She adored attending church, not to finger her rosary beads or murmur prayers upon her knees, but to wear her finest hats for all to see. Purposely arriving late she strutted down the aisle showing off her plumage, much like the Tall Crowned Crane and the Secretary Bird she visited often at the Diego Zoo.
We’re trying on hats today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. First two photos are from the San Diego Zoo: first is the Tall Crowned Crane and second is a Secretary Bird. That old bird in the third photograph is me some years back. I always say, if you’re going to wear a hat, wear a HAT! Poem is fictional….I’m not Catholic, don’t use a rosary, and certainly don’t strut in church.
“He went to sea in a thimble of poetry.”Poet Warning, Jim Harrison
Wynken, Blyken and Nod my childhood friends, lived in the well-turned pages of mother’s Child Craft book of poetry. Their neighbors always made me smile, the Old Lady who lived in the shoe, Miss Muffet sitting primly on her tuffet and that merry Old King Cole too.
I often dreamed of that crazy cow jumping over the moon, prancing round the stars. I lived in my imagination where no one yelled at anyone, hugging my yellow sort-of-teddy-bear smeared with mother’s lipstick so it always smiled at me.
Those dog-eared pages, oh how I loved them. When mama read to me, all was good and calm and fun.
Linda is hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. She introduces us to Jim Harrison (December 11, 1937 – March 26, 2016), an American poet, novelist, and essayist, and provides us with a number of lines from his works. We are to choose one line and use it as an epigraph at the beginning of our poem. An epigraph is a short quotation at the beginning of a book or chapter (in this case, a poem), intended to suggest its theme.
I still have two of the Childcraft volumes published in 1949, including the Childcraft Poems of Early Childhood. I loved these poems as a child and then read them to my children and my grandchildren too. Photo is from the book.
The only job she could land landed her in an out-of-the-way town. She’d cajoled and connived her way to a choir of four. Refusing to admit defeat, she would not call them a quartet.
David, eyes cast down interminably, droned a background hum for whatever tune was sung. Delilah, the defiant one. Deliberately off-pitch to shine, spotlight stolen by default. Dissonant in life as well.
Miriam, the honey-blonde. Sensuous red lips licked and dewed before each word, mouthed dulcet tones too late. Behind in every measure, she flashed her thigh for all to see beneath unbuttoned robe.
And Carl, the rapper. Lordy, what a snazzy guy. Snapped his fingers while chanting words. Smelled of weed with eyes glazed, unwilling to shed his percussive beat.
She smiled and waved her baton, directing the motley crew. Sweat dribbled down her chest to that delicate spot between her ample breasts. Music is as music does, always music to her ear.
She’d defied the warnings, music her one true love. So here she stood, tone deaf and proud. Her quartet, after all, was magnificently loud.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets across the globe.
Today, Laura asks us to write a “sound poem” choosing one word from five lists she provides. She also points us toward Hart’s Thesaurus of the Senses, a valuable resource for poets. Laura, I ordered a copy yesterday. The words I used (or forms of the word) were drone, dissonant, dulcet, dribble, and chant. I also added a fifth word from the list, honey. Truly had fun with this prompt. Thank you, Laura! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come join us!
PS: dedicated with humor to my daughter and son, both of whom direct a chorus and/or choir; and son-in-law, who composes choral music.
Image from A Scrub’s Life, February 1, 2017: “Sometimes We Can Be A Little Tone Deaf”
. . . put on roller skates and careen down the esplanade along the Charles River. Grinning, looking straight ahead. Faster, faster, and faster still. Wind blowing back my hair, tearing my eyes until the real world blurs and I am flying with wheels as my wings.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the vitual pub for poets around the globe. I’m hosting today, asking folks to use the word “careen” within their poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
The esplanade is a wonderful green space in Boston that in part, runs along the Charles River. It has a very long walking/bicycling/rollerskating path along the river itself and is only about 2 city blocks from where we live. It goes for miles and we often take walks there. For those of you who watch the Boston Pops 4th of July concert on television, the hatch where they perform is on the esplanade itself, just off the river. Photo from Pixabay.com
I seldom use it – the full-length mirror. When I do, it makes me wonder, who is that person?
