tear gas, shattered glass;
bloodshed, no shred of honor.
Winter in my soul.
capitol
3
Category Archives: poetry
Retirement Home
I’m going to build a solid house, Good bones to frame it straight and true Upon which fasten seasoned boards The outside elements to subdue. It shan’t be graced with gingerbread that merely mildews in the rain, or gargoyles leering overhead evincing darkness and disdain. A simple plan as fits my taste, I aim to please no one but me. One needn’t look for blemishes. I’ll know they’re there; I’ll let them be. My house will stand the tests of time Clean lines that age but loathe to stray, With understated grace and strength to see me through my final days.
Today’s dVerse poetry prompt, as posed by sarahsouthwest: “I’d like you to look back over the last year and choose a poem that calls to you, and write a response to that.”
I chose a poem by Elizabeth Crawford Yates, a local poet who published in the 1950s. Her poem, “To a Time-Grayed House,” struck me in that she ascribes the aging process with “dread and wistfulness.” As I celebrate my 60th year on this planet, I don’t dread growing old nor do I pine for those long-lost days of youth. I do want to age gracefully though, and maintain my health as best I can. And so, the poem above was my response to this:
TO A TIME-GRAYED HOUSE Though you may stare with dread and wistfulness At youthful cottage and its sleek white dress, Remember this. Too soon, that one may be A peeling thing, with shaken masonry. Elizabeth Crawford Yates from her book Wind Carvings (copyright 1953)
restoration
The idea of the new landscape undertaking was to plant only native species and ultimately do away with all conventional lawn surrounding my house. I began with my side yard, covering the grass and weeds with cardboard and spreading layers of wood chips over that. The scrawny “twigs” of bare root shrub and tree plantings I obtained from the soil and water conservation district barely looked alive. By the time I finished prepping and planting, my side yard resembled a miniature clear cut logging site. Not auspicious.
As the year progressed, some plants grew and blossomed, some appeared to die down and later surprised me with renewed growth, and some just flat out died. A work in progress, for sure, but it’s always fascinating to step around the corner of my house and see how my project is unfolding.
Can nature restore what my predecessors spent centuries grooming to our vain human whims? And will my tenth of an acre make a difference in the grand scheme of wildlife preservation? I don’t know, but… it’s a beginning.
bare root crab apple first autumn foliage drops mere inches to ground
meditation: day one
I sit to center.
First realization: I
cannot discern plumb.
Nightfall
autumn dusk falls fast
last the viewer now the viewed
time to draw the shades
foul weather
smoke-laced crisp fall fog
like aftertastes of apple
when the half-worm shows
Poetic Injustice
Justice is blind, though
inherently judgmental.
My verdict awaits.
COVID culls with dispassion
guilty and guileless alike.
dVerse MTB: Jisei (Japanese Death Poems)
Separations
wheat from chaff
gold flakes from silt
truth from lies
me from you
dVerse poets poetics: Wheat
Blue B’s
Beautiful blooming bluefields bounce, bob, bow.
Balmy breezes brush by,
blowing… bending.
Blue blossoms balance
atop tall, slender green stalks.
Buzzing, boisterous bees; bumbling busy bugs
bombard bevies of burgeoning blue bouquets.
Bad-ass bayoneted bottoms belie
beneficial blending
of pollen dust on golden legs.
Room to Think
“Welcome to my house!” The little boy pulls aside a low hanging branch and gestures into the shadow of an old growth cedar tree.
“What a lovely home!” I look around the imaginary room: the evergreen walls, the mossy drapes, the soft carpet of aromatic brown needles. The boy grins.
“And that’s your house over there!” He points to another tree, and then to a fallen limb. “And this is your thinking bench.”
“My thinking bench?”
“Yes. When you want to think about things, you can come out here and sit on this bench.” I sit on the limb and marvel at this three-year-old’s creativity, and it occurs to me that every home could likely benefit from a thinking bench. See? It’s got me thinking already.
roughhewn cedar bench
space to breathe unfinished thoughts
warm breeze stirs the mind
What Rhymes with Stanza? 