These Have I Loved

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These have I loved:
the scattering promise of springtime sprouts in my wildflower garden;
the burbling waters of summer-lessened streams,
metallic-blue dragonflies zipping past ramrod straight cattails;
deep summer shade;
the musty smell of an old book, its thick, browning pages 
steadfastly preserving the author’s words
whether deserving of such honor or not;
well-earned rivulets of sweat streaking down one’s cheek 
after a spell of honest labor;
dusty brown feet sunk into the warm, soft dirt of a well-tended garden;
the triumph of pulling up a dandelion, its root completely intact;
an intriguing story;
old hymns sung in wobbling harmony by an age-burnished choir;
stained glass windows and the kaleidoscopic colors 
rendered by filtered sunlight;
short sermons;
old cemeteries, moss-covered tombstones with 
names rendered illegible by centuries of wear, 
family plots delineated with tired sagging fences;
curls of wood shavings, the crisp pitch scent released 
by newly planed pine boards;
antique woodworking tools with handles smoothed by 
generations of artisanal use;
well-brewed coffee and warmed almond croissants;
freshly churned buttermilk;
fresh baked bread;
a full recycling bin rolled to the curb;
unexpected blessings of chance, such as spotting a 
praying mantis ootheca just as its tiny residents emerge 
to face their next stage of life;
combing my fingers through the luxuriant undercoat 
of my fluffy white spitz; 
his generous smile as he greets my returns home;
stink eye glares from condescending cats;
time spent with my daughters, the delight of witnessing the loving, 
thoughtful women they have grown into;
grandchildren playing contentedly on a toy-scattered floor;
the smell of a newborn’s silky-soft head;
warm evenings, rocking chairs on the back deck, 
a curiously formed piece of wood to whittle…

All these have been my loves.

Inspired by a dVerse prompt from Kim:

Based on the second stanza of ‘The Great Lover’ by Rupert Brooke, “write a list poem that begins ‘These I have loved: ’ of the everyday things that are important or precious to you. Be specific, picking out tiny details, and don’t stop until you get to the bottom of the page. Finish with ‘All these have been my loves’.”

in the moment

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our lives unfold moment by moment by moment
though we try to clump them together into
years and weeks and minute-by-minute or 
compartmentalize them into 
home and work and hobby and 
now and then and now-and-then 
and maybe it helps to think there is
some underlying structure to it all since 
otherwise we are like untethered balloons
caught up in an errant breeze that 
pulls us right past the delineations of
time and titles and self-imposed strictures
and how would we ever manage to define ourselves
if we just let life unfold moment by moment by moment

dVerse poetry prompt: unpunctuated

Road Trip

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It’s my first excursion in my newly acquired camper van. I drive from city freeways to arterial roads to country roads to the vague essence of roads in middle-of-nowhere eastern Oregon. 

I remember driving roads like this in my  younger years, in a handpainted red Dodge pickup, where I sometimes had to hop out of the cab, raise the hood and shove a rod back in place so I could shift out of neutral. A simpler time, a simpler vehicle.

When oncoming drivers begin raising a hand in casual greeting as they pass, I remember this neighborly act from my small-town upbringing. Though the van and the road are new to me, I recognize this pace, this sense of community and commonality. 

On reaching my campsite, I rest easy in the stillness and reminisce about times past when ruts and potholes preceded speed bumps, and when drivers raised more than just one finger to one another in common salutation.  

in burlap-rough folds,

hills of scrub and juniper

bask like sun warmed snakes

dVerse prompt for Haibun Monday: Remembrance

Misnomer

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Neither shy nor shrinking,
vibrant orange blooms
jostling with neighbors for territory.

First to show in a bed not yet 
reclaimed from winter’s neglect;
last to go, refusing extinguishment 
by autumn’s bluster.

Wallflower, who ever thought to name an
awkward, peripheral introvert after you?

dVerse quadrille prompt: bloom: write a poem of exactly 44 words and include the word “bloom.”

Stuck in Limbo

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There is nothing new under sun or stars, so 
bleak a plight we dread admit as much. 
Life’s meaning now on apathy depends;
and even that we scarcely rely upon.

A rose is a rose is a 
rose, especially if that rose is red,
primary on the color wheel,
predictable on barn or barrow.

You see it in our eyes, glazed 
over and toneless and done with
useless tears. Instead, we let rain
track our cheeks in sham rills of water. 

There’s nothing to do now but sit beside 
old memories: books with cracked spines, the
way new snow once appeared impossibly white,
and the cackled surprise of egg-laying chickens.


