Sunday, April 12, 2015

What Are You Laureate of Today?

Today’s prompt was to be Poet Laureate of something – a place, a species, a time of day. I chose to be the voice of Bartholomew’s Cobble, a nearby natural landmark, to become the advocate for the trees, the river, the small inhabitants of hedge and meadow so one would know about it’s small miracles and hidden mercies.

In a small eastern town
at a bend in the river,
a curve in the road,
a sign marks the site of
a natural wonder
where, for a nominal fee,
anyone can wander through meadows
and old growth forest,
see ancient rocks cobbled together,
towering monoliths that overlook
a winding flow of duck-speckled water.

Where, in winter’s deep snow
one can track the demise of
some small tunneling creature
at the claws of a silent owl
or the jaws of a hungry fox
while the Hunter’s Moon
watches with indifference.
Or where, in spring,
one can hear the Bobolink call
from the barberry hedge,

where, in summer even the crickets exclaim over the
sweet, soft smell of the meadow grasses
and the way the sun leans against
the trunk of the sycamore and where,
in autumn, leaves are sky bound things,
strangers to the earth
as the wind loosens their moorings
and sends them sailing, lilting
through the air
to rest on grass and hedge,
brook and rill,
road and path.
There they stay
looking up at the sky

until winter closes their eyes.

Sunday, March 08, 2015

My Pollyanna Life

Today's Sunday Writing prompt was two-fold, awakening the senses and having a conversation with the morning. Here are two of my responses.

In Conversation

Good morning day,
drifting in snowflakes,
your cold gray face freckled with birds,
the sunrays of your smile absent,
beaming elsewhere.

Good morning day,
lightly slipping in beneath the curtains,
rousing me slowly, pulling me from dreams,
drawing me to the window
to watch the snow float down.

I recognize yesterday and tomorrow
in the steadfastness of the trees,
see the past heaped in white drifts on the ground,
feel the future on the wind,
taste the present in a sip of scalding tea,

hear the passing of the hour
in the tick of the clock,
see the light swell and illuminate every corner,
smell the time of day cooking on the stove,
an egg singing praises to the morning.

New Day

Wake up eyes.
See the light come creeping in
making friends with the shadows.
Watch the little bird with the red hood
eating the peanut butter suet
and the arms of the trees spreading themselves
across the gray horizon.

Wake up ears.
Hear the clock ticking off the minutes
and the rooster announcing its own presence.
Listen to the silence that lies beneath all sound
and the sounds that dip into the silence.

Wake up nose.
Revel in the scents of toast
and of bacon frying crisp in the pan.
Smell the gunmetal of new snow that drifts
down like feathers in the cold.

Wake up mouth.
Sing praises to the new day,
mimic the chickadee with a whistle,
bless the tea kettle and the breakfast plate.

Wake up fingers and toes.
Feel the silkiness of the sheets,
the chill of the floor and the warmth of fuzzy slippers.
Indulge in the softness of water.
Smooth the unruly hair and wipe the grit of sleep
from the eyes.

Wake up self.
Merge into the morning
watch the birds,
listen to the kettle,
taste an orange,
smell an egg frying.
Touch the day with gentle fingers.
Step softly.

Sunday, March 01, 2015

I Believe...

All that is uncertain beneath our feet,
all that we assume is bedrock—
an unshakeable foundation—
is really hope,
nebulous, alluring, beguiling hope.

Hope that somewhere in all the wrong
there is right,
in all that is terrifying
there is a moment of peace,
that the possibility of beauty

lies in every eye that beholds.