A Sijo
Two mockingbirds keep watch atop the tree outside our door.
One faces North, the other South. Are we protected?
Who knows? Though comfort comes in songs of cautious wonder.
Stop by dVerse and learn about this (new to many of us) Korean poetry form! This is a rough draft. I focused on syllable count rather than the wonderful nuances the form calls for. Thanks to Sam Peralta for the prompt.
Sun invades water droplets on the sago palm,
transforms them into kaleidoscopic riots of color.
Desert springtime tears apart expectations, time travels
us to summer before our neighbors to the North think thaw.
Last Thursday the finches abandoned our feeder, silenced
their morning prayers, turned Northward toward home, fledglings in tow.
Soon shall we follow—encountering yet again the flourish of rebirth
or, perhaps, another freeze before nature makes up her mind.
Written in Response to Claudia’s prompt for Poetics, but linked to OLN. Looking forward to visiting in a few hours.
Photo: Wikipedia Commons
In the morning the blue heron is busy.
To all appearances still, beside deep water
he contemplates.
Appearances deceive.
A rush, a feathery flurry, flash of silver
dripping rainbows,
then they’re gone.
And such is life—
a moment’s pause before climactic endings,
while from a distant branch a mockingbird
sings praise.
The first line of this poem is taken from the work of Mary Oliver–NaPoWriMo’s Day 2 Prompt. While my goal is to write a poem daily during April, I may lag behind and most likely will not post all of them.
The previous post is my poem for dVerse Meeting the Bar on Irony.
Photo Credit: D. Slotto
The year we lost our pepper tree
I died a bit myself.
Sometimes a history, a soul
is so tied into creation—
a bird, a cloud, a tree
or a memory.
Before we said goodbye
the world shuddered.
Brutal wind battered,
buffeted, swept through
our valley.
Today I stand alone
in a space reduced to emptiness.
Linked to dVerse Open Link Night where poetry flows freely. Please join us.
Photo Credit: Gary Bogue
Trust
And how does the turtle feel as she covers her eggs
with the sweep of her feet,
then leaves them for the world to take care of?
Mary Oliver
Mysteries, Four of the Simple Ones
New and Selected Poems, Volume Two
Last spring, after her fledglings left the nest,
mama dove hung around for days, waiting.
She watched me through the kitchen window,
woeful eyes fixed on my hands, awash
in soapy bubbles bearing rainbows.
I didn’t see her babies again, nor did she, I suppose—
only the hawk circling in the distance.
Fretting, I struggled to trust nature’s caring
just like I do each time I send my words soaring,
out into the wide, wild world.
I’ve been mulling over Claudia‘s Letting Go prompt for Poetics last week…and her own experience. This is what came of it. Linking to OLN.
Photo Credit: antpitta.com from Google Images
Of a halcyon evening as cirrus clouds
stipple a brooding sky, a warbler
practices her octaves in a minor key, alone.
Descending to her lavabo, she fluffs her feathers,
artfully brushes water on the bark of an over-hanging branch,
drinks deeply from the phial of the Carolina Jasmine.
I relish the unraveling of another day’s discord,
splurge on the inherent beauty of my garden,
and listen as she resumes her chant.
Linking to dVerse Open Link Night, hosted by Natasha from her very cold Canadian abode. Please join us.
I wrote this poem using words selected at random from the dictionary.
Written for dVerse Poets’ Open Link Night--a reflection on the meaning of Christmas.
Sunlight (Photo credit: Dave Stokes)
Sunshine, with Partial Cloudiness
i.
You stop me cold.
I’m lost in a fog
of steam, thoughts
and ruminations.
Then you peek through
the shower glass,
enlighten a droplet
of water, burst colors—
prisms to interrupt
my distractions.
ii.
In a bubble forming
on my forearm, you capture
my attention again,
force me to the present
moment. I notice the play
of spray on my bare skin,
hear the colors of music.
Through almost-closed blinds,
your light slows
in song to praise,
to dissipate dark clouds,
naked tree branches.
iii.
Is this how it was
for shepherds grazing
their flocks that night?
For kings searching
to grasp mysteries?
For us common folk
who muddle through life,
grapple with violence?
iv.
The feather of a cedar
waxwing, snags on the
tree outside my window
flutters in the breeze.
I can’t see wind,
only discern its presence
by its effect on something
tangible. Children died.
But love shines through
if you look for it.
v.
Yesterday in K-Mart,
at the LayAway counter
an older couple paid
down the debt of shoppers
who were delinquent,
scanning accounts that had
children’s toys. A younger
man, bearing no resemblance
whatsoever to Santa,
dropped $300 in cash
on the counter. “Add this
to whatever they do.”
vi.
So, where is the Sun?
So, where is the Son?
Merry Christmas to all! The Pub opens Tuesday, 15:00 EST. Hope to see as many of you as are able to make it. Don’t forget, you can join us on Wednesday, too.
Cedar Waxwing (Bombycilla cedrorum) eating berries (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Just yesterday
the ornamental pear tree outside my office
window flaunted color:
leaves,
yellow oxide,
cadmium orange
and raw sienna—
clinged tenaciously—
until wind-violence
whipped in fury,
promised rain and warned
the Truckee would defy
her boundaries, swell to rape
the shores, invade the town
and neighborhoods.
On the cul-de-sac
behind my kitchen window,
a pile of sandbags
in a neighbor’s driveway
shrugs in disappointment,
uneeded.
For my part,
I count lonely
fruit, hanging from bare branches,
study black clouds
to the west,
write poetry.
Linked to dVerse Open Link Night, where Natasha is our hostess for the evening. Hope you will drop in, bring a poem of your own and enjoy the work of others.
We live a block from the Truckee and were fortunate to make it through a rough weekend of flood warnings. The winds did more damage than the rain.
On a side note, I’ve been trying to update my gravatar and it just isn’t working. So if you see a black square, it’s not about my mood!
Photo Credit: Michał Nowosielsk
123rfs.com (Copyrighted, used with permission)
I pause
to watch
a drop
of dew
evap-
or-
ate,
to witness
the demise
of cosmic
wonder,
await the
brilliant sparkle
of its color
a heart-
beat
just before
it dis-
ap-
ears.
A sense
of sadness
shrouds
this sacred
moment.
How can it be
that so much
beauty
goes
un-
not-
iced?
Linked to dVerse Poets’ Pub Open Link Night where poets from all over the globe gather to drink in friendship and revel in one another’s creative work. Join us–offer up a poem of your own on any theme. The doors swing open at 1500 EST!
Photo Credit: catphi.com via Google Images
In the corner, by the Ash, leaves pile high.
The hummingbird feeder, empty now,
succumbs to wind, knocks on the side of our house.
Its patrons no longer inhabit the naked tree.
A lone cricket’s cry speaks of its imminent demise.
Color carpets the yard, swirls about me.
Behind the maple a pile of leaves, dry and brittle,
have spent their beauty, crunch beneath my footfall.
Last night I shredded leaves of a journal
written thirty years ago. The past remains a part of me—
its joys and angst, the questions yet unanswered.
Today, the garden’s loss molders, prepares to nourish tomorrow.
Photo: officeshredding.com
Written and linked to dVerse Open Link Night –with prayers for all of you feeling the effects of Sandy. I was tempted to write of her devastation, but need to reflect a bit more on this difficult situation. I will be on the road Thursday and Friday, driving to Southern California to celebrate my mom’s 92nd birthday. This gives me a chance to meet up with our own Claudia who is nearby. I’m very much looking forward to this opportunity. In the meantime, hope to “see” you all at the poets’ pub tonight.
