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.
I did not see a groundhog yesterday, shadowed or otherwise. Nor did I see my own shadow. I stayed inside, shying from the cold and wind and rain.
My doggo, on the other hand, made several forays around the fenced yard, but did not report back on what critters or what shadows he may have encountered. He usually plays things close to his vest that way. A pup of many barks, but few words.
More winter, or early spring? I must wait and see.
earliest of blooms
dandelions tucked beneath
unmown grass shadows
In my cell I’m imprisoned,
I touch no one, none touch me.
Defined by this rectangle
beyond which I cannot see.
There are others: I can sense them
just beyond periphery.
If we’d only lift our eyes
from our cell phones we’d be free.
It is the autumn equinox, where light and dark balance equally for a day before the scale tips to favor longer and longer nights.
Two days post surgery to repair a detached retina, I am sporting a bulky protective eye patch, my field of vision impaired to half light and half dark. I trust that this scale will tip toward the light as my vision is restored.
There are so many cycles in nature and life, ebbing and flowing, waxing and waning. I am thankful for all that I see.
two parts make a whole
dawn to dusk, then dusk to dawn
in perfect balance
In response to dVerse haibun Monday: Equinox.
“Crabs in a bucket.”
Anthropomorphized with ill intent,
they pull one another down
such that none escapes
ahead of another.
People in boxes.
We stereotype and generalize,
avoiding the rigors of thoughtful discernment.
Outside of buckets, crabs cooperate.
Without boxes, how might people be?
Yesterday’s poetry prompt over at the dVerse blog was to revisit the poems we wrote last year, and using the very first line of 11 poems (one chosen from each of the first 11 months of the year), combine them to make a new poem. The title of the poem is to be the first line from a poem written in December.
Since I barely wrote more than 11 poems, there wasn’t much (any) choice of lines to select. Hence, I humbly present my “found” poem:
Winter Resolve Reigns
When first we breached primordial ooze.
April buds curling
New buds dripping cold rain
Little cherub on mama’s lap
Sweet Violets in the garden grow.
It’s been a dry summer.
Cut boards apart, then reassemble.
Whose parking lot, I have no clue.
A lazy rain beat symphony
Boots sinking deep in mud-browned melting snow
Oh, to yet be young
The full set of rules for this particular writing challenge:
Poem Style:
• write a ‘Found’ poem from your own Jan-November 2023 poems
• write it as an 11 line list/catalog poem
OR
an 11 line verse poem (with or without stanzas)Poem Structure:
• choose from one poem per month
• select ONLY the first line of the very first verse of your chosen poems
• select your title from the 12th month or any of the previous months’ first lines
• if you’ve posted less than one poem per month for Jan-Nov 2023 then choose a month where there is more than one to make up the 11Poem Rules:
• your 11 lines can be written in any date order
• you must keep the original word order
• you may only change the tense or personal pronouns
• you may add a conjunction or a preposition for continuity
• minor erasure at start or end of the original line is allowed
• enjambment can be helpful
I had two useable lines left over:
Shall I compare thee to an iced latte?
and
A pig, a dentist and a cup of hot spiced wine.
I think I chose wisely.
Note to self: write more poetry this year.
Well, it’s been awhile, hasn’t it? But here I am, back in Stanza-land, and what better way to come back than a writing prompt from the folks at dVerse? Today, Sarah challenges us to choose from a number of paintings by artist Lee Madgwick, and use the painting as inspiration for an original poem.
I will post the painting below, but first, the poem.
Murmuration:
NPR.org
Murmuration refers to the phenomenon that results when hundreds, sometimes thousands, of starlings fly in swooping, intricately coordinated patterns through the sky.
Murmur, murmur, murmuration.
Endless swirling iterations.
By what compelled? No explanation.
I won’t venture speculation.
Like pointillistic illustration,
a thousandfold their compilation.
As one they dance their presentation,
and none claim “leader” designation.
At dusk they merge, no hesitations;
mingling, calling salutations.
This roiling mass staves off predation
as they scope night’s destination.
Starling flock cooperation;
flights that defy computation.
I murmur my appreciation.
Murmur, murmur, murmuration.
Careening go I to the depths of my soul
To deliberate questions upon me bestowed.
Ponderous options, I’m bowed with the weight.
Considerations not dared left to fate.
The myriad choices, I –
“Ma’am? Your decision?”
“Chocolate. No. Vanilla. No. A scoop of each, please!”
Pulling my truck to the side of the road, I double check my navigation app. Did it really mean for me to leave the highway and head up this steep and narrow hairpin road, where trees are flocked by snow flurries that continue to assail my windshield? I check the gas gauge. Not full, but enough. I hope.
I drive cautiously. The road is clear for now, but I continue to ascend, and the skies continue to darken. Jones Pass. Good, I think, as the road dips down. But a few more curves and we’re headed up again. Willow Creek Pass. Am I just zigzagging among the mountain range summits?
The compass shows I’m heading northwest for the most part, which is ultimately the direction of my intended destination. I grip the steering wheel and continue on. After all, I ask myself, what’s the worst that could happen?
toward the summit
where air thins and fear thickens
winter hastens in
I open my stats page, already knowing I’ll see lots of blank spots on the calendar that indicates whether I’ve posted to my blog on any given day. It’s been a dry summer, weatherwise and creative writing-wise.
Now the autumn rains are here and my garden projects are on hold. It’s a good time to write. But I need to replace the splintered door frame in the garage. I need to dust the wall-to-wall bookshelves. I need to brush the tangles out of my dog’s wet fur.
I know it will come soon; that irresistible pull toward pen and paper; that need to harvest the thoughts that have been ripening over the summer. My computer dings with an email alert: a writing prompt from dVerse. I fire up the word processor and my mind wanders, far away from doors and dust and wet dog smells.
lock the garden shed
leaves drop like unfinished thoughts
time to introspect
What Rhymes with Stanza? 