Poetry Friday: A Spiderweb Poem

Image via WikipediaHappy Poetry Friday!

Wrote a little poem about autumn spiderwebs today. This is the time of year that makes me wish I could stretch out the short window of pre-dawn time...the birds are often starting to sing, the fog rolls misty off the backyard and the changing leaves glimmer lightly through the grey world. And the spiderwebs!

They're so beautiful this time of year. I'm not sure why but I swear that there are more spider hanging webs and taking strolls across paths this time of year. Maybe spider babies hatch at the end of the summer so lots of new spiders are out setting up housekeeping suddenly or maybe they're webbing in earnest, catching bugs to fortify themselves for whatever it is that spiders do in winter. Lay more eggs? Die? Hibernate in some way?

Whatever the reason, the effect is pretty darn lovely. I never remember of course to take the camera out with me for very early morning gardening. Good thing the poeting mind comes along!

And now....my poem.

Spiderwebs
They bloom with bursts of silver thread
In every autumn shrub or path
They hang in heavy spangled splays,
stretched glistening across each space
Centered in each sparkling spray
The resident spider plumply sleeps
Snoozing away the chill glitter of the day
Not knowing that she rides a silver morning star.
Then there is the warm crescendo of the sun-rise
Each web blanches to humble invisibility
And housewife spiders stretch and waggle
The great day-star has once again upstaged
The whole great earthbound constellation.

You can find more Poetry Friday partipants at Read, Write, Believe...today's host blog. Hop on over and take a stroll through some good words.

Related articles

• Skin Made from Spiderwebs: No Longer Just a Nightmare [Mad Science] (io9.com)
• Autumnal Decor: Dreamcatchers (Yes, Dreamcatchers) (apartmenttherapy.com)
• Spiders and Conkers (searchinsights.wordpress.com)

Poetry Friday: Baking + Stress

 Happy Poetry Friday to you all! Today I am sharing a poem about catastrophe. Not all poetry is about the pretty. Sometimes there is panic and mania and life feels all at ends. It's hard to share this kind of poem. I done one other, about my sister that was this shade of vulnerable but still every little bit of open and honest about faults and weakness feels like another level of nail-biting nervous. That said, I truly believe in the feelings and the honesty that writing can bring to the world and in the bits embedded in this poem. I hope you are able to use it in small small way. 

Image by Food Thinkers via Flickr

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Chocolate Cake, Balm for All Ills

It is a small private emergency, I have forgotten that I told our hostess

I will bring dessert and there is so much to do and so, so little time.

The:disheslaundrydiaperchangeusbandpickupdinnerprepshoefindingfingernailclippinggas

tankfillingrugvaccuumingargumentsettlingtoyfixinghometidyingclothes
changing

In short: the normal harried crush of motherhood.

I am having the panicky, slo-mo meltdown that I have on these occasions,

When I am asked to be a She-Atlas and also look graceful to boot.

I feel like my spleen might suddenly leave my body without my permission.

I alternately cry and curse and do a few harried circles in the kitchen.

There is no time and I promised to arrive, grinning at her front door

The diaper bag, purse and baby on one arm and a laden plate in the other

With moth-wing flutters pantry to counter, I assemble ingredients for,

What else? Chocolate cake, balm for all ills.

I don’t take the time to level the cups or even measure some items.

I sprinkle and drizzle and let powders fly in fevered tempo.

The counter, my chest and the nearby wall are bathed in cocoa dust.

The oven has somehow magically heated while I pour and mix and fling,

And yet now, the countertop is littered with dirty dishes in uneven, teetering stacks.

So, at the last, I end up on the very tile below the sink, a portrait of desperation

Holding the shining bowl between my ardent hands, I lean over the cake pan

And have my own silent confessional about housewifery, stress and other

Desperate, laden topics; principly, my urgent need for this cake to work.

Kneeling on the kitchen floor, I pour my fragrant prayer out in swirling brown eddies

Into the buttered pan, every scrape of the spatula says: ”Please. Please. Please.”

I have whirled into 5,000 Our Fathers and done all other manner of penance once

I manage to nudge the dripped upon pan into the yawning mouth of the oven.

I stay there on the floor a moment, forehead on my smudged fingers.

And I leave my prayer baking in the mercy of the God who understands the private 
Emergencies of all manner of people, even small somewhat harried housewives

If you'd like to read previous Friday creations, feel free to click on the poetry tab at the top of the page labeled "Original Verse." You can sit reading for a good while if you have a mind, the collection is ever swelling.

If you'd like to participate in Poetry Friday yourself or read a cross section of poetic inspiration please step on over to our hostess Tabatha's blog, The Opposite Of Indifference.

Poetry Friday: A Love Poem

 It is after valentine season so, a love poem seemed about right. I have written really only one other in my history as a writer. I have either been too busy being intoxicated by the experience of being in love or else jaded by the difficulty of the struggle to stay connected to another person to really do much in the way of love verses.

Then last year sometime, A's brother Miq was kind enough and brave enough to share some of the love poetry he had written for Penny (of which there were copious reams) and I got inspired. I think my hangups lately have been more technical. I'm scared to write about love because just like painting autumn trees or flowers, it is so easy to do it badly. Cliches are rife and thin, plastic versions seem all to likely to be what would come pouring out of my keyboard.

But, like I said, it is valentine season and a girl has to try, doesn't she? I'd hate to have never really tried. Here's to you A and to married love.

 

                                                  A Circle

I remember driving in staggering circles around the black rim of Tahiti

So bone-tired after our wedding that we could hardly see the road ahead.

We held hands, slouching into each other’s bodies over the wee stick shift

Staying awake by tracing circles on each other’s palms and thinking aloud

I was your sidekick Bonny and you were my knight with the shining desktop.

We were skirting the rim of our future, dipping our toes into life together.

Now we’re several revolutions into marriage, all knee-deep in shared history

And I can’t remember the last time I kinked my mid-section over the console

Just to feel the warmth of your shoulder, my fingers tangled in your hair.

But last night, grinning in the dark, I traced a warm circle in your sleepy palm

The baby was standing up in bed between us using your ear-lobes for handles

Since it was 3 AM, we were so bone-tired we could hardly see the road ahead

The forgotten desktop glowed down the hall and I was too tired to think aloud.

This circle on your palm is my love note to you, a little whirling symbol of hope:

And I am here, keeping myself awake, circling the rim of our future in my mind.

You can find more Poetry Friday participants at Rasco From RIF today.

Related articles

• The best Valentine's Day love poems, as chosen by Slate's writers and editors. (slate.com)
• On Inspiring a Love of Poetry in Children (seapoetry.wordpress.com)
• 7 Sites To Find Great Valentine Poems For Your Date (makeuseof.com)
• John Stammers's top 10 love poems (guardian.co.uk)