STORY OF A TREE

Weekly Scribblings and we're asked to feature trees.  I have always looked at a weathered old tree and wondered at the story it might tell.  My poem is inspired by Wallace Stevens "13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird".  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United  March 31, 2021

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STORY OF A TREE

                  It falls from high,

                        small, brown, inconspicuous,  

                     containing promise of mighty oak

                        A seedling,

            young roots seeking sustenance

                growing strong and tall

                                 fulfilling destiny

              Shield from summer sun  

                             dappled shade

on cool, green grass.

                 Natives gather beneath

                   dense leaves provide shelter

                       from summer storm

Feathered inhabitants

find welcome homes

and raise voices in song

Now standing sentinel

beside pioneer cabin

amid fresh young dreams.

The child swings

from sturdy limb

happy and secure

In soft rustles of night

a quiet “who who”

of resident owl

Taller still, rooted deep

scarred by time

cloaked in history.

Dressed in colors

glorious red

russet and gold

Now naked in winter winds

limbs akimbo

colors pooled below

Stark shadow cast on snow

like tentacles

seeking warmth

Now tinged with green

bursting with life anew

the cycle continues

                  

 

MORNING GLORIES AND GRAPES

Tuesday Poetics, and De has given us a laundry challenge for inspiration.  “Back in the day”, washing was on Monday and ironing on Tuesday, a schedule my mother honored without fail!  Times have certainly changed!  My thoughts turned to clothes lines for some odd reason.  Submitted to dVerse, March 30, 2021.

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Oddly, the challenge brought to my mind the clothes lines and not the laundry!   My first thought was of the beautiful morning glory vine that flourished on the clothes line pole at my grandmother’s house.  It was a vision to behold and impossible to ignore, since one was required to pass it on the way to and from the little outhouse with the half-moon window.  Next I thought of the grapevines that grew on the arbor beside my mother’s clothesline. The plump, deep purple clusters were a treat, once the clothes were taken down and placed in the clothes basket to be taken inside.  Aside from treats, many were destined for the jars of grape jelly in mother’s fruit cellar.  Another odd memory is of the winter laundry days when taking down the clothes included my father’s overalls, frozen stiff as if he were still inside them. 

SMOKY MOUNTAIN SPRING

 It's Haibun Monday, and Frank asks us to consider cherry blossom time , a favorite of poets.  There are several species of cherry trees, and I'm reminded of the wild cherry in the valleys of the Great Smoky Mountains.  Submitted to dVerse 3/29/21.

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SMOKY MOUNTAIN SPRING

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Deep in the valley where the shadows are long and the sun sips the morning dew from the wildflowers, the mists on the mountains give way to azure skies and puffy white clouds skid their way across the heavens. In the valley the wild cherry blooms, and on the hillsides the trees grow tall in their quest for the sun.  Its rays dapple the forest floor leaving warm pools of sunlight where small creatures scurry as their day begins and overhead the owl and the hawk eye them for their morning foray.  It’s a Spring morning in the Great Smoky Mountains and the ritual as old as time begins once again.  

mountains call my name

their ritual old as time

my spirit  refreshed once more

A TALE RETOLD

Writers' Pantry #63 and I've had a bit of fun with Little Red Riding Hood.  (I always like a happy ending!)   Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United March 28, 2021.

A TALE RETOLD 

The little girl with coat of red

Tucked in her basket a loaf of bread

Set off through the woods with a hop & a skip

She always enjoyed the forest trip

To her grandma’s house, all snug and warm

With never a thought of fear or harm.

The wolf himself was in the woods

Seeking his dinner and other goods

He stalked through the trees with heavy tread

Until he saw the coat of red.

She skipped so happily it warmed his heart

And he stopped in the mischief he’d thought to start.

Smiling to himself, he said

“I think I’ll not bother the girl in red.

It’s elsewhere I’ll look for what I seek

I’ll let her pass by with only a peek.

Her smile made for me a brighter day

So I’ll not bother her on her way

And so it is, and the rule is thus

What we give to others, comes back to us.

THE PLEA

The Sunday Muse #153   Inspired by some  words of Chief Seattle, a native American, and the image presented.   Submitted on March 27, 2021.

THE PLEA

Great Spirit, grant me the wings of an eagle 

whose feathers I hold to carry me above this 

white man’s cacophony.  There is no quiet here, 

no place to hear the sounds of small animals 

in the woods, the quiet call of the owl to his mate, 

the sound of breezes in the elms, fragrant and 

cleansed by gentle spring rains.  Once my people 

here were plentiful as the buffalo that roamed 

these plains, now all gone and replaced by these 

who have no care for Mother Earth.

