The Poet Looks Out the Window

The Poet Looks Out the Window
Minute Poetry

Oh, bless this tree outside my room—
a home, a womb
where words are born,
a page adorned—
poet’s enclave,
creative cave.

These branches beckon many birds
with songs sans words.
They bring us joy,
distress destroy,
plaintive cries, too,
to mourn with you.

And there above, I spy a nest.
Robin Redbreast?
Perhaps a Jay?
Oh look! Today,
sweet finch I see.
Inspire me!

Photo: Victoria Slotto
View from My Office “Treehouse”

Today at dVerse MTB Frank Hubeny invites us to try Minute Poetry. Don’t be afraid of this very fun form. It seemed daunting to me at first, but when I diagrammed it, I found it to be easy enough with the help of Rhymezone.com. My ornamental pear tree looks a bit shabby right now because the harsh winter and severe winds was causing it to damage our house and we had to have it pruned. But when it’s at it best, in autumn, it is truly a delight and the migrating birds love the tiny pears that are just for them, not humans.

Please join us–give it a whirl. BTW, this poem is also inspired by Lillian’s window prompt from Tuesday Poetics.

 

what is your wish–dVerse Poetics: Wishful Thinking

what is your wish?

this morning as we walked
i saw a tree that bid to me.
i balked

not any more i told her
not with these old bones
and not-so-limber limbs
of mine

if you will come she said
caress my branches
smell my fractured leaves
you will be young again
begin

to taste your life anew
to run and jump and fly
with careless ease
if so you please

what is the cost I asked
were i to rise
into your textured world
(it tempted me)
you’ll flee

the confines of your age
you will begin once more
your journey on this earth
new birth

and lose all i have learned
the ones i’ve come to love
the memories
and yes
the pains and losses too
that nurture growth
i’d loath
to go through that again

forward, i walked in calm
i would not lose
the truths
i’ve gleaned along the path
of life
in spite of strife

Photo: Wikipedia Commons–Labeled for non-commercial reuse

Today at dVerse Poetics, Mish invites us to indulge in wishes. My response is a bit oblique. I have wishes, true, and they are precious. But so is aging, and that is where my muse wandered. I tucked in a bit of scattered rhyme, still enjoying the latitude that Walt’s prompt from last Thursday offered. No pattern. Just whatever happened. Oh, by the way, I grew up climbing trees.

Silhouette–Weekly Photo Challenge

The Daily Post asks us to photograph objects in silhouette:

Photography is all about experimenting with light, and then positioning yourself (or your subject) in the right spot to achieve a certain effect. One such effect is a silhouette, in which an outline of someone or something appears dark against a lighter background. Silhouettes can be very dramatic and resemble black shapes without any details, but the effect varies from picture to picture.

Photo: Victoria Slotto

This is an ash tree in our backyard.

 

Photo: Victoria Slotto

And I can’t resist this one, taken in Palm Desert, last winter.

Photo: David Slotto

Another from Palm Desert. The credit for this one belongs to my husband, April 2013.

considering trees

Photo: V. Slotto

sometimes i am stuck
in the mind-skin of the child i used to be
when i’d climb my pepper tree
to hide from all
that i was not,
would never be.

this morning i awoke,
sun glancing through full branches
of my pear tree,
reminding me that love
is quite enough

and that whatever this day brings,
whatever the years may hand me,
i shall always find a tree.

Written for Marina Sofia’s prompt for dVerse Poetics in response to the question: “Describe a morning when you awoke without fear.” I also had in mind an earlier  prompt of Shanyn’s that I was unable to write to. 

thirteen ways of looking at trees

Image: The Art of Alison Jardine

i
trees know
to bend with the wind
otherwise they will snap.

