Words On The Platter

     Sometimes, in order to get going again we have to push the ball down the hill in some small way. I have been long fallow here and now I'm back and grinding away like Sisyphus but in an attempt to help things take on their own momentum and joy, I'm just going light. This is my little kick off the edge.....here I am, with my pen in my hand again.

Lets just marinate in some goods words, shall we? It seems like a good way to begin. Here are some of my own, personal favorites. Which ones did I miss that you love the sound or feel of?

Utterly Enjoyable Autumn Words

Decidious

Scythe

Persimmon

Harvest

Cornucopia

Shadow

Cider

Sheaves

Snuggle

Golden

Quilt

September

Russet

Blaze

Fog

Rusted

Flannel

Crimson

Chanterelle

Meander

Crackling

Maple

Smoke

Squash

Harvest

Spider

Candle

Crisp

Aspen

Marigold

Hazel

Scarlet

 

And then, just because delicious words make me think of poetry, in a When You Give A Moose A Muffin Style....lets have a classic poem by James Whitcomb Riley. I like to imagine my farming great-grandpa, suddenly possessed of a desire to write poems speaking out these lines while he stumps along from orchard to barnyard to his masonry trimmed farmhouse where I was this summer. I miss him and I wish he could know my little boys and that I could marinade in his comforting presence and imagine they will turn out sturdy and reliable and warm, like him.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees.... (click here for the rest) 

 

Poetry Friday: A Moving Tribute

Happy Poetry Friday! I have a poem this week, digesting a bit more about my move to The West Coast from The East Coast.

Its been about 2,000 years since I had a good poetic wander. Feels so good to get back to my principles and be stepping back into a rhythmn of creation and personal, reflective thought. Love writing poetry.

Poetry Friday is a product of KidLitosphere and is a chance to share and mingle together suggestions, original work and sometimes even whole books that feed that poetry section of our brains, help us to think in lyrical form and assist in giving us imagery that is crisp and reflective of experience.

I try to write an original poem once a week to participate, pushing myself to try new ideas and to capture in verse the impressions that slam or waltz through my mind. See the tab above for a collection of all the poems I've spun out thus far here.

Poetry Friday is one of my favorite things to consume on a lazy Saturday or Sunday morning. A mug of tea and the host list of links is great early morning brain food to help your inner self uncurl and blink awake. So, incredibly cozy. Try it out.

Our host blog this week is Poetry For Children. Click through and enjoy all the offerings!




New To California

I am camping in a house with a blow-up mattress, four boys and a sea of pale gray carpet.

I wonder what dark January looks like with prickly pear ripening on the side of the freeway and mariachi on the radio.

I hear basketball echoes in the back courtyard, the neighbor kids shouting in Spanish and the gentle hum of the refrigerator in our tiled kitchen.

I see the golden sunlight slanting through the office blinds and the sly Dirt Devil doing the tango along the living room wall.

I want new girlfriends,
luscious, ridiculous ladies
laughing in a circle around me,
arms skyward
bellies full.

I am camping in a house with a blow-up mattress, four boys and a sea of pale gray carpet.

I pretend that I will become a willowy, silver-haired chef in a teeny seafood cafe with open geranium windows.

I feel elastic,
spicy,
full of the buzz of the shift and the high of spontaneous, aromatic creation.

I touch the soft
inner bellies of scallops and the stringy stems of thyme
beaded with tiny, rough leaflets.

I worry about drug culture, pot heads and psychedelic mushrooms eroding personal drive.

I ask the world, if I wasn't scared what would I do Out West, in this new life.

I am camping in a house with a blow-up mattress, four boys and a sea of pale gray carpet.

I understand that the bright, blue of the sky, over the gold hills is an illusion of light scattering selectively.

I believe that avocados are verdant medicine and fall from their trees on cords like gifts being lowered to us.

I dream of playing that fiddle that is in a box, on a truck, on the highway and
making it sing past the beginner tunes I learned in high school, 
revving on into huapango, zydeco and bluegrass.

I trust that all things are a lesson, that nothing is without use and that God is filled with compassion.

I hope for rain this winter
green hills and a season of growth.
I am camping in a house with a blow-up mattress, four boys and a sea of pale gray carpet.

Poetry Friday: A Winter Poem

Happy Poetry Friday to one and all....hope you have a great weekend...maybe even a long one for those whose employers observe? Am still feeling a bit of the February doldrums today. The only thing that really seems to keep it seriously at bay is home renovation and cleaning projects. (Yes, I am a walking hormone riddled cliche.)

candle (Photo credit: JustyCinMD)

Every single weekend can't be a marathon of painting and dusting, sometimes other activities call. Am writing a winter poem today to boost the enthusiasm for the season that can not be entirely blotted out by home improvement projects and re-organization plans.

Winter’s Tail

The living room air smells faintly burnt
The ashy, cozy scent of December and January
Months of smoke whorling off the spacious mantle.
The frozen metropolis holds my mate and so
I sit here, boys in my lap, pacing storybooks
Watching winter pass, night after fiery night
We light the hearth to launch my husband home
Post-dinner sparks to return our human cannon-ball

There are mad, snowy caterpillars crawling all our sills
Green tips on the potted lemon taunting in the sunroom
I clatter all the dishes loudly, shuttling them into a rinse
Then kiss children dream-ward and I drain the tub
My sponge swims tired whorls up the sides, the air
Still enough to hear the drain gargle away to a hiss.
I pour myself a sultry cup of solo chai, drunk feet-up
The spoon's final pass is the sharp ring of a holy bell.

The house does the jig of the season, panes rattling percussively
A hilarious interruption of the silence, lest it all feel too still
I dim the couch-side light elegantly, a candle burning on the table
I swathe my hips in the couch throw and imagine the train hurtling on
I check the back porch switch and watch light fern on the walk
And sit listless with my book reading that same line over and over
Until the back lock chatters and suddenly he stamps in grinning,
His hair all twisting whorls dusted with the glint of sugar snow.


If you want to read other poetry contributions, original or that real, published, high quality stuff....jog on over to Gathering of Books for the round up of great links. Its a good way to tell your brain TGIF.

Poetry Friday: A Moment of Peace

Happy Poetry Friday to you all! I hope the weekend carries you off into a pillowed August dream, full of sunbeams and ripe peaches, distant lawnmowers and cicada song.

Image via Wikipedia

Today I am playing with a little poetic device, one of those mind tricks to peer out over the edge of "the box" and get my brain thinking differently. I started with a list of one syllable words with the challenge being, to try to write a poem of entirely one syllable words...in fifty words or less. I can get too wordy way too fast. I need to work on being succinct, so this is me, practicing.

Image by rpongsaj via Flickr

The Bracelet

In the pink new day
While my spouse snores
I sip back stoop tea
And let my ear wind
Skeins of high bird song,
Sweet thread with no heft,
Each scale thrown in a loop
Eyes closed, I knit them snug
A braid of peace for my wrist.

Today, you can find the other Poetry Friday participants offering all kinds of great verse at Karen Edmisten's blog. Hop on over and have a little look see!

I'll be back, on Monday!

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)