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: Secret Apple Code

Happy Poetry Friday to you all! Its late at night and the house is quiet....I have had a dreamy day out with some of the best company and have wakened my mind up in a redwood forest. Its a good night for a poem and even though this one came dragged out of me in a tangled fashion, I hope it will be worth sharing with others. I liked listening to my brain stumble through the meanings and the unsnarling of the steps of the story. 

I forget how much writing poetry can feel just like meditation, like painting and like yoga when I sink in properly. Its best done in a dark house after everyone has gone to sleep, I think. You can finally get into the thick and flowing weight of the process if you have no voices left, no other presence and no one but you, even your physical self snoozing in the computer chair really while your brain and your soul work macrame with ideas and thoughts and personal truth. This is why I mean to read poetry and mean to write it. 

This week, a poem about the story of this beautiful little apple and how it came to be mine and how in the world despite its stunning beauty, I managed to have it disappoint me. 

An Apple Lesson

I wanted it to be most sweet, a tangy, juicy pleasure

Instead it punched me bitterly, a plug of sour, drying feathers. 

It was the largest on the tree, its skin all pinkly blushing

The freckles on its spherical cheek all winking at me flushly.

The children playing squirrel games had buried all the others 

A row of mole-hills neatly made, with marble apples under.

I noticed all their digging work, each stick that marked a pile. 

I heard the secret offerings arranged for deer in sylvan style. 

The meaning of each twig and heap, the messages spelled out

When every plan had been described, oblations all laid out

I told them if I was a doe, I'd be most grateful to them each

And have a secret thrill to find their message and the treats. 

Attention is a cheerful gift, a momentary pleasure

A child who is listened to grows dignified and tender

Because I entered in their world, my fingers in the dirt

My head inclined and face awake, my spirit in the work

They paused and then behind a back emerged this largest pome

The rusted ruby biggest fruit, unburied and alone

They gave it to me as a gift, a gesture peer to peer.

Their largest apple never laid in sacred mounds for deer.

I thanked the little architects who'd shared their schemes with me

And made a circuit through the park, a gleeful apple posessee

I cupped it in my hand and tossed and felt its weighty cool

With glittering eyes I breathed and rubbed it to a ruddy yule. 

The tartan flannel of my shirt my regal buffing cloth

My lucky apple, sparking bright, held vampishly aloft. 

Alas, this prize of children and my adultish greedy yen 

Had a jolting oral skirmish when I bit into the skin.

Not every beauty that we find is there to be consumed. 

Some gifts are handheld sermons made of eloquent festoons. 

Our Poetry Friday roundup being hosted this week by The Miss Rhumphius Effect. Please join in or read along any week that the urge strikes you, this friendly group of poets and poetry lovers has no limits or rules about participation and has been so welcoming to me. Please come along if you like!

Secretary In Training

I love me some little boy cuteness. Dee is"writing" on his own a lot lately and practicing holding pens behind his ear on the sly. Mommy doesn't say a word. I don't think he knows I saw.

Poetry Friday: A Botany Poem

I have been soaking in Amy Merrick's stunning blog An Apple A Day whenever I get a spare minute. Between that, spring being present and spring cleaning addling my brain a bit my thoughts have become quite blossom-soaked. Why fight it? Spring wants to be center-stage...so let her.

Flowers on Dancing Woman (Photo credit: TheArches)

My poem today is all about this very favorite season of mine...and maybe explains a bit of the madness we all feel suddenly at this time of year. May she ever shake her blossomy mane on my street....

Sunlit leaves in spring with and without backlight (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Once A Sensualist Dame...

Spring is doing her passionate tarentella
All down our block and the next one too
Pursing her bold red tulips and fiercely
Kicking up chartruese, grassy spears.
She shakes her tinkling forsythia mane
And drops rings of daffodil at every door.
She lays herself a rosy, blossom rug on
The corner under the lush magnolia tree.
Where she blows a flirty kiss of pear petal
Confetti after every oblivious, passing car.
She winks a forget-me-not eye in each yard,
Reaches her long, leaf-tipped limbs skyward
And performs a saucy, hosta-fringed hip-roll
That always leaves my old house open-doored
Lolling dusty rugs from every window.

Wall painting from Stabiae: Flora with the cornucopia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You can find the other Poetry Friday participants contributions over at Book Talk, today's host blog. Feel free to chip in with your own additions too! Participation is open to all....just link up and join the throng.

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: Married Love

Happy Poetry Friday one and all! I hope you've survived this chilly week in style and are launching into a weekend that will treat you well. I am a walking stereotype, the biggest thing I'm looking forward to is a grocery shopping trip to fortify the house with all my food cravings. Heh. That's what you get when a pregnant woman tells you about her inner life.

Image by Jennuine Captures via Flickr

Sharing a love poem today. This is only the second one I've ever written and although I aspire to emit bodies of amorous verse it doesn't come easily to me. I am very wary of mush and trite sentiment and also of untruth both of which seem more icky than sweet to me.

