked my mom with every ounce of sweetness that I had — Can I have a little kitty?
My father loved to tell this tale. I can hear him now portray How this funny freckled blonde-haired girl stole his heart away With such a simple question — and he would often add “How could I say no to that?” Yes, he would be a cad To deny his own dear daughter the joy that came with one “Okay” Can I have a little kitty?
The cat’s name was Ichibon. We lived on an army base at the time, and the family with the kittens had recently returned from a stint in Japan. Ichibon means #1 in Japanese, and she was allegedly the first kitten born in the litter.
Ichibon was first in a long long string of cats in my life. Today, I have an obese cat who doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to be a working cat and taking care of the mice in this house — but that’s probably a poem for another day.
When my granddaughter was littler (she’s now a big 4 years old), I wasn’t working full-time and would go babysit once a week. So. Much. Fun.
Anyhoo — she was just a wee little thing, and I would put on music to play in the background while we played. I had a whole playlist for her.
I pulled it up the other day because I (obviously) hadn’t played it in a long time. It was a lot of Scottish songs. My granddaughter loved Ally Bally Bee and “danced” to it — which involved running around the couch.
I loved The Broon Coo, a song about a mischievous cow that breaks oot and eats all the hay and neaps (turnips) and chases the ducks.
Cows are near and dear to my heart. The cow population is our area has significantly declined over the 50+ years since my parents bought the house I am now living in. When we first moved here, though, there was a working dairy farm next door.
I wrote a poem about it some years ago and thought that I had posted it. Maybe I had and then took it down. Who knows? It happened to be in my overfull WordPress draft folder and I’ll put it at the bottom of this post. It’s not really stream-of-consciousness, you know.
If you’ve ever experienced feeding a cow something from your hand, you’ll know that it’s an unforgettable thing. The smoothness of their nose. The tongue pulling whatever it is off your hand. The slow patient chewing that ensues.
So many people are just in a hurry when they eat. They could learn a lesson from cows.
A horse’s muzzle is dry and it will use its lips to take whatever you’re holding. A cow’s nose is slimy — but in the best of ways, if there can be a best of ways for slime.
I used to walk down the road and play music for the cows. They would walk alongside me on their side of the fence.
Then there was the year the cows stampeded up our road when the guy was trying to load them in a truck. He eventually rounded them all up, save one — and there were feral cow sightings over the winter that year as it wandered the back hills. I don’t know whatever happened to it.
But the Broon Coo song is about a cow that breaks out and gets into trouble — which is what my poem is also about (kind of) except our cow was a black-and-white Holstein.
So I’ll leave you here with a few cow pictures and a 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 visit the Jacksons’ cows 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)
Lean Into The pained words Uttered by men, Repeated to the God who already knows: I believe in one God … I Confess my faults; Have mercy, please, According to all Your promises — “Lean into the pained words uttered by men”
Share an emotion of yours in a “Dectina Refrain” poem.
Ten lines;
Syllabic: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10;
The tenth line is comprised of the first four lines all together, as one stand alone line in quotation marks. (apparently the quotation marks are optional.)
This wasn’t a requirement — but mine is an acrostic as well.
This whole “share an emotion” business is for the birds in my life right now.
I told my counselor that this week. Not a fan of emotions. At all. Not even a little. Please make them go away.
But I’ve been trying to pray again. Trying is the operative word here.
This is why liturgy is so important. When words fail, we still have words — old words that have been spoken for centuries.
Man, it has been a week. I’ve had a cold (not COVID) and, for whatever reason, struggled to write much.
Kudos to those of you who crank out quality posts every single day, sometimes multiple in one day. I spew forth something occasionally, nonsense most of the time, but this week the well has been fairly dry.
Honestly, I had no idea. When have I ever felt infinite? Pretty much never.
I tried writing something about swimming, because there’s something about stretching out in the water, and reaching towards the far wall that’s very Zen, but not infinite. That poem went into the trash.
On one of the days when I was home sick, I decided to tackle some of the sorting that needs to happen in this house. I live in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in, and it is chock FULL of stuff.
I found the remnants of my mother’s wedding dress. She had given it to me so the lace could be used for my wedding dress. For whatever reason, those remnants were saved. In a box. Under a bed.
The remaining lace was quite yellowed. The heavy satin that the lace had been layered over was spotted and almost brown.
“I should throw this away,” I said out loud. I resolved to do just that.
But I couldn’t.
Kudos to those of you who can or could.
It’s just beyond me.
I closed the box.
But I went back to it multiple times, wrestling internally with what should be done.
That’s when I decided that I would ask one of my sons to help me bury it. Somehow, allowing that satin and lace to become one with the earth again seemed fitting for my mother’s dress.
She always loved a garden.
Finite? Infinite? I’m not sure.
But I did crank out a poem if you care to read it at the bottom.
My mother on her wedding day
Me on mine — Dad, me, Mom
My mother gave her wedding dress To me so I Could use the lace for my gown. I frown, I sigh
As I find the remains of that Dress so many Years later. A wreck of a thing – Fitting, any
Joy I might have had now replaced With a heartache. The box holds scraps of what once was – I pause – head-shake —
What do I do? “Throw it away,” Says one voice in My mind. “It’s just garbage now.” Somehow the bin
Is not the proper place for it. It is a wreck – Like my life – but I simply will Not kill that speck
Of what – Love? Hope? Truth? Connection? It is a dress! Nothing more and yet so much more – But for my yes
My own promise — oh, how I grieve! I will bury The scraps. My heart is still not free To be merry
I’m a little teapot in the air As you might guess I’m exceedingly rare How it is I do this I can’t share I’m just a teapot in the air
I’m a special teapot You’ll agree There’s magic all around us for those who can see Maybe you can fly too! Count to three — Click your heels and follow me
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
I’m a little teapot Watch me fly I hover, I pour, then zoom on by Signal that you need me and I’ll try To zip on over and resupply
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
I’m a special teapot Yes, it’s true Here, let me show you what I can do I can pour hot tea all over you Be nice to me or get your due
~~~~~~ OR ~~~~~~
Maybe it’s a secret teapots keep More than holding water and letting tea steep Oh, the things that happen while you sleep! Or do you think a broom just sweep-sweep-sweeps
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 