It’s the last day of National/Global Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). I’m taking today’s prompt from dVerse, where we are challenged to write a Golden Shovel poem. The form:

*Choose a line from a poem that resonates with you.
*Build your poem so each line ends with a word from that line.
*Keep the words in order, forming the original line down the right margin.
*Let your poem move in its own direction.  Surprise us!
*Include attribution (after [poet])

The poem I chose was The Red WheelBarrow by William Carlos Williams. Since there are only sixteen words in the poem, I used the entire poem to form my own.

The Red Wheelbarrow, by William Carlos Williams*

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

*Source: The Collected Poems: Volume I 1909-1939 (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1938)

RESPECT

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On a wall near my kitchen hangs a whiteboard, a space for grandkids to draw or write or doodle. It also bears a list of household expectations in the form of an acrostic that spells RESPECT. 

In response to this week’s dVerse Poetics prompt on The Seven Grandfather teachings, I have expanded the acrostic, adding haiku (or haiku adjacent 5-7-5’s) to reflect on each point. Herewith: RESPECT.

Respond when spoken to.

    nocturnal creatures
    turn skyward their plaintive calls
    answered by the night
	
Exhale, don’t explode.

    fire breathes hot and harsh
    wind goads it into fury
    water stills the breath	

Share

    sun shines and rain falls
    life-sustaining to us all
    flowers do not hoard

Politeness

    Wildlife etiquette?
    Was the lion ever told
    “Chew with your mouth closed?”
	
Expect good things

    each spring life unfolds
    hibernators search out food
    seedlings seek the sun

Contribute

    fast dive, talons splayed
    the prey snagged and now airborne
    there are mouths to feed

Tell the truth

    “Who?” asks the barred owl.
    “Me, me, me,” says the catbird.	
    Northern flicker laughs.

untended

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The hedgerow of knee-high slender saplings
now towers and spreads with abandon.

No longer sure of myself but –  faint and insistent – 
do I hear knocking at the door?

I should have known, of course it wasn’t;
just a large crow, pecking bugs out of the gutter.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Twenty-Eight prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: 

Victoria Chang’s poem, “The Lovers,” is short and somewhat shocking, bringing us quickly from a near-hallucinatory descriptive statement to a strange sort of question, before ending on the very direct statement of a “truth.” Six lines, three sentences, and to top it off, a title that I think works for the poem but is only obliquely related to its text. Today, try writing a poem that follows the same beats: three sentences, six lines: statement, question, conclusion.

In Others’ Words

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How to make a stained glass panel. 
It’s like falling off a log:
practice makes perfect!

Make a pattern for your pieces. Otherwise,
If you fail to plan, plan to fail.
Hope for the best, but plan for the worst.

Select your glass,
half empty or half full.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Remember, the glass is
always greener on the other side.
Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.

Cut the glass.
measure once, cut twice.
If it ain’t broke, fix it.

Solder the pieces together.
Strike while the iron is hot.
A pane is only as strong as its weakest link.

Clean the glass panel.
Cleanliness is next to godliness.
The squeaky glass gets the streaks.

Hang your panel in a safe place.
People who live in glassed houses
should not throw stones.

Admire your work.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
All’s well that ends well.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Twenty-Seven prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: Start by reading Robert Fillman’s poem, “There should always be two.” Now, write your own poem in which all the verses contain the same number of lines (whether couplets, triplets, quatrains, etc.) and in which you give the reader instructions of some kind.

Cat and Mouse

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Snoozing on the back of the sofa,
one eye just a slit open to surveil,
and I see it: movement, a streak of color.

In a snap, I’m wide awake, muscles tensed,
prepared to pounce. 
I’m a missile, flying through the air.
Direct hit! I have it pinned beneath my paws,
squirming and squeaking.

I bat it around, let it free, then catch it again;
toss it in the air, even take a little nip 
to see how it tastes. 

Then suddenly it goes silent and limp.
I poke at it, but it doesn’t move.
Well, that’s no fun.

I turn away and focus on paw licking and
whisker grooming, but there it is again! 
That blur of motion. I swing around, but 
all I see is a scrawny tail slipping through
a crack in the wall. 

And this, you see, is how I write poetry,
chasing ideas as they scurry by,
pouncing on furry little words,
chewing them to see if they taste right.

Sometimes I fuss with the lines too much,
and they die right there on the paper.
Sometimes I think I’ve got the perfect phrase
pinned to the page, but it slips away and disappears.

But there are other times when it’s a clean catch,
when I finesse my prey into a perfect, plump little gift
that I proudly lay at your feet, confident of the
appreciation and praise it will garner. 

And then I –  warrior of words, slayer of syntax – 
strike out in search of another poem to wrestle.
And that, you see, is why I write poetry.

It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Day Twenty-Six prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem giving the reader some insight into what keeps you writing poetry, or what you think poetry should do.