ii
in the winter
trees seem to die
that is when
they send down roots
a lot happens
beneath the surface

iii
some people are like trees
they reach out
comfort
provide food
shelter
beauty

iv
others
like some trees
are invasive they
choke
stifle
lesser life forms

v
trees
like some people
survive
without a lot of attention
nature provides
water
food
sometimes if they are weak
they need support
now and again
you have to prune
dead branches

vi
if you plant a tree
you are responsible for it
make sure you choose
with care
it like adopting
a child or
a pet
due diligence is needed
before you commit

vii
everyone should have
a special tree
to hold in memory
a place to go
when you are
afraid
tired
lonely
in that way
a tree is like
a mother’s lap

viii
once you put down roots
you will grow
if you become at one
with your place in life

ix
learn from trees
even though they have differences
they are all trees
they belong together

x
trees are like families
sometimes
they have to give way
to make room
for one another

xi
even though trees
come in many different colors
they are still trees
contrast makes them
stand out
outstanding

xii
when you puncture
a tree’s trunk
with nails
it will bleed
when you puncture
another’s heart
with words
it too will bleed

xiii
in time trees
like people
will die
to make room
for new life.

I’m linking this poem to One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry: http://onestoppoetry.com  The inspiration came from a prompt posted by Brian Miller on that same website for Friday Poetically. It is based on the art of Alison Jardine, the artist behind the image above. For some truly amazing art, visit her site at http://alisonjardine.com This poetry is also reminiscent of a form of poetry perfected by Wallace Stevens.

Wounds–One Shot Wednesday

Image via Wikipedia

A birch—
smooth bark dotted
with eyes—
omniscient voyeur
spying on passersby.
Down its trunk
a scar splays open.
Wide, like a wound
I used to pack with sterile gauze
and normal saline.

(My patient’s name
was Forrest.)

In the gutter, red blossoms
from a nearby
Indian Paint Brush
pile in heaps
like clotted blood.

Forrest’s gash—
the result of a barroom brawl—
or so he’d told me—
never healed.
He didn’t bleed to death.
Just died by the inch,
lost the will to fight
when the woman went off
with his opponent.

The tree has been like this
for years.
Over time some miscreant
continues to inflict like damages
on other branches.

Submitted to One Shot Wednesday: http://onestoppoetry.com/

Jingle’s Poetry Potluck–“Sierra Winter”

Image via Wikipedia

Submitted to Jingle’s Poetry Potluck:

http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/  Check out this site to read some incredible poetry based on this week’s theme of Nature.

 

Sierra Winter

An artist plunges a flat
brush in water,
adds a dab of
titanium white,
slathers broad strokes of
wash across winter.

Fields of pouty
Douglas firs
draped in ermine
act bored,
run fingers through
vanilla icing that drips from

chocolate outcrops of granite.
Branches, weary
under a fresh load of snow,
point black fingers upward,
waggle crone-like digits,
shake off age.

Dowager trees,
stooped and brittle,
bend to kiss earth.

Photo: V. Ceretto-Slotto

I am blessed to live in the backyard of the Eastern Sierra’s, about 40 minutes from Lake Tahoe. Weather is unpredictable here in Reno. This year, winter came early and temperatures have been as low as 3 degrees Farenheit (-16 degrees Centigrade) at our home in the early morning hours. The photo in this post is a part of the view from our home.

Leonnyes Z to A Challenge: Q is for “Quaking Aspen”

Image by dj @ oxherder arts via Flickr

Submitted to Leonnyes Z to A Challenge: http://leonnyes.wordpress.com/

Quaking Aspen

Yellow leaves flutter,
surrender to Autumn’s dance,
burnish the blue sky.

Branches stretching out
to tease a foraging quail
toss gold to the wind.

Thursday Poets’ Rally–“Wounds”

A birch—
smooth bark dotted
with eyes—
omniscient voyeur
spying on passersby.
Down its trunk
a scar splays open.
Wide, like a wound
I used to pack with sterile gauze
and normal saline.

(My patient’s name
was Forrest.)

In the gutter, red blossoms
from a nearby
Indian Paint Brush
pile in heaps
like clotted blood.

Forrest’s gash—
the result of a barroom brawl—
or so he’d told me—
never healed.
He didn’t bleed to death.
Just died by the inch,
lost the will to fight
when the woman went off
with his opponent.

The tree has been like this
for years.
Over time some miscreant
continues to inflict like damages
on other branches.