“I wonder if I – “
“It wouldn’t work.”
“But what if – “
“You can’t. No training; no expertise.”
“But – “
“Can’t afford it.”
“I’m curious,” I say. “Do you even know
what we’re talking about?”
He glances up from the newspaper.
“Does it matter?”
As my native habitat garden takes shape, I’ve been drawn to it almost daily. In the wet fall I checked for problematic standing water at the base of the young crabapple tree and marveled at the resilience of rain-battered kinnikinnick. In winter I fretted over snow-covered Oregon grape and ice-encased flowering currant.
As spring unfolded, I searched bare twigs for the slightest hint of green, watched tiny sprigs rise from the ground and swell into verdant foliage; and now – finally – flowers are maturing, bugs are pollinating and wild strawberries are sending out runners to claim yet more ground.
I always considered autumn to be my favorite season with its crisp rain-filtered air, crunchy carpets of fallen leaves and trees dressed in flame-inspired palettes. Now, I believe my favorite season is whichever currently holds sway over my everchanging garden.
lupines point skyward
blooming flower moon beckons
who will eclipse whom?
For dVerse poets Haibun Monday: flower moon.
[to the Tune of the Tennessee Waltz (two-three) (one-two and-a)] When I was Seventeen High school band Agony Playing the French horn, you See (two-three), (one-two) while the Rest of the Instruments Soared with the Melody I got the Slow after- Beats (two-three) (one-two). Chorus: I re- Member the Days in the Stuffy band Room as the Teacher's baTon counted Three (two-three) (one-two) I would Wait for that Moment when my French horn would Shine as I Sweetly played Two after- Beats (two-three) (one-two) instru- Mental interLude here. Find your Horn, play aLong dear, and Soon you will See what I Mean (two-three) (one-two). If you're Lost in the Melody Listen for Me and I’ll Carry you Through to the End (two-three) (one-two). Oh the Waltz would start Playing with the Saxophones Braying, the Oboe would Try to com- Pete (two-three) (one-two). Clari- Netists’ reeds Squeaked as the Flautist's breath Peaked, and the Trombones’ spit Rattled and Leaked (two-three) (one-two). Chorus: I re- Member the Days in the Stuffy band Room as the Teacher's baTon counted Three (two-three) (one-two) I would Wait for that Moment when my French horn would Shine as I Sweetly played Two after- Beats (two-three) (one).
dVerse poetics: Meet the Bar ~ Waltzing
The morning is spent, and me with it.
Hours of pulling weeds, spreading wood chips,
planning which shrubs to transplant where…
Some call it gardening.
It’s blatant manipulation, really;
rearranging earth’s flora to satisfy human aesthetic.
From my chair on the porch, I look skyward.
“Ah,” muse has joined me. “The sky is yours to ponder.”
I ponder muse instead. “The sky is mine?”
A scrub jay has been eavesdropping.
REE REE REALLY!?! his strident call inquires.
He flits away, a blue blur among green leaves.
WHO WHOOO WHO, questions a collared dove
from a tree further distant.
Who says the sky is yours?
I glare at muse. “See what you started?”
A lone grey pigeon cuts expanding circles above.
Owning the sky, eh, muse?
Usually, the homing pigeons fly in multiples.
Raised by a neighbor, I am told,
who lets them out regularly for exercise.
Are they his, I wonder? Or does he – in reality –
manipulate earth’s fauna for human enjoyment?
In the course of fifteen minutes three jets have passed overhead,
marring the bright blue sky with jagged white contrails.
Two big crows eye me from a nearby fence.
“No,” I sigh. “The sky is not ours.”
We just pollute earth’s elements for human convenience.
I’ve pondered enough. I’m going inside.
“The sky is mine,” I scoff, shaking my head.
“– to ponder… I said ‘to ponder’,” muse mutters.
“It was just a thought that struck me, like — out of the blue.”
“Tell that to the birds,” I say.
Back in November of 2018, I discovered the joys of magnet poetry, and this website that facilitates playing (poeming?) online. I have a vague recollection that I was so excited, I committed to writing a magnet poem at least once a month. That lasted exactly two months.
So I’m recommitting to, uh, at least one more poem. Since 2018, they’ve added the option of choosing specific topics, and so the words that are “drawn” are easier to turn into something cohesive. For this poem, I used the “nature” option.
Breathe as the ancient forest.
Follow every warm wind.
Shine like a wandering soul,
and the rest is but a song.
Check out the link above and play along.
Today’s poetry challenge at dVerse is to write a palinode. As host Grace explains:
A palinode or palinody is an ode or song that retracts or recants a view or sentiment to what the poet wrote in a previous poem... The writing challenge is to write a palinode. This can be in relation to a poem you have written before (please link or include prior poem)...
Whose legs these are I think I know;
Encased in jeans all winter, though.
Today I’ll shave, first time this year!
The spring reveal: legs white as snow.
These legs of mine I will not show
Although it’s spring, it’s way too cold.
I’ll not yet shave as legs with hair
Are warmer than when they are bare.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 