What is in a name?
Why, red flowering currant,
are your blossoms white?
diversity
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Category Archives: nature
Horizontal Rain
It blusters, it billows,
the rain comes in droves.
It's typical winter
on the north Oregon coast.
No point in umbrellas,
The wind is a beast;
shreds the cloth with its talons,
snaps the ribs in its teeth.
The rain hits you sideways
soaking deep to the skin,
but springtime comes swiftly
to atone winter's sins.
Now the rain’s slightly warmer
when it slaps at your face.
Umbrellas still useless
as the winds keep their pace.
You can spot season’s changes:
birds perched high lest they drown,
and the newly sprung flowers
soon blown flat to the ground.
It blusters, it billows,
the rain comes in droves.
It's a typical spring day
on the north Oregon coast.
It’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!
Day Four prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: craft [a] short poem that involves a weather phenomenon and some aspect of the season. Try using rhyme and keeping your lines of roughly even length.
Beauty in the Eye of the Eyesore
“Your yard gets a lot of attention from my visitors!” my neighbor calls from the edge of her manicured lawn. I survey my property, a burgeoning habitat for native plants and the native critters that feed upon them.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Someone recently asked me if I was letting the yard go wild to reduce my property taxes.”
My neighbor laughs, and then admits the nature of the “attention” to which she had alluded.
“My visitors ask, ‘Does she mean for her yard to look that way?’ ‘She’s planting all that brush intentionally?’”
bear grass and buckbrush,
coyote bush and deer fern…
and skunk cabbage? Please!
I wonder if those are the thoughts of visitors or of my neighbor, or maybe of all who see my native landscaping. So be it. I settle into the rocking chair on my back porch and watch bees – legs plump with pollen – buzz through the California poppies. Ladybugs dine on aphids among the large-leaved lupines, and a pair of mourning doves peck for seeds beneath a clump of prairie june grass.
summer solstice nears
farewell-to-spring’s pink petals
blossoming on cue
Fleeting Blossoms
While walking through the park, my dog Chules and I pause at an apple tree. I am drawn to the white-pink blossoms and the bees that float among them. Chules is more intrigued by the base of the trunk, and the invisible messages left there by other dogs. He lifts his leg and adds his own note to the trunk.
cherry blossoms wane
pink petals carpet the ground
apple tree looks on
Day 29 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). In response to dVerse prompt: Haibun Monday: late cherry blossoms.
Read the Signs
Day 26 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) .
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a sonnet. The strict rules of sonnets:
- 14 lines
- 10 syllables per line
- Those syllables are divided into five iambic feet. (An iamb is an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable).
- Rhyme schemes vary, but the Shakespearian sonnet is abab cdcd efef gg (three quatrains followed by a concluding couplet).
- Sonnets are often thought of as not just little songs, but little essays, with the first six-to-eight or so lines building up a problem, the next four-to-six discussing it, and the last two-to-four coming to a conclusion.
The “rules” are somewhat bendable, but I tried stay relatively true to the strict format. Herewith:
Sales Pitch (Read the Signs)
The sign says No Solicitors. You knock.
Beware the Dog that lunges at my door.
“The rats and piss ants this year run amok.”
You’ll slay them all. They’ll bother me no more.
A spider egg sac hangs upon the wall.
“A hundred spiderlings your home will fill.”
More likely to my garden they will crawl
to feast upon the bugs you wish to kill.
No rodents, bugs or crawlies bother me.
The poison’s “safe for pets,” you persevere.
My Wildlife Habitat sign plain to see;
No chemicals have touched my yard in years.
Your sales pitch failed, now please just go away.
My “pests” will live to see another day.
Bird Speak
Day 23 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a poem that focuses on birdsong. I wrote about birds, but not songbirds. Oh, well. Here ’tis:
Bird Speak
Scrub-jay squawks accusingly at me
from atop my backyard fence.
What offence I may have committed,
I do not know, but he’s got that
“you know what you did” tone.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you.”
