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.
“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
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.
You slip into the crook of my arm as I recline on the sofa, your diapered bottom cradled like a football. I can feel your body beneath my hand rise and fall with your breathing. You – most likely – can hear my heartbeat as your head rests peacefully on my chest. I could, I think, sit like this forever.
Budding hearts of spring.
All is new; life pulses through
Veins and vines and views.
______________________
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.
They are blooming now, the cherry blossoms. I see them on FaceBook and Istagram. I know they are across the river in city parks, and up the road six or seven miles in the neighborhood where I used to live.
But here in COVID times, I do not find myself across the river or up the road much. Not to worry, though. In my own back yard, however briefly they can withstand the March rains and wind, my flowering quince regale me with their fleeting blossoms.
Don’t blink! They fade fast.
yesterday’s blossoms become
today’s confetti
Don’t turn your head and dab your eyes.
Face square the scene, then raise your cries.
Such treachery we must defy,
prosecute and rectify.
The People’s House they desecrate.
Within its halls they defecate.
Seditious cowards’ acts of hate
true patriots will not tolerate.
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)
