LEND AN EAR

Open Link Night at dVerse, and Kim is
our gracious hostess.  She offers some thoughts
on listening, and shares the poem “The
Art of Listening” by Jonathan Drane.  It occurs
to me we might well pen one titled “The LOST Art
of Listening”. Here are my thoughts (in rhyme,
of course).
Submitted to dVerse
April 30, 2020
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all too often we listen
all too seldom we hear
we say “How are you”
the reply falls on deaf ear.

Mother Earth speaks
we block her wisdom
too selfish to care
we build our own prison

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From a speech by Chief Seattle of the Suquamish tribe:

"At night, when the streets of your cities and villages shall be silent, and you think them deserted, they will throng with the returning hosts that once filled and still love this beautiful land.....Even the rocks that seem to lie dumb as they swelter in the sun along the silent seashore in solemn grandeur thrill with memories of past events connected with the fate of my people, "

CHILD OF THE PRAIRIE

Wednesday Scribblings, and we’re to practice
the art of enjambment.   I am so entrenched in
poetry of rhyme and rhythm, and nicely completed
thought on each line I find it difficult to
enjamb!   I will, however, give it a try.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 29, 2020

Freshly turned earth has a pungent
fragrance that takes me back
to my mother’s garden, which she tended
at the blush of day when the roosters
were announcing sun-up, and the dew clung
to the flowers before the sun burned
it away.

The smell of the rich, black earth
takes me also to the fields surrounding
home.  I close my eyes and see
my father, tall and strong in his overalls,
looking at me with love and a
chuckle as he takes me onto his lap
and lets me steer the tractor
toward home and suppertime.  

***************

child of the prairie
unaware of world troubles
blessed with innocence

ROGUE RIVER RUN

Lillian has sked us to indulge in virtual travel.
What a delightful challenge.  I've chosen to
feature a marvelous trip up the Rogue River
in Oregon.  What a wonderful memory!
Submitted to dVerse Tuesday Poetics
May 2, 2020
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When visiting my daughter, who lives in Salem, Oregon, we chose to take a ride up the Rogue River on one of the jet boats that deliver the U.S. mail from Gold Beach to isolated spots on the river.  There were about 15 people in our group.  It was a glorious day and a glorious opportunity to see the unspoiled and unpopulated course of the Rogue, where we saw heron, cormorant, osprey, a bald eagle, and assorted wildlife   It seemed to be as it had been since the beginning of time, a veritable untouched Eden.

At mid-day we stopped at Lucas Lodge, which is at the confluence of the Rogue and the Illinois River, accessible only by boat or plane. There we were seated at one large table with red-checkered tablecloth, and served a farmhouse style dinner of crispy fried chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, garden vegetables, hot biscuits with blackberry jam, and apple pie.  It was a quiet group at first, but I suggested we go around the table and introduce ourselves.  What followed was a meal I will always remember.  Conversation flowed freely amongst the varied folks at the table … a pair on their honeymoon (blushing appropriately), an employee of the timber industry, a save-the-white-owl environmentalist, a pharmacist (my daughter), our tour guide and others.   By the time we got to the apple pie, we were a congenial group and we reluctantly found our way back down the hill and boarded the boat for the trip back to Gold Beach. That meal somewhere on the Rogue is one of my most pleasant memories.

Summer on the Rogue
far from civilization
worries fall away

SHAKESPEARE AND BASHO

Haibun Monday and Frank presents Basho and
Shakespeare.  We’re asked to produce a haibun
featuring one or both, followed by a Haiku.  An
interesting challenge!
Submitted to dVerse 4-27-2020
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While I’m drawn to Basho’s haikus, brief and crisp, it’s the word mastery of Shakespeare that captures me.  His legacy of phrases that are still in common use, and his colorful, descriptive epithets cannot be surpassed.  He played the English language like a theater organ, pulling out all stops, yet he was born to illiterate parents and reared in a small town.  There is no record of his ever attending grammar school or university.  No letters or plays have been found written in his handwriting, and the existing samples of his handwriting are mainly signatures, often with his name misspelled.  So, did this uneducated man who couldn’t spell his own name correctly produce this mass of works?  Mystery swirls around Shakespeare and his works, and many theories abound.  What a fascinating history for the ages!

skillful word pictures
masterful Bard of Avon
we borrow your words

MAMA'S WISDOM

Writers' Pantry #17 where we choose what
we wish to share.  Mother's Day approaches
and I'm thinking of my mother who had an
answer for everything!
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 26, 2020

Mama said “Stupid is as stupid does”
My Mama said a lot.
She always had a saying
For every bad habit I’d got.

When I made a pouty face
When I didn’t get my way
“Your face is sure to freeze like that”
I’d hear my Mama say.

When I forgot to change my clothes
And keep all nice and neat
I was sure to hear my Mama say
“Remember, soap is cheap”.

When I was feeling lazy
Pretending the work was done.
There she was, and Mama’d say
“Hard work never hurt anyone!”

The years have passed so quickly
Before my very eyes
And it’s only now I’ve come to know
That Mama was so wise.

SUNDAY MUSE #105

It's Sunday Muse #105, and
we're inspired by a photo.
Submitted to Sunday Muse
April 25, 2020
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Following instructions
She shelters at home
No social contact
Undeniably alone

She peers longingly
At the world outside
Thinking what pleasure
Just to go for a ride

It’s as if the world ceased
Its clamor and din
She sits in silence
In her world within

No one to talk to
No one to hug
She longs for contact
As if for a drug

When the day comes
There’s an end to this trouble
She’ll appreciate life
Being free from her bubble

The simplest things
Will give her great pleasure
A smile and a handshake
Will bring joy beyond measure

One thing she’s learned
As day followed day
She’s been fooling herself
Her hair’s really gray!

ENNUI REVEALED

Wednesday Weekly Scribbling and we're
asked to choose from a list of re- words
for our poem or prose. I've chosen reveal.
Submitted to Poets & Storytellers United
April 21, 2020
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She awakened to the plaintive wail of the 7 a.m. train.  The view from her window revealed yet another of those gray, bleak winter days, remnants of the last snowfall now dingy and gray.  Sighing, she arose and shuffled to the kitchen, where she set about making her morning coffee.   How she longed for the sense of well-being that comes with the first hint of Spring! In the long winter, each day seemed the same as the one before, a progression of sameness which left her struggling with depression. The door gave its usual complaining squeak as she opened it to pick up the newspaper. Morning coffee was always accompanied by the daily crossword. She opened the paper, picked up her pencil and began the ritual.  One across.  Five letters.  “A pervasive sense of boredom”.  She penciled in the letters E-N-N-U-I…and the irony of the word did not escape her.