  

Grant me wings, Great Spirit, to rise above it all.  

DANCE

 Wednesday Scribblings and we're challenged to feature DANCE.  My sympathies to Rommy at the loss of her dear friend.  My advanced years have occasioned me to experience such a loss many times over, and I well understand her grief.  Considering dance at different chapters of my life, my poem ends on a rather melancholy note.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United. March 24, 2021

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DANCE

Dance memories unfold

as if in a kaleidoscope...

The first awkward steps

at the school sock hop

Arthur Murray lessons

opening the door to happy

Miami nights of fun and

friendships explored

The first slow dance 

with the man I would marry

many dances following 

safe in his arms

The pain of watching others dance

after he was gone all too soon.

Longing for that safe feeling once more.

It’s no fun to dance alone

MOMENT IN TIME

Poetics Tuesday, and we're asked to consider ekphrastic inspiration.  I've chosen Gerhard Richter's abstract.  Immersing myself in its color takes me away.  I think I misunderstood the challenge, so this would be Part II, ekphrastic.   Submitted to dVerse, March 23, 2021 

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MOMENT IN TIME

Abstract celebration of color

taking me to breathtaking autumn

pristine silence of snowstorms

smell of green in Spring

colors in Mother's garden

ebony eyes of my grandchild

flaming colors of sunset

nuances of blue in skies

twinkle in my husband's eyes

I absorb myself in color

for this moment in time

EVENING CAMPFIRE

 Quardrille #124, and our word is "knot" or a form thereof.  The word takes me to an evening campfire, and peace settles all about.  Submitted to dVerse, March 22, 2021

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EVENING CAMPFIRE

fingers of flame reach skyward

scent of wood smoke soothes the senses

concerns of the day follow sparks aloft    

knotty wood burns long and best 

                   faint breeze rustles leaves overhead                   

somewhere in the shadows 

the fox is an interested observer   

      peace settles over all                

TREASURE

Writers' Pantry #62.  This is an excerpt from a poem I wrote as part of a short story some time ago.  As I look out my window on this beautiful, balmy, sunny first day of Spring I'm reminded of it, and the treasure we so often take for granted.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 21, 2021

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 Fiddle de dum, fiddle de dee

there's a secret to be told

to those who are seeking treasure

in search of a pot of gold.

In my lifetime there's a lesson I learned

riches aren't found in money

but in the wildflower meadow

where the bees collect their honey

Down the hill to the little creek

and the sound of its gurgling tones

as it flows ever so gently

over time-scarred and weathered stones

In the distant sight of birds on the wing

and the sound of their warbling trill

as they stop for lunch in the tangle

of blackberry vines just down the hill

Savor the colors that are yours to see

Grass so green and sky so blue

These are the treasures about us,

more than we ever knew. 

THE TEST

Sunday Muse #152  

 

                                                            Furrowed brow, steely eyes

                                                            Maybe motivated, maybe wise

                                                            Missing two important components

                                                            Noticed early in a few scarce moments

                                                            Absent are all-important eye twinkles

                                                            Lacking as well must-have laugh wrinkles

                                                            Even though you’re pretty to see

                                                            You’re simply not the guy for me. 

SELF ANALYSIS

 Open Link at dVerse, when we post a poem of our choice, new or old.  Mine is a new poem filled with old things!  Submitted March 18, 2021

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                                                    Nazca lines and Angkor Wat

                                                    Circled stones, hallowed spot

                                                    Petroglyphs on sandstone cliffs

                                                    Oceans hiding sunken ships

                                                    Pyramids in desert clime

                                                    Hiding secrets old as time

                                                    Signs of men who’ve come and gone

                                                     Leaving their footprints as time moves on

                                                     Dreams achieved and dreams defeated

                                                    History made and history repeated.

                                                    Time to ponder and search my heart

                                                     What have I done to do my part?

THE JOURNEY

Poetics Tuesday and Kim has challenged us to write a metaphor for being human that begins with the wrds "This being human is ..."   Submitted to dVerse, March 16, 2021

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This being human is like the rock 

that breaks from the face of a 

mountaintop, landing in the stream below. 

