“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
Low clouds loom, dooming twilight
into gloom, dusk into the blackness of a hidden-moon
nocturnal tomb.
Garish winds grow more incessant,
effervescent, iridescent;
raging, though irrelevant as I
insist on lingering, beneath the skies that ravage me;
notwithstanding tendencies to
gravitate toward calmer seas.
With July’s record-breaking high temperatures here, it’s been frustrating and – truth be told – rather depressing to watch flowers in my native plant garden wilt before reaching full bloom and then turn end-of-summer brown without setting seeds.
What happens, I wonder, if annuals can’t reseed themselves? What happens if birds and other critters have no seeds to tide them through the coming winter? What happens when spring pollinators show up and find but a few flowers to feed upon?
I do what I can for my small domain. I water the roots of my plants; can’t do much for the sunburned leaves. This fall I will plant more natives. In the winter I will feed the birds. Next spring, I will build a fountain of some sort to provide reliable water for thirsty creatures passing through my yard.
Sometimes my efforts feel quite satisfying, like I’m giving back to the planet. Lately, it just feels like someone trying to extinguish a forest fire with spit.
leather brown leaves curled
fists shaking at the August sun
give us a reprieve
The first day of summer dawns hot and dry; not like it used to here in the moderate Pacific Northwest of my youth. The air outside is stifling, so I stay indoors listening to the hum of the fan and worrying about the young plants in my nature garden. The shrubs and berries and grasses – all native to this area – are not supposed to need supplemental watering because they are acclimated to thrive in their natural environment.
But this climate, altered to unnatural heat and drought, is not what Mother Nature signed on for when she gave us the delicate mosses and ferns, the soft evergreen needles, the supple, shiny leaves of shrubs like snowbrush and Oregon grape.
This evening a breeze will pick up and give at least the illusion of coolness to the air. I will visit the garden to make sure the ladybugs, bees and butterflies have water in the little pool I made for them. And I will utter an apology on behalf of my species for the damages this planet has endured. The rain, when it comes, will be happily welcomed.
Imperceptibly,
summer solstice pendulum
pauses, shifts, recedes.
Smudging windows with your nose,
Marring floors with dirty toes,
Shedding on the furniture,
Crud you’ve rolled in cakes your fur.
Snoring, scratching, snorts and whines,
Odors one cannot define,
So many things best left unsaid,
For now, it’s late. Hop in my bed.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 