Sheer Poetry

K has an upcoming assignment for creative writing class to write three poems. She is a creative person - but doesn't lean toward writing, so this initially seemed impossible to her. I printed out two poems of mine so she could look at the structure and sort of get started by adapting that structure to her personal experiences. One was about being stressed - I'm entirely certain that a college student will be able to come up with a couple of stanzas of things that stress her!

Then, this week, she sent me a copy of her first poem. The professor had had them read an Ode, then copy that structure to write about their own experiences. I got a laugh out of that. Made me feel like a competent teacher! Her first effort was quite good, and she feels more capable of tackling the assignment, now.

Then I remember that she wrote one, ONE poem when she was in grade school. I saved it (of course I did) and was able to FIND it this morning (wow!) and sent it to her. I thought she'd get a kick out of that.

(I found it? I found it! I FOUND IT!!) hurrah for Me.

August peaches hanging heavy

Soft as down and sticky sweet

Large and small hands reach to take them

Pie and jam and cobbler make them

Fairest summer treat

Looks like it's not going to be a terrific year for our peaches - but if we get enough to make one more pie and some jam I'll be happy. If the BEAR will leave the darned tree alone! These photos were taken in prior years (including 2006 when I had a baby helping me)

(poetry by me, and I am random as heck when it comes to meter)

March

In March the beech stands brown and sere

Reminder of the prior year

While all the trees stand, every one

Attentive to the rising sun

Whose rays reach out and whisper clear:

Pay attention! Spring is here!

(my poetry) Happy March, everyone. I hope you all have a beautiful day.

Sandwich Generation

Technically I'm no longer the "sandwich generation"; however, as long as I am trying to cope with my father's farm cleanup and his belongings, I still feel slightly. Sandwich-y. So this poem continues to feel meaningful:

A whirl of fragmented thoughts circle

The pot roast has enough salt? What am I

Too many assignments, how can I keep up

His finances worry him, if he would just stop

Need to prep a lasagna, too, for the weekend

Company coming,

But the shower curtain just fell right down

Beans need picked in the garden, I should

I can’t get the shower curtain rod to stay up

Losing focus, what is even the first step?

Always dusty, no matter how often I

His homework, yes, but what about Hers?

Something is forgotten, what is it

Another bill, but I just paid

Some kind of green vegetable

Paid the car registration, but don’t have the

Where is it

What was I

So lonely

Lean my cheek against the top of her head

Feel the quiet purr more than hear it

A moment, Just a moment

Poem

"I AM NOT A POET," I state, definitively. The poem, ignoring me, continues to flutter around the inside of the car, battering the windshield and my head with its tiny wings. Exasperated, I pull over at the entrance to a seldom-used dirt road. If I don't give in and write the damned thing down, it will likely cause me to wreck.

They're tenuous these

spider strands, silken threads, flaxen fibers that

bind us across states and continents

across the sea a friendly firefly spark

Dutch denizen of flat fields and flowers

a red goddess of discord counterintuitively

loving forge, flame, and family

generous alchemist, daughter of east and west

mothers new, watching toddler steps, and

older, letting go of children grown

we water our plants and bitch about them

ducks and dogs or ivy-wrapt bones

shall I send you a rock?

a wild walker of mountains and trails

Mutuals

Beloved

"Are you bloody-well satisfied?" I ask the tiny shape. It settles onto the back of the envelope. Flicking its wings, testing the words on paper with unknowable sensors on its miniscule feet. Accepting them, it hmmms a clear note, then vanishes. I am not a poet. I just can't get the damned poems to leave me alone.

Member’s Show

   The Member’s Show at the local Arts Council is one of my favorite art events of the year. I get to see other members that I don’t see often.

   Each member can enter one piece, with no jurying (so the resulting show is Mixed to say the least!). I had very few things to chose from to enter, because I have not had much painting time the last two years. I did have a small, misty forest scene, though. My son struggled the opposite direction; he has a crazy number of photos and had a hard time figuring out which one to enter. He decided on this photo-manipulation of two different skies, and hopes to enter a grimmer, darker industrial photo into a juried show later in the year.

   I enjoyed attending the opening last evening, but there were many folks I hoped to see who were not in attendance (even though they had entered pieces). A retired animator friend had a big acrylic painting entered that was very dark (in color and theme) and (I thought) compelling, and completely different than his prior work. There was the expected wide range; pieces that were breathtaking and some that looked like the work of earnest 12-yr-olds. I looked all around and talked to the two people I know the best. One of them, a delightful extrovert, introduced me to several other folks. That is SUCH a helpful thing for an extrovert to do for an introvert. Introductions save lives (at least it feels that way!)