Well-defined, shiny and sharp-edged, 

uniquely formed like no other, it begins its

journey to the valley below, gathering 

green moss from the sparkling waters, 

unaware of the rapids that lie ahead. 

The waters grow deep, sometimes murky

 but ever pushing it on its downward 

journey.  Tumbling, bruised and battered, 

its sharp edges grow smoothened and polished. 

It arrives in the valley, at last honed and pristine, 

aged from its journey, and. if it’s a lucky rock, 

enjoys a quiet time to bask in sunshine and revel 

that it survived the trip.  

RAINY DAYS

Writers' Pantry #61...Rainy days always take me back to the rainy days of childhood, still vivid in my mind.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 14, 2021

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“Rainy days and Mondays always get me down”, but not me!  As early as I can remember, I’ve loved rain.  In our part of the Illinois prairie, you could see the spring rain clouds building from miles away over the vast flatness, their skirts billowed out like great clucking mother hens.  By the time they reached the far edge of the corn field beside the house, you could see the leading edge of the curtain of rain.  The distant patter on the corn leaves crescendoed to a wonderful rat-a-tat as the first big splats set off spurts of dust in the barnyard.  Ah, the wonderful earthy, fresh, sweet smell of rain!  

Summer storms were wonderful too.  Sometimes the distant sky turned almost black, the clouds rolling and tumbling, shaking themselves free of lightning bolts that arced to earth over the dark green field, the distant rumbling thunder building to bone-jarring cracks that accompanied spectacular electrical displays as the storm moved overhead.  Majestic.  Magnificent.  I don’t remember fear, only awe, and somehow reassurance that I was part of a greater scheme of things.  While I’ve lived my adult life in cities, rainy days always take me back to those prairie rains. 

FOX TALES

 The Sunday Muse #151.  Isn't that just like a man?  Just as we're approaching summer, he's leaping back into winter.   I considered some Photoshop chicanery to get him headed in the right direction, but then decided he deserved whatever he got!  Submitted March 13, 2021

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ah, the folly of foxy fellows

gamboling gaily on lazy summer days

she succumbed to his devilish charm

believing their love would last forever

but summer waned,  and so did he

with scarcely the flash of his magnificent tail

he leaped off in a cloud of good intentions.....

to find himself, he promised

but she and the kits knew

himself was ever a liaison away

populating the prairie 

SEGUIDILLA

Grace has presented a new and different format called a Seguidilla, the restrictions of which were a bit beyond me, I fear.   Submitted to dVerse 3/11/2021 .

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SEGUIDILLA

How can my words be tailored

To fit the detailed

Demand of minutiae

Excruciating

Savoring springtime

I rise to the occasion

Jubilant am I 

 

SCARRED

 Wednesday Scribblings, and Magaly asks us to consider broken relationships in this week’s scribblings….a painful place to visit.  I leave it to the reader to decide whether "the girl" is fact or fiction.  Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 20, 2021

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The girl managed to reach the age of 45, still filled with blind trust, somehow never encountering duplicity and deceit nor expecting it.  How devastating was the deception and how overwhelming the knowing she was the last to know the betrayal of her trust.  Slowly, methodically rebuilding self-esteem, she ultimately became a wiser woman, but sadly never again  so open-hearted and trusting. The girl guards well a part of her self, vowing never to be betrayed again.  If you met the girl today, you would think her a strong and self-confident woman.  You would not know she carries within the deep and lasting scar.  

TRAVEL COMPANION

Tuesday Poetics, and we’re to write a verse epistle, the subject to be our choice.   My choice is personal and heartfelt.  Submitted to dVerse, March 8, 2021.

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My dear one, my hero in blue~~

You carry me where I wish to go.

We enjoy our solitude, you and I

and yet our togetherness brings us joy.

Together we  savour country lanes,

visits to deserted cemeteries,

quaint villages and shops filled with  ephemera.

Our camaraderie improves with the years.

We both ripen with age, like fine wine.

If  I have not remembered to tell you

I tell you now,--- your faithfulness enriches me.

Of them all, you are my stouthearted favorite~~

my own dependable, reliable Buick LeSabre !

