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.
* A love note from one of my children that says, “I love you, Mom” or “I know that I can always go to you.”
* A piece of pretty cardstock
* Bookstore ad — “Book No Further”
* Used envelope sans the mail
* Cross-stitched cats on hardanger
* Index card scribbled with notes And quotes from the book it’s in
* A tucked-in book jacket flap
* A grocery store receipt
* Slip from an online bookstore that says “Thank you for your order!”
* A printed prayer, * a ribbon
* A postcard, * an old letter
* Class handout folded in half
* Tattered newspaper clippings
* Business card from an artist That I met at a craft show
* Page from a day calendar – 2002 Far Side cows
* An unused tissue because A used one would be quite gross
* A decades old photograph of my kids in a leaf pile
* A Reeses candy wrapper
You have to admit there is always something close at hand to neatly keep your place for when you return to reading
Many apologies. I’m not feeling terribly creative
However, the W3 prompt this week was to write an ode to an everyday object. This may not be an ode, but I do appreciate all the little items that rise to the challenge of holding my place in a book.
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
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.
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
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.
Actually, pretty sure this is the moon, but it will have to do.
I think you need to read yesterday’s Blather to understand what’s going on here. In short, this strange, strangely-formatted poem, is because I could hear it, almost like a song with three distinct voices. This is in response to the W3 prompt which called for using a line or two from Leonard Cohen’s Anthem.
Gosh, I apologize. If you were to meet me in person, you might think I’m normal. However, after reading this, you won’t think that at all.
Okie-dokie — Here goes:
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
A hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
I was sittin’ with my coffee In the hotel breakfast room When a homeless guy walked past me He was headin’ for the food, for the food
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
Mmm… it smelled so delicious He closed his eyes just to drink the smell in But his hands were a’trembling greatly Like a leaf at the end of a willowy limb
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
Hunger moves a man to do a scary thing He’d been thrown out before, thrown out before Still he braved it all again When he saw that crack in the door, crack in the door
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
Lights and smells both beckon But not to those who have everything If we aren’t hungry, we miss them We miss it all, yes, we miss it all.
Must be a hell of a scary crack
That’s how the light gets in That’s how the light gets in
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?
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.
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 