I’ve had fun with crepe paper. That weird webbing you could stretch. Make it wider and longer. Hung it all over the family room for many a birthday party. So I have crepe skin on my arms. Okay, be honest. In other places too. I understand the term’s origins.
How did my mother climb into that frame? Save your clucking tongue, your “you haven’t changed a bit” comments. I prefer to see my value in other ways. In my husband’s eyes. In my daughter’s forty-seven year old smile. In my forty-five year old son’s weekly calls. In the tik toks and quick texts shared with five grandkids.
I’ll wear capri pants, sleeveless tops, sparkly eye shadow below my thinning brows. I love my almost pure white streak in the midst of my grey hair. Save your tears for somebody else. I’m quite content to be a septuagenarian. The mirror be damned!
Today I’m hosting Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. I’ve asked folks to go to the website https://mybirthdayhits.com and plug in their birth date. The site then gives you the musical hit that made #1 on the charts for every birthday you’ve celebrated until 2021. So for example, if your birthday is today, September 28th and you were born in 1952, you plug in that date and the site will give you the #1 hit for every year on September 28th from 1952 until 2021! AND the site gives you a recording you can listen to as well. Such fun! So the prompt today is to take at least one of the #1 hits from your birthdate and include the song title, word for word, in your poem. You can use more than one #1 hit if you wish. My birthday is May 13th: In 2007, my 60th birthday, the #1 hit was Makes Me Wonder by Maroon 5; in 2021, for my 74th birthday, the #1 hit was Save Your Tears by The Weeknd. You’ll find those titles in my poem today.
. . . my to-do-list is much too mundane to do. *Laundry *PT exercises *Vacuum *Clean out drawers
So I sit, pen in hand page waiting to be filled, adorned by words. Words like scintillation fantasia, pomegranate or perhaps persimmon.
Images, dormant in my mind, waiting to appear on the page. Orange sherbet sun flirting with shapeshifter clouds. Raucous carousel horses racing round a blurred world.
Pen over vacuum? Easy choice to clear the cobwebs from my brain.
This Iowa field, this Iowa day. I stand in the midst of flowers green grasses waving, sun’s warmth soaking my skin. Double hollyhocks stand tall. Gaillardia faces blush, edged in sherbet yellow ruffles. Ethereal clouds float lazily, cotton ball fluffs like white misshapen dots on seersucker blue sky. Newly painted barn gleams surrounded by emerald shrubs, trees and hills. Ah yes, Iowa, you are indeed the heartland, loved by so many.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for global poets. It’s OLN (Open Link Night) and Mish is hosting. We’ve not lived in Iowa since 1997, but oh the glorious memories we have of our days there. From teaching in a small rural high school, to owning our first home on 30 acres of land, to raising our children in a University town and earning my PhD there. Iowa is known as the Heartland – we surely found it that.
Photo is from Nancy Mast who often posts Iowa farm photos.
gloriosity sunshineeeeness popsicles, fudgsicles sprinkler dashes tasty juicy tomatoes sweet butter dripping corn on the cob kernels stuck between my teeth. That’s summerliciousness!
That’s our grandson who is now 14 and ready to start high school next year. Most joyous photo I’ve ever seen of someone eating corn on the cob!Happy summer everyone!
I’m thrilled to turn seventy-four, let me give that an underscore. Some decry growing old, equate grey hair and wrinkles with creeping mold, and simply cannot be consoled.
Not as nimble with a few pains? Hands mapped in purple veins? Come on people, grab the reins! What more could you ask for than to celebrate one year more with your family and people you adore?
So I’ll put on my tap shoes for a loud dance, blow out the candles at the very first chance. Then I’ll give my husband a meaningful glance and celebrate seventy four with a night of romance!
Written for OLN – Open Link Night – at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. OLN means we can choose any one poem to post today – no specific prompt, form, rhyme scheme, or length. And since today is indeed my birthday, I wrote this little ditty. I do believe it is a privilege to grow old. I continue to be thankful for every day.
April showers can be dour but they have a special power bringing to us May-time flowers. Now outside, no need to cower, fling off masks and smile for hours!
In celebration of the new CDC announcement and Governor Baker’s announcement regarding masks outdoors!
lillian the home poet 