Aside from the plastic owl, impaled on a stick in my neighbor’s vegetable garden, owls seem to be elusive, even though I live in a mostly rural corner of the world. One time, a friend who lived ten miles up in the North Valley’s, showed up at my house with an owl’s wing that she found in the middle of her infrequently traveled road. I studied the details of the feathers with a heavy heart, marking how the fragility of life makes it even more beautiful.
Of course, owls themselves are predators, a necessary, though painful reality that affects all living things. We kill to survive. We live in awareness of the transience of our beings. The more powerful use the weaker to obtain what they need or want. But still I dream that someday we shall live in peace. And that someday I shall see a snowy owl.
white streak across snowy night
longing in darkness
Monday begins the week with Haibun at dVerse Poets Pub. I’m hosting this week and turned to a Kigo closely associated with winter, which seems to be barreling in here in Northern Nevada. I developed a keen appreciation for Owls when I was given Mary Oliver’s book of poetry: Owls and Other Fantasies–my introduction to this poet, one of my favorites. The prompt this week is FUKUROO-OWL. The shirofukuroo is the snowy ow. Please join us at the pub with your Haibun of 200 words or less of nonfiction prose followed by a seasonal haiku. The pub opens at 12 Noon EST.
Credit: ESA/Hubble; Raghvendra Sahai and John Trauger (JPL), the WFPC2 science team, and NASA/ESA Used with Permission
Who Are You?
Stand in pregnant darkness
beneath a wind-stripped ash tree;
look up at emptiness.
Wrap yourself in a cloak of wonder.
Soak in mysteries of unknowing,
then look Within.
Joining up with the dVerse pub-poetic-prowlers and Lillian for this awe-inspiring prompt using photos from the Hubble Telescope. We hope you will join us here.
Caption: adwriter, via Flickr
Labeled for non-commercial reuse
The yard is silent now.
Ebbing sounds of crickets
faded into nothingness.
An occasional blue jay scolds
but this morning, hides.
Howling winds ceased.
Leaves lie hushed in mounds,
huddle in the cold. Walk
among them, kick, crunch
just to hear nature’s breath again.
Today, our dVerse Quadrille Hostess, De, asks us to use the word KICK, in our 44 word poem. Having raked leaves all morning, I couldn’t escape this theme. I will be back to read after finishing in the back yard. Please join in. The link is open all week.
Bring me back the thought of you
as the sun comes to shine,
the grain, also golden,
hair, the color of gold,
the sound of a step
different from all others.
My heart is ready to greet you.
Only with the heart can one see.
But I shall cry.
(I shall cry.)
An Erasure Poem
Taken from the Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupéry
Written and posted for my prompt at dVerse Meeting the Bar, where I’m offering up a prompt for you to write an erasure poem.
I had chosen one of my all-time favorite inspirational reads: The Little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and opened it to a page that seemed to offer a fair amount of printed text (as you probably know, the book is illustrated with watercolors.) When I began to cull phrases, somewhat randomly, a theme emerged which is pure serendipity–next Tuesday is the first anniversary of my sweet mother’s death.
Please stop by the pub with a poem of your own, or even just to read. We are a welcoming community.
Photo: David Slotto–Taken in 2011, on the occasion of Mom’s 90th birthday.
Do falling leaves ache with the pain of letting go? Or do they revel in the freedom of floating and of the taste of earth? Did they boast of glorious colors that they wore in days before releasing their hold on life?
And the trees—do they grasp obsessively to their robes of glory, regret the day that finds them stripped, exposed and naked—vulnerable to cold and rain.
I am October now, buffeted by aging. I hurl my somethingness into the great unknown, one gift at a time. I face the imminence of winter, move beyond the sting of loss into the joy of unknown expectations. I am old but full of hope, in the springtime of new life. Beneath the soil life pulses.
Je suis depouilée
stripped bare like October trees
richness lies hidden
Photo: Victoria Slotto
*The French word depouillement means stripping. The verb depouiller is to strip. The first line of the haiku translates : I am stripped.
Happy to be able to jump in for OLN this week. I have tried to consider some of the wonderful prompts I have missed related to personal events–this one, especially, relates back to Kim’s prompt for Tuesday’s Poetics.
Photo: Labeled for reuse
I awaken this morning to temperatures of 28 degrees Fahrenheit, open the back door and breathe in the purity of crisp, fresh air. Hoar frost designs sparkle on the deck and the vegetable garden sags—leaves like tears hang from the tomato and cucumber plants, light splashes of color awash on our maple and ash trees. The glory of the cerulean sky sings joy. Reality intervenes.
blood-red leaves appear
fall gently on the pavement
Today, I’m hosting Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets. The prompt is Shimo No Koe–Voice of First Frost. Please join in. The prompt is open all week.