You hold so much filled to the brim Morning hope, solace, peace Unfortunately these days are grim You hold so much filled to the brim In you I find grim’s antonym One soothing sip brings release You hold so much filled to the brim Morning hope, solace, peace
This week’s W3 challenge is to write a Triolet about something ordinary.
What’s a Triolet? It’s an 8-line poem where lines repeat in a beautiful rhythm:
Lines 1, 4, and 7 are the same, and lines 2 and 8 are also repeated.
The rhyme scheme looks like this: ABaAabAB (uppercase = repeated lines).
I start every day reading and drinking a cup of coffee. It sets my day right.
I close my eyes to the darkness It’s easier that way to not see The suffocating night With its lack of light Where even shadows can’t be It’s a deafening deaf abyss
Open your eyes; find the light
Sticking my head in the sand I can neither see nor hear Nor taste nor smell Nor live my life ’tis its own hell Sans peace, sans strife This existence of living in fear — I must be willing to stand
Open your eyes; find the light
I rise and lift my head high I open my eyes to the dark A slim shaft of light A glimmer, yet bright Catches my eye like a spark — Engagement is how I defy
Open your eyes; find the light
This is my submission to this week’s W3 challenge.
Kerfe challenged us to write a bop poem titled “Instructions on Not Giving Up.“
A bop poem has three stanzas and a refrain that repeats after each stanza. It tells a story or explores a problem, a bit like a mini-drama.
First stanza – 6 lines Present a problem or situation.
Refrain A single line that repeats after each stanza. Think of it as the poem’s chorus.
Second stanza – 8 lines Expand on or explore the problem in more depth.
Refrain Repeat the same line.
Third stanza – 6 lines Show a solution or a failed attempt to solve the problem.
Refrain Repeat it one last time.
The other night I listened to an artist describing her process. She said that painting has taught her to look for the light. I need to remember to do that.
At the beginning Of my journey into conservative Christianity I heard this sermon:
“If Christians were rounded up and put on trial, would there be enough evidence to convict you?”
And I thought, Of course there would be. I know my Bible. I pray. I have memorized countless verses.
But then, at the beginning of the AIDS crisis, when Christians were condemning homosexuals and saying this disease was proof of God’s judgment on their immoral lifestyle, my brother, a Presbyterian minister, honored people with AIDS and their caregivers by having a dinner for them at his church. I thought about that action for years. Now there’s a conviction.
In the middle Of my thirty years of homeschooling I heard a homeschool convention speaker say:
“Ninety percent of homeschoolers vote in national elections when they are old enough to vote. That fact alone should have politicians shaking in their boots.”
And I thought, That’s a pretty remarkable fact. That’s a lot of power. Dear God, may they use it wisely.
But then, I watched my own homeschool convention heroes fall one by one. Joshua Harris renounced his faith. Cheryl Lindsey was excommunicated. Doug Phillips had an affair. They all are, after all, very human. And that voting power is a little scary.
And now, I watch “Christians” Wielding a sword and showing no love.
Dear God, I pray, convict me of compassion. May there be evidence of that in my life. Not power. Not judgment. Just kindness.
This is my submission to SoCS where the challenge was to write a stream-of-consciousness post using the words, “at the beginning.“
It’s also a response to the W3 Challenge this week in which the poet of the week challenged us to use one or both of the following images and write Prosimetrum or Versiprose: both forms combine alternating passages of prose and verse.
The water laps at Liberty Island Give me Your tired Your poor New York bustles on the mainland Huddled Masses Yearning My friend huddles in her home O Mother of Exiles Lift your lamp Amen
This is in response to this week’s W3 challenge. The italicized words are all from The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus which appears on a plaque inside the base of the Statue of Liberty. The poem is familiar and haunting.
I have a friend who is a naturalized citizen. I met her at the gym where I work and have known her for her journey as an immigrant — the trips back to her home country to see her children and to bring food; finally being able to bring her children to live here in the USA; studying, taking, and passing the citizenship exam; buying a home here.
I hadn’t seen her in a while so I asked a mutual friend about her.
“She works [at her housekeeping job] and goes straight home every day,” the friend said. “When she gets home, she cooks and eats. She has put on a lot of weight, so now that’s another reason not to come to the gym.”
I asked why, although I was pretty sure that I knew the answer.
“She’s afraid.”
I understood that also. She looks Hispanic (because she is). Her English is heavily-accented, and gets worse under pressure.
Mechanical? I am not! Any cogs? Not in my brain! Gears clinking? Pshaw! I forgot – No – machinery’s a bane I truly don’t get motors. Laugh at my utter absence Of comprehension. Rotors? Quite a puzzle. I’ve no sense! Use this gizmo? Okay — yes Explain its operation? No way! — I’d rather address This flow’r than mechanization
The W3 challenge this week involved a dive into “vintage mechanical marvels: music boxes, paddle steamers, tractor engines, grandfather clocks, fob watches, steamships, penny-farthings—you name it.” We were told to “Craft a poem inspired by these bygone mechanisms—let your mind whirl and tick with poetic possibility. And here’s the twist: be sure to include the word ‘magniloquent’ somewhere in your poem!”
For the record, “Magniloquent describes language that is intended to sound very impressive and important, or a person who uses such language.” (From Merriam-Webster)
This poem doesn’t use magniloquent — but I did make it an acrostic.
I really DON’T understand mechanical anything. Music boxes are beautiful for the sound that comes out of them. I like tractors because I love the smell of freshly mown hay and the neat rows of it in the field. Fob watches can have beautiful cases, but better I like the way it feels — the ways its curves nestle into my palm, its weight in my hand.
