Father Christmas Smiles Gray

Another Poem. Season's Greetings!

This is the view from my window. What's yours—physically or emotionally?

Father Christmas Smiles Gray

The river, she is busy today.

Roiled and irritated

runs ahead of the storm,

a grab for the Gulf and warmer climes.

Dry leