April 10, Forest, Trees (Two for Tuesday)

I’m always glad to write about trees, as you can tell from yesterday’s poem, no doubt. I find the artwork in my house is mostly composed of trees, too. My dining room hosts a print of Van Gogh’s Almond Tree and my living room has a watercolor my stepfather painted of Mt. Humphreys in Flagstaff, with the dark firs and pines behind the autumn aspens.

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Maybe Just Too Much Imagination

I must’ve been dreaming but I’ve never
really been able to convince myself
that I was. I woke early (so unchar-
acteristically, for me anyway,
I, of the all night-book reading jags) and
feeling restless, decided to get up.

I’d heard a sound, I thought, a horn? Not a
car horn, but the kind maybe Susan, from
Narnia, would have. The sun was just up.
The dew was thick, this was the Pacific
Northwest, and there was a light mist rising
from the ground, tracing the world with silver,
misty distance indistinct and dreamy.

I stood on the step of the little gray
travel trailer that was grandma’s guest house,
enthralled by the magical lovely world.

I heard a sound, a horse’s chuff, and looked
to the left, wondering if the neighbor’s
horse had escaped his yard again to steal
apples. But in the little woods down the
hill from grandma’s house, was a man on a
horse, who seemed clothed in the mist. He was just
far enough away that I couldn’t see
many details. He sat astride, his horse
impatient, his head curiously turned.

The blackberry vines stood in the way, a
bramble fortress, but I could swear I saw
armor gleaming under his dark clothing.
Or maybe the gleam was just gathered dew
shining in the new sunlight. I could swear
his ears were faerie pointed, his smile, sly.

We both stood so until his eager horse
pulled away and the two of them vanished
into the woods leaving me spellbound and
wondering if I’d just had a brush with
the Fey.

###

Just One More

It used to be
the foresters
tended the forest.

They took trees
selectively
to ensure the forest
would remain
intact.

But lumberjacks,
doing a job
for corporations
feeding the need,
humanities greed
for toilet paper
and copy paper
and paper towels
and paper plates
and paper,
paper,
paper,
clear-cut the forests
leaving nothing
but shattered
earth and maybe
a single
tree.

Nature provides a free lunch, but only if we control our appetites. –William Ruckelshaus

April 9, Shady

Today’s prompt was “shady,” and we are allowed to interpret it however we want. But I chose the obvious interpretation, shady, as in the shade of a certain apple tree that was my refuge when I was young.

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Shade

Summer afternoon
I’m up in a tree
I am pretending
there’s no one but me.

No nosy sisters,
nor brothers so mean.
Just me and my book
and the light tempered green

The sun shifting softly
through wind-waving leaves.
Just me and Ali Baba
and his forty thieves.

April 7 – Silent Communication

What a subtle prompt today, to write a poem about that type of silent communication in which no words are spoken, but something is communicated just the same.  Moms give a glare to kids, couples exchange a look. It’s such a human thing. I love it. Here is my offering.

###

Commute

The small group of regulars,
here on the bus, don’t really
know each other all that well,
but they’re familiar in a
way drivers don’t understand.

Danny, who can’t drive his Porche
for at least fifteen more months
because of a DUI.

Trish and her daughters who all
work as maids at the same ho-
tel and chatter like little
wrens for the entire ride.

Gabe, who has epiliepsy,
quietly reads his paper
every morning while he
sips coffee from his thermos.

Marissa and Emily,
ride to high school, and take the
bus to avoid teasing kids
now they’re an official couple.

It is an ordinary day
with a mellow feel, and a
quiet camaraderie.

And then the angry man with
a swagger in a red base-
ball jersey gets on the bus.

The passengers give a col-
lective sigh because they know
just how it will go from here.

He will stalk the aisle, berat-
ing, trying to get someone
to engage: then he’ll attack.
They all exchange a glance, the
regulars, and silently
say with a look: be on guard.

But this time, Gabe, quiet Gabe
puts down his paper and stands
in the aisle, blocking the way.

Not one of the other ri-
ders had realized just how
big Gabe was, how intimi-
dating he was while standing.

The stranger stops, confused, un-
characteristically
unsure of what to do now.

And as Gabe fixes his gaze
on the stranger’s eyes, begins
walking up the aisle, the now
cowed stranger backpedals, he
backtracks all the way to the
front and sits silently there

And Gabe walks back to his seat
picks up his paper and takes
another sip of coffee.

The other passengers ex-
change another look, this one
of appreciation and
maybe just a little glee.

April 2, Visitor

The theme of the prompt today was “visitor.”  I have two that popped into my head, unfortunately in doggerel verse. Can’t help it, that’s just the way I roll sometimes.  Enjoy!

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Unwelcome

I know you’re there.
The cats are aware,
they’ve found your lair,
they watch and glare.

It may not be fair,
don’t mean to scare,
but you haven’t a prayer,
mouse.

###

Surprised to See Me?

Come in, come in,
please be at ease,
please let me get you
wine and cheese.

I know, I know,
my home’s a mess
but I don’t care,
don’t like to stress.

I know that you
came to see us,
not our unsightly
detrius.

Don’t waste a thought
just be at ease.
Don’t look around,
here, have more cheese.