BORN TO FLY

 It's Quadrille Monday, and the word of the week is inspired by the arrival of the swifts in Spring in the UK.  Our word is "swift", and our poem is limited to exactly 44 words. There is biblical reference to swallows/swifts. who are said to have appeared and removed the thorns from Jesus' crown.   Submitted to dVerse, March 8, 2021

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swift as an arrow on the fly

dipping and darting

lark high and free wheeling

on a tide-looped journey 

seeking love and dinner    

on the wing 

scarcely time 

for the mud castle

            and the family               

born to fly, 

born to fly

born to fly

REALITY

Writers' Pantry #150. Sometimes dreams are so vivid we don't want to wake up. I had such a one last night. It was wonderful being young again.....if only for the moment! Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United, March 7, 2021 *****************************

I was walking 

down the street 

on a sunny day 

striding along 

full of youthful 

 exuberance.

 I saw my reflection 

in the shop window--

 back arrow straight 

butt tucked 

stomach in 

chest out.

 I owned the world! 

 Then I woke up.....

well, damn!

MYSTERY

The Sunday Muse #150, and we're inspired by a photo filled with mystery.  Submitted March 7, 2021

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 A time capsule with mystery left unsolved. Whose fingers last touched the keys, and did they know they would be the last?  When music filled the house, who descended the stair?  Did they know it was the last time?  Did they leave together, the musician and the listener, lock the door and walk away leaving the stage set for supposition by some anonymous descendant who now holds the key?  Do their spirits lurk in the dust motes in the sun's rays through the shuttered window?  Will the secrets be divulged?

PANDEMICITIS

 Weekly Scribblings features some phrases from the Broadway Musical “Hamilton”, the story  of one of our founding fathers, and  a view of American politics at the time of the American Revolution.   My random thoughts about the pandemic feature options #3 and #4.

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”Talk less. Smile more”, is a phrase hardly applicable to our pandemic times.   The wearing of a mask leaves us only the eyes to signal a smile, and renders talk to a muffled  monotone.   The problem, however, is not problematic, since we are closeted in our homes and discouraged human contact.   Life, devoid of  human touch . leaves us longing for a simple handshake, a pat on the shoulder, and desperate for a hug,  We order our groceries and shop on line, bank at the drive-up window and, for a large part of our female population, discover our hair has turned gray under the tint that has become our norm for more years than we care to count.   As for the gentlemen, no trips to the barber result in drastically different and sometimes bizarre coiffures.  Our iPhone and iPad become our closest friends, and it is not difficult to believe “dying is easy, living is hard".

ABYSS

 It's Tuesday Poetics and we're asked to consider Edges and Fringes.   I choose option  #1.To use"edge" in my poem.  Submitted to dVerse, March 2, 2021.

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We have

Come

To the

Edge of

This thing

We called 

Love.

The abyss

Is all

Too great.

I can

No longer

Cling to

My

Perch.

MEMORY LANE

 Haibun Monday and we’re asked to take a “walk down memory lane” and share some of our memories,  I tried to restrain myself, but I could have written pages and pages about life as it was then in our part of middle Illinois. Submitted to dVerse, March 1, 2021

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My memories centered around the little farm which was home until I left for business college.  In the middle of the vast flat corn belt of Illinois, our little farm consisted of a red barn, a corn crib, a machine shed, a chicken house, and a garage.  My father was a tenant farmer on the 80 acres that comprised the farm.  Our nearest neighbors were all half a mile away. Mother raised chickens and sold eggs, we had a half dozen milk cows and sold milk. Mother’s large garden provided virtually all our needs.  Trips to the grocery were for sugar, flour, coffee and little else,  

The downstairs was divided into four room.  In the kitchen, Mother‘s cob-burning cook stove stood at one end, a cabinet, a sink with a hand pump which pumped water from the cistern which was used only for washing dishes, and bathing. Water for cooking was brought in from the well in the front yard.  There was barely room for a small table.  Next was the dining room which had a large table for company, a stove, a console radio, and a rocking chair for each of my parents.  The other two rooms consisted of a guest bedroom, which was rarely used, and a parlor, which was used only when we had guests.  

There were two bedrooms upstairs and no heat!  In winter, mother would heat flat irons on the stove, wrap them in a piece of old blanket and put them in the foot of our beds.  Going to bed was a quick trip up the cold stairs, climbing under a mountain of covers, and placing my feet on the warm spot provided by the wrapped iron.  Should nature call, there was a chamber pot under the bed.  I guess we were poor, but all our neighbors lived in like circumstance.  Social life centered around our one-room school and the little country Methodist church about a mile away.  Life was much as described by Laura Ingalls Wilder in “Little House on the Prairie”.  I have fond memories of being loved and happy.  

down memory lane

little was necessary

life was so simple