Always a tricky situation. Do you
try to guess, and risk confessing to something
they didn’t even know you'd done? Do you
ask forgiveness, even though you don’t know for what?
Am I overthinking the meaning of this jay’s
strident vocalizations?
My dog Chules joins me on the deck, and the scrub jay
aims his admonishments at the pup.
Now I know he’s just making stuff up.
Chules is a good boy, and – while he’s been known to
chase some wildlife now and again –
he always gives them a good head start
lest he actually catch something.
Rather abruptly, scrub jay zips his beak, and
flits up into the canopy of the black walnut tree.
A large black crow swoops over my rooftop
and lands on the fence, inches from where the
jay had been holding court moments ago.
With one loud caw, he announces: there’s
a new corvid in town. I don’t see a badge,
but I won’t argue.
Chules and I are forgiven our sins, so long as
we don’t try to pull any of that crap on the crow.
Mind you, crow has no better idea of
our transgressions than Chules and I do.
We agree to his terms nonetheless.
Chules is tempted to run at the crow and scare him off the fence,
but thinks better of it when he remembers being previously
dive-bombed by said bird for just such behavior.
I go back to pulling weeds, and the scrub jay… well,
we likely won’t hear much from him for a while.
Pilgrim Ridge
Day 14 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:
try writing a poem that describes a place, particularly in terms of the animals, plants or other natural phenomena there. Sink into the sound of your location, and use a conversational tone. Incorporate slant rhymes (near or off-rhymes, like “angle” and “flamenco”) into your poem. And for an extra challenge – don’t reference birds or birdsong!
Here we go:
Pilgrim Ridge
Atop Pilgrim Ridge, miles from nowhere –
no, that’s not an apt description;
Nowhere is quite near, in fact it’s right here –
crisp, pure silence defies definition
until one acclimates to the endless sky,
the light savory air,
the rocky ground stubbled in dry
remains of early summer wildflowers.
Leaning into the silence, one begins to hear
the percussive opening of a breeze-soft symphony;
gentle crackling of seed pods, split as the sun bears
down, the shaker of seed shot falling to ground,
a brush-on-cymbal swish of grasses swaying together,
the guiro scrabble of chipmunks skittering up
skinny pines to hide in long-needled shelter.
And then the music ratchets up.
The chipmunks begin their cuíca scoldings.
Wind chimes low tones in the clustered trees,
now weaving. Grasses are folding in the
hot air. A steady push now; no longer a breeze.
Clouds scuttle in and the thunder drum shakes,
first slow and lumbering, then brash, a
crescendoing rumble
that ends with a lightning-bright quake,
and the diminuendo of tambourine rain.
Cuíca Sounds
Pink Moon
Day 13 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:
Donald Justice’s poem, “There is a gold light in certain old paintings,” plays with both art and music, and uses an interesting and (as far as I know) self-invented form. His six-line stanzas use lines of twelve syllables, and while they don’t use rhyme, they repeat end words. Specifically, the second and fourth line of each stanza repeat an end-word or syllable; the fifth and sixth lines also repeat their end-word or syllable. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that uses Justice’s invented form.
And so:
Pink Moon
April’s full moon – the Pink Moon – lights the sky tonight.
Its name evokes spring flowers: creeping phlox, moss pink.
Where I live the red flowering currant blooms now.
Amongst shrubs with still bare branches, a pop of pink.
I stepped outside to view the moon. It wasn’t there.
I’ll check later. Perhaps it’s neither here nor there.
Flowering currants are first to bloom in my yard
of native species. Osoberry comes on next.
Its small pale blossoms don’t make nearly the same splash.
Oregon grape blooms next, and then the next, and next.
The Pink Moon is not pink; the red currant blooms are.
I’d check again, but cat-in-lap says no, so here we are.
Wordless Wednesday (Western wallflower)
Image
first sighting
forest’s sodden duff
cedes to fragile trillium
spring will not be stayed
What Rhymes with Stanza? 