Salty like hot dogs (and tears). Sweet like marmalade (and life).
an etheree —
Why
do you
unsettle
me? Why can’t I
look into your eyes,
your face, without feeling
pain? Is it the burden on your
shoulders? Is it that I will never
fathom your life, so different from mine?
This is in response to Sadje’s What Do You See? prompt — the photograph above.
Star
Faintly
Twinkling
In the dusky
Sky — You’re there even
When I can’t see your light
Like in the daytime, or night
When clouds obscure most ev’rything
I know comrade stars form animals
And warriors and women above me
Unseen Orion still wields his club aloft
While vain Cassiopeia admires herself
I can’t see them but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist
One little star
First star I see
Reminds me of
What is unseen
And beautiful
And just as real
W3 prompt: Write a “Tree of Life” poem about changes, impermanence and strength.
Tree of Life format:
I know that this poem isn’t about changes, impermanence and strength. I had an idea of what I wanted to write, but all of the sudden I had veered off in a different direction. Sorry. Not really sorry.
A year ago I didn’t know either of those words. Here are the definitions
Tanka Tuesday prompt asks us to write an Ekphrastic Poem in response to this work of art: Eugene Manet on the Isle of Wight, 1875 by Berthe Morisot
And here’s my reverse etheree:
The world is a parade past my window
Strolling, walking, marching, riding past
Some in groups, trios, pairs, alone
Chatting, whistling, silent
An unsteady nonrush
I watch quietly
Inside my home
Unobserved
And sip
Tea
You blend in so well that I
Almost passed by, but my soul
Leapt as your head turned, follow-
ing me, swallowing a vole,
Or who knows why? I caught my
Breath. ’twas a sigh in reverse –
A moment of surprised awe
Then crows cawed and you dispersed.
Maybe I just blame the crows –
Maybe you arose in broad-
Winged flight because some other
Thing broke cover at your nod
Tanka Tuesday Prompt: This week, choose a kigo (season word or seasonal phrase) and write your syllabic poetry using the word or seasonal phrase. My word was heron.
I’m not sure I understand the whole kigo thing. I’m dense maybe. Or my head is too full of trying to learn Gaelic. And French.
However, I chose a Welsh form that I’ve used before: Awdl Gywydd. It calls for internal rhymes and end rhymes.
I woke up this morning with another ee cummings poem running through my head.
God forbid I be beaten by a Golden Shovel! I set out to write another one with ee cummings as my inspiration.
scent of mown hay —i
close my eyes, drink it in, thank
-ful for smells and You
who give us senses. O God,
I am filled with longing for
more of You and most
of all just grateful for this
moment. amazing
A photograph of a sunflower was the prompt for Tanka Tuesday. I immediately thought of the sunflower field near us. People constantly stop to photograph it — it’s so lovely. Recently, on Facebook however, there were a number of nasty comments about the people stopping to look at the sunflowers. It’s dangerous, they said — and they were probably right.
But doggone-it, the sunflowers are so pretty.
I wrote a poem about the controversy (kind of) and shaped each stanza like a petal, using syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1. Then I cut them out and put them in a collage.
Below, the poem in text form. Below that is my collage.
some
people
see the field
of sunflowers
and are in awe of
their beauty but
others see
the cars
that
pull
over
to the side
haphazardly
because somebody
in the car caught
sight of the
flowers
and
could
not help
but to slam
on the brakes and
climb out of their car
to draw closer
to the gold-
en beaut-
y
they
are drawn
by flowers
and more flowers.
they’re intoxicated
by the beauty
and don’t see
danger
to
self
or to
others – the
ones who are just
on their way to work
and don’t have time
for flowers
or they
are
weighed
down by
too many
cares — so they don’t
care or remember
to care, to see.
this world is
so so
rich
rich,
I say,
in beauty
golden yellow
living miracles
that came from seeds
and grew taller
than even
you or
me
I
Don’t sing.
My cat of
many years, Olaf,
Is always glad
To sing, to meow and yowl and
act like he is big
The W3 prompt for the week is to write a poem based on the piece of artwork show above, and, if possible, make it a Golden Shovel poem.
In a “Golden Shovel” poem, the last words in each line are, in order, words from a line of another poem. I chose an e.e. cummings poem. And struggled. Or should I say, i struggled
be-
causeif
ever
there was a poet
whos(tyl)e
set him
a- – – -part
it
was
eecummings
I wrote about an entirely fictional cat. I’m not really happy with it –the poem, that is. About as happy as I would be if I had a cat that yowled all the time. But I wanted to participate. [sigh]
The poetry form is called a Cadence. The rules are that it be written in 7 lines, that the lines follow this syllabic pattern 1-2-3-4-4-8-5, and that the end words be strong (no articles or prepositions). Well, two out of three ain’t bad, right?
Door half-open
Door half-closed
Shadow – light
All transposed
Cup half-full
Cup half-empty
Is it lacking?
Is there plenty?
It’s too hot
It’s just right
It’s too cold
What a plight!
Close one door
New one opens
Toying with
My emotions
Happy, sad
Frightened, brave
Peaceful, mad
Giddy, grave
Rarely I
Am only one
I’m a mix
Shadow-sun
This is my response to Sadje’s “What Do You See?” photo (above)
I spend way too much time with my counselor talking about emotions. At one point, she gave me a list of emotion words to help me identify what I’m feeling. It’s not that I don’t have feelings — it’s that I have trouble naming them. Well, I take that back — when I was going through a particularly challenging time, I shut down my feelings, and, as they have come back, they’ve sometimes re-emerge in a tangle.
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.
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.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 