April 1 – Communication

The first prompt for the month of poeming is “Communication.” I got to it late in the day, as I was on a road trip with my sister and niece. My niece is now an NAU cheerleader!! (Tryouts were the main purpose of the trip, but I feel more was gained in the relationships. At any rate, this is my first attempt for today’s prompt.

Communication

Having spent the weekend
with my sister
and my niece
I learned that
I needed an
interpreter.

I haven’t decided yet
if I am just that
much
removed
from teenagerhood
or if moms
are the only ones
who really understand
their children’s
utterances.

And I wondered if
I had trouble
maybe
because
my children were all
boys
and they
seemed to have
no trouble being
understood.

(Except that one time
when Jon was getting
ice at a drive thru
liquor store
in North Carolina
and they didn’t know what
on
earth
he meant
until he said,
“Dja got aaihss?”
at which point they said,
“Oh, ICE! Shore!”)

So maybe it’s just
teenage-girl-speak
I am too far removed from.

At least she knows
I love her.

An Ode to Poetic Asides

Well, it is sort of an ode, though not an official ode in “FORM,” but more of an homage to the folks on the PA “street”, as we like to call it.  A nod to the way it feels (to me at least) to have one regular place to go to poem and read other poems and give and receive feedback, and  just enjoy it all. This is my take on the place.

###

Life on the Street

Oh, it’s usually pretty quiet here
on the street,
not a lot of fuss or fury.
but it’s kind of fun that way,
and we regulars enjoy the
peace and serene
enjoyment
of each other’s
words and
thoughts and
mere presence.

There are weekly
hello’s and a
little bit of chat
and support
and all that.
It’s fun, in a quiet kind of way.

But twice a year,
in April and November,
our quiet street becomes
a seaside resort,
or Swiss spa,
or amusement park carnival.

And we regulars?
We like it that way too.

^_^

Against the Odds

The last prompt for the Poem-a-day November challenge was to write a poem using the thought: Against the Odds. All day the muse escaped me, but here at the end of the work day, she shyly peers around the corner.

Rarely Seen Treasures

Two matching snowflakes,
A triple-yolked egg,
Branches just set for climbing,
Round hole and round peg.

A magnificent home run
that everyone sees,
A perfect term paper,
Really cute knees.

Neighborhood dogs that
just don’t like to bark.
Lighting a fire that
starts with one spark.

Finding the perfectly
right life-long mate
And finding him young
so you don’t have to wait.

These are all things that
come seldom, if at all
so if one comes to you,
damn it, don’t drop the ball!

Two for Tuesday – Night and Day

The prompt is to write two poems, one about night and one about day. And so of course, I rebel in a tiny way by writing the poems in the order I see fit: Day and THEN night. ^_^  Sue me. ^_^

Day Lily

Petals open wide,
like arms spread
welcoming the world
to see all
contained
therein.

So far from shy,
your waxy petals
preen
under the light of day
and steal hearts
that might otherwise
love
a
rose.

###
Evening Primrose

Your gorgeous yellow petals
open only at night.
You disdain those
garish butterflies
and noisy bees
the other flowers
crave.

Yours is a more
quiet
flowery
soul
who wants only the
soft peace
and subtle stealth
of moths
on silent wings
stealing
pollen
from your
fragrant
heart.

Tribute

This wasn’t as hard – the prompt was to write a tribute poem, a tribute to someone who changed your life or who had made some sort of lasting impression. And so I picked my great-grandma, of course. ^_^

For Leona

Your real name was Alva
but you hated it
and so you took your middle name:
Leona, which means lioness.
And everyone (for some reason)
called you Betty.

Your life began in 1905
outside Independence, Missouri
at your father’s homestead.

You were the thirteenth of
twenty-three children,
though some did not live
past infancy.

You grew up and moved to
the Northwest,
and loved Oregon
and its easy weather.

You had more hard times than
you ever let on.

The father of your only child
married your sister.

You went to prison for two and a half years
once, and I suspect it was
for making moonshine.

You married Karl, and lived on your property
raised your daughter,
your grandchildren,
and helped to raise your great-grandchildren.

You taught me to love books
and the outdoors
and gardening
and to be fearless
and frugal.

I will remember you
every day of my life
because the impression you left
was deep and lasting.

I will miss you forever.

Good Old Days

The prompt for 11/26/11 was to write a poem about the “good old days,” which was an interesting proposition, but I got hung up on it completely. It took me three days to get rid of the reservations I had so I could move on. At any rate, this is the poem, not particularly cheerful, but at least thoughtful.

 

Someone Else’s Good Old Days

Over the holiday
I got to see some old slides
on an old slide projector.
(An archaic idea these days
but still fun.)

And it was a revelation
to me
the way other people’s
childhoods
were so very different
than mine.

It was like a window into
the past,
seeing the faded images
of vacations
and graduations
and weddings,
all of the people
seemed so young
and new, though the slides
were yellowed and
blurry.

I imagined living the life
of the people portrayed.

Going to school with the same
neighborhood kids
for all twelve years.

And having no step-parents
or step-siblings
or step-grandparents.

But the thing that struck me most
was the idea of
living in the same house
ones whole life
until it was time to grow up
and move away,
a way of life alien to my own
gypsy
childhood.