 Carving Our Initials

Here in our tenth year of marriage, Love has arrived

Gently swooping in to roost in the dormer over our heads.

It came when we traded totems, I saw you let go of your

Iron plans and glinting thoughts to consider and hold mine,

Smooth in my hands like beach stones, well worn and loved.

I have seen you open your mind like a creaking Dutch door,

Allowed it to sag agape, not closing out the interior glimpse.

You have seen me halved like a avocado, showing you my

Damp pit, and you have looked, open eyed on my green center.

Love has been born in our mutual loss and in the tender

Hope that grows up like a bright shoot pressed between

Two people feeling powerless in each others arms.

If you would like to sample the other contributions for this week's Poetry Friday celebration, click over to Wild Rose Reader where our host Elaine is compiling a list of participating bloggers.

Poetry Friday: A Color Poem

Happy Poetry Friday! Am feeling a little poetically dry today so I made use of this poetry form to write a little fill-in-the-blank poem about color. Looking through my photos suggested the color I should work on should be orange so I gave it a go.

The form basically works you through how the color you select comes through all five senses. How would it sound? How would it taste? Etc. Kind of a fun exercise. I was the most stumped by how orange sounded.

I have historically had very little to do with this color as I can't wear it super easily but it does suddenly seem relevant and somehow lighthearted.

I'm going to paint our bedroom a soft glowy orange and the kid bath on our second floor will eventually be a bright corally shade. It is the age of citrus. My inner 1970's inhabitant is jubilant, I'm sure; goldenrod the herald of the era returns.

Shades Of Citrus Season

Orange
A snapping bonfire
Curving sickle slices of canteloupe
The pricked ears of a fox
The lyric gush of cider from the jug
The caramel thrum of a cello
The sizzing sputter a sparkler makes
Nose tweaking ginger, grated fresh
A latte heavily sprinkled with cinnamon
Braised meat falling richly off the bone
The electric zap of midwinter static
The shush of cross country skiis
Th rattle of dried beans, poured through the fingers
Orange can swirl richly or zip, by turns.

Check out the Poetry Friday roundup over at Madigan Reads.

Related articles

• "The Color Orange" (itsinfoworld.wordpress.com)
• Color In Design: Orange (blogs.sitepoint.com)

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)

Poetry Friday: A Peachy Memory

Even in January we can have a day in laud of peaches. So say I.

Last night for dinner, I cracked open a jar of our homemade canned peaches for the boys as a treat before we left for our weekly parents-only-date. Home canned peaches can be counted on as a reliably well received treat. I love remembering summertime as I open each jar and thinking fondly of how great this summer ahead of us will feel when it finally arrives.  I love that they can so well so that I can keep these golden reminders in my pantry.

And then this morning, cleaning out the diaper bag, I found this poem that I wrote over Thanksgiving break, wedged into a pocket. Seems like fortuitous timing.

A bunch of the folks in A's family are writerly types and since there were lots of us word lovers all together in one place we decided to write poetry. Searching for some unifying theme to write on, we settled on Mahatma Gandhi's Seven Deadly Sins, and each of us selected one. I chose "Pleasure Without Conscience" and used a peach as my vehicle. Happy Poetry Friday!

                                A peach in my hand, during canning this past August.

Peachy Keen
"Stolen water is sweet, food eaten in secret is delicious." - Proverbs 9:17

I tell you, Old Solomon
Can keep his guilt-sweet water
 I'm full up myself on the
Zinging, musical chin-drip
Experience of this single peach
Sun-warmed, love-fed, brought
To market in the back of an
Honest man's pick-up
No semi-haul, pest-spray, gmo-fest
Lowered-standards, mealy-fleshed corner cutter
Just 8 hard earned dollars from
My tip apron
And a sunset globe in his open
Brown hand that has wiped the
Sweat from an honest brow.

 If you feel like joining in on Poetry Friday or reading more poems today, hop on over to Laura's blog.

Poetry Friday: A Poem About Inner Workings

 I am often asked how and sometimes why I do so much ("with three kids", they say incredulously!) besides just the laundry and the vacuuming...how is fuzzy...it's helter skelter, it's sometimes messy, it's creativity and prioritization and a million little invented systems to make it all work...but, why?

That's the poem for today.

Machinery Maintenance
I create, to keep my shiny, inner gears twirling.
The wild smudge of cyan on my brush tip
Is antidote to the angsty smear in my mind.
All these poems and paintings and frittatas
 I throw them tumbling madly from:
My hands, my soul, my brain, my very self.
If I stopped, I'm afraid the works would gum.
I would hate to see my interior hum,
Grind to a slow, pained, sticky glugg
The psychologist would put his ear
To my chest and furrow his brow
"Hmm...I'd say she's stalled. Still living,
But just kind of frozeny-glued up inside.
We see it all the time with these mothers.
I wouldn't worry.
She's good for another 40 years!"

To see other Poetry Friday participants in action, visit: The Poem Farm