To the ocean I would go Just to see the water flow Whooshing in and pulling back Hearing shells go crickle-crack
On a lakeshore I could stand Digging toes into the sand Watching mallards swimming by Ospreys, eagles in the sky
Rivers also beckon me On their way to far-off sea Current flowing, rushing on By an unseen power drawn
Water is my great escape So I have an oil seascape When I’m home and cannot go Painted ocean soothes my woe
This is my response to this week’s W3 prompt. Poet of the Week Marion Horton challenged us to
“…turn our gaze outward—to scapes. Your scape might be a landscape, seascape, cityscape, dreamscape—any view that stirs something in you.It could be drawn from memory or daily life, from a photograph or a painting, from what still stands or what’s long gone.Write in any form that helps you say what you need to say. Somewhere in your piece, be sure to include the word scape.“
The painting used to hang in our sunporch. I had to move it recently because I noticed it was being damaged by the sun and heat in that room.
I have feelings which are quite complicated Regarding Touch-Me-Not or Jewelweed Whether weed or flow’r can be debated It’s both, not either-or, I will concede After the blossoms, green pods seem to plead, Touch me, touch me. You know that you want to. One small touch, a fun explosion indeed! Seeds fly out. The cycle begins anew.
I’ve been spending a fair amount of time weeding the jewelweed from the gardens. It’s my own fault. I introduced it.
One day, years ago, I was out for a walk with my children and one of them discovered that if you touch the pods on these plants growing by the path, they would explode. We all stood there for the longest exploding seed pods. It was so much fun. Finally, I broke off some stems with pods attached intact and brought them to my parents’ house.
The rest is history.
I’m weeding jewelweed — which, I have to say, is a most satisfying plant to weed. Its roots are shallow and let go of the soil so willingly.
Not like dandelions — which require that dandelion digger with a forked tip to attack the roots.
Or Japanese knotweed which require lots of oomph and a shovel with a serrated edge. Even then, it’s still everywhere.
So it’s a win-win to have jewelweed. It’s fun to seed and fun to weed.
If only it wasn’t everywhere.
This is my response to the W3 Challenge this week. The Poet-of-the-Week, Murisopsis (Val) gave us the following parameters for our poem:
Theme:‘Seeds’ ~ literal seeds, figurative seeds, seeds of love, hope, fear, war… you choose!
It follows nobody’s rules But makes up its own Every day Which, for my mom, Happened to be Sunday
Alzheimer’s is Soup cans in the wrong cupboard Flour in the sugar canister Lipstick on the eyebrows
It’s marmalade on lasagne And hot dogs
Forgotten names Remembered faces (Sometimes)
But that poem that she memorized In 5th grade And still can recite (Come, listen, my children and you shall hear…)
That dogged determination to get to church Because it’s Sunday (which it isn’t)
That desire to prepare food (with marmalade on it) And serve it to family And guests
That’s my mom Who battled a disease That followed nobody’s rules
This is my submission for the W3 Challenge this week. We were challenged to read and draw inspiration from Poet of the Week Bob Lynn’s poem ‘What Remains’ — which you can find if you follow the link to the W3 page.
Two further requirements were as follows:
Requirement 1: Poetic Device
Your poem must prominently feature metaphor as a central device. Like the dandelions in the inspiration piece, use metaphorical imagery to explore themes of persistence, belonging, growth, or survival.
Requirement 2: Required Phrase
Your poem must include the exact phrase “nobody’s rules” somewhere within the text. You may use it as written, or incorporate it naturally into your poem’s flow and structure.
My mom had Alzheimer’s. She died in 2015. She was the inspiration for this blog — hence the name “Hot Dogs and Marmalade.” I still remember the day, during her marmalade phase, she served that to my father and me. It wasn’t that bad.
Sorting through lives Letters and photos Trinkets and baubles What once was important Is no more The poignant priorities Tyrannies of the urgent Become nothing but ashes
Ashes, ashes We all fall down While holding hands Clinging, connecting Laughing, crying And supporting one another
The W3 prompt this week is write a quadrille—a 44-word poem with no required rhyme or meter — on “what remains.”
Poet of the week Sheila Bair has been caring for her mother with dementia, which is, indeed, the fading away of a person. I watched my own mother disappear that way.
This week my sister is helping me sort through the stuff that remains in the house. So many letters and papers and objects that hold memories are here. We hold them in our hands; we feel the moment for which they existed; then, it’s decision time. Save? Recycle? Gift to someone else that they, too, might hold it for a moment?
This is my response to the W3 Challenge this week, which basically is to write a poem and then feed it into http://www.spoonbill.org/n+7/, a site which “replaces the nouns with another one a bit further on in the dictionary. No AI involved.”
So — I wrote a Triolet in response to the vitriol on the news. There’s a HUGE part of me that wishes people — not politicians — could sit at the same table and listen to each other.
A triolet is a poem of eight lines, rhyming abaaabab and so structured that the first line recurs as the fourth and seventh and the second as the eighth.
My original:
I sit across the table from One whose thoughts veer far from mine “Tell me, friend — why so glum?” I sit across the table from Someone wounded by the scrum I listen, hear the counterline I sit across the table from One whose thoughts veer far from mine
The Spoonbill version (with a few tweaks to make it fit the poem structure)
I sit across the tangle from One whose times veer far from mob “Tell me, future — why so glum?” I sit across the tangle from Someone wounded by the scrum I listen, hear about your job I sit across the tangle from One whose times veer far from mob
_______________
New word for me, which I think I love because it so suits the situation: Counterline: A secondary melody that contrasts with the main melody and is played at the same time.
Listen. Really listen. Can you hear both melodies?
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 