Tag: W3

Blather · Grief · Leaning In · Life · poetry

Mom’s Wedding Dress

Sally18 Comments

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.

The W3 prompt this week was a quote:

Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

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


family · poetry

Parenting Advice?

Sally30 Comments

Hmmm…. Advice?
Parenting is not precise!
My counsel is, hit or miss,
This:

Hold children
With open hands. To build one
Up until they are strong, free —
See?

They travel,
Grow, change, at times unravel
These are things you always knew —
True?

Kids succeed,
Fail, succeed again, agreed?
As parents we give a base,
Space –

Both vital.
This is more than a title,
This whole mom-dad-parent thing.
Bring

An open
Mind and heart. Give (un)spoken
Acceptance to any mess –
Yes?

Yes! Because
No matter what the thing was,
Your child should be loved by you.
True.

This is in response to the W3 prompt this week:

Write an Ekphrastic Poem based on the photo of August Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ with the theme of parenting.

I’m not sure how ekphrastic my poem is.

I tried using another Irish form called Deibide Baise Fri Toin.

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.

poetry

Keepy Uppy

Sally16 Comments

Bluey’s game — super fun
Ev’ryone keeps the balloon high
And if it drops, you’re done
Consider the floor lava and please try
Help, help to make it fly

Bungle it? Okay —
Allow yourself a little grace –
Let’s continue play!
Lob it! Bop it! Hit it high! Any place
So that it doesn’t die

I realize the W3 prompt says “Beach Balls” and I did a balloon.

Meh. You can play “Keepy Uppy” with a beach ball, too.

And if you’ve never met Bluey, this is as good an introduction as any. 🙂

poetry

Star Light, Star Bright

Sally25 Comments

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:

  • An uplifting poem in 19 lines;
  • Syllabic: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-4-4-4-4-4-4;
  • Unrhymed;
  • Alignment: Centered

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.

Uncategorized

A Hell of a Scary Crack

Sally12 Comments

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



poetry

Olaf the Cat

Sally21 Comments

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?

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

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

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:

family · poetry

Inheritance

Sally17 Comments

In
Eighteen
Ninety-four
Great-grandmother
Pedersen arrived
In the United States
From Denmark with three dollars
And four children under the age
Of seven to join her husband who
Was a tailor working outside Boston

Her super-power: hospitality
Her home became a hub where Danish
Women gathered to drink coffee
And converse with each other
Without all the mental
Gymnastics that go
With translation
They relaxed
And smiled
[sigh]

My
Mother
Received that
Super-power
Hosting dinners and
Welcoming newcomers
And people in need to our
Home, church, and the community
She made it look so very easy
I thought I had missed that DNA

One day I was sitting at my desk when
A person peeked around the corner
“Can I talk to you?” he asked me
“Of course,” I said, so he came
In the office and told
Me a small story
A wee sliver
Of something
That was
large

I
sat and
I listened
To his words, awed
That he had chosen
Me to share his thoughts with
One day a woman sat down
With me and she started to cry
She told a wee sliver of her story
And I listened, gently holding her tale

They come. I listen. So many people
Some sad, some angry, some joyful, some tired
They all share different stories
“You should get paid for this,”
One man said to me
He doesn’t know
It is my
Super-
Pow’r

This is a double etheree times three. Does that make is a sextuple etheree?

An etheree is a syllabic poem — 10 lines with syllable counts 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. A double etheree has 10 more lines, counting back down 10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.

For the record, I work at a gym and when I’m in the office, I sell memberships.

And listen.

This is in response to this week’s W3 prompt: Write a poem of any style and any length on the topic of “Power.”