   The judge, as usual, made some batshit choices for the prizes. I am boggled every year. One of the pieces she singled out, though, was original poetry that was included in this art show by virtue of having been put in a frame. Somehow I had missed seeing it on my way around the room, so I went over. Sure enough, I recognized the name, a young man whose family I know just a bit. The poem was . .  so FAR beyond my expectations. Really an amazing piece. I read it through a couple of times. It probably won’t help at ALL if I tell you it was a very intense “conversation” between a person and an earthworm about how ‘important’ and well-regarded the person felt. As bonkers as that sounds - it was done so well that I had tears in my eyes. (In conclusion, it turned out that the person AND the earthworm were pretty important - but neither one felt appreciated by society at large)

   Some surprises at art shows are good ones. I located him amongst the throng of people, congratulated him sincerely, and headed out for home.

Remembering Hay

Shall I, like Shakespeare,

compare thee to a summer’s day?

Well, if I did, it would be one

when we were making hay

Dusk falls, machines shut down

and all the helpers leave

But in the barn that smells so good

Where once a boy and girl had stood

A man and woman cleave

Days and years will come and go

Gray hair comes creeping in so slow

But I remember a summer day

When you and I were making hay.

Trees of the Year

In January oaks stand tall

Defying winter storm and sleet

While hungry creatures forage on

The acorns scattered at their feet

 February, time of hunger

Fruits and nuts are precious few

But deep within the sap is rising

Hope for life to come anew

 In March the beech stands brown and sere

Reminder of the prior year

While all the trees stand, every one

Attentive to the rising sun

Whose rays reach out and whisper clear:

Pay attention! Spring is here!

    So, tree poetry. I tend to switch meter just because no one can stop me. The beech trees don’t lose all their fall leaves until the new buds are ready to open in the spring, so they’re very striking in the late winter sunshine.

Warning

   Things I didn’t know until fairly recently: The famous poem about wearing purple (by Jenny Joseph) is actually titled Warning. I’m sure I’ve read or heard that thing a hundred times, but I never knew the name until I wrote a parody of it based on my personal feelings on aging.

Ode to Warning!

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which, wait, screw that shit . .

I shall wear a purple velvet tunic

with a red lace bra that does fit me

Hot Damn and it doesn’t have to suit anyone but me.

Victoria has her secrets, after all.

I wouldn’t know what to do with a satin sandal but I’ll have good quality

cowboy boots and I’ll wear men’s jeans if I have to, but I will wear jeans.

I shall spend my pension money on new canvas and brushes and still live just fine;

when I sell the paintings people will get misty eyes and say “I wish I could paint like that.”

If they had spent forty years practicing, they could.

I’ve been sitting down on the ground when I’m tired for years.

I won’t run my stick along the railing ‘cause that’s a damned nuisance

but I will give you a good smack with it if I think you need one.

I will go out in the rain in my bare feet, and plant flowers in other peoples’ gardens.

I’ve been spitting for years, too. You can’t bale hay if you don’t spit.

I’m a great example for my children.

I’m teaching them to be themselves and care about other people,

Not be what other people want and care what other people think.

I think that I’ve been old since I was about three

And my mother wanted so much for me to behave like a lady

I behave like an old lady

And I wasn’t kidding about that stick.

Block the Bots

Open up and block the bots

Read my Tumblr mutuals’ thoughts

Learn how far Ukraine has got

Open Tumblr; block the bots

 Reviews of books I’ve never read

“But now I think I might,” I said

Color Theory Turning Red

Block some bots and shake my head

 Urban artwork on a wall

Thor and Loki (and Heimdall)

So many cats; I love them all

Block more bots; the fucking gall!

A. A. Milne

   Milne is SO famous for his Winnie the Pooh stories that his other writing gets eclipsed. I have a book with his other children’s poetry in it, though, and some of them are just as relevant today as they were a century ago.

“Pinkle Purr” is about motherhood, and if I have to cry from reading this, so do you.

The original illustrations for Milne’s work were done by Ernest H. Shepard, and they’re brilliant. If you’ve only ever seen the ‘Disney’ Pooh, you should check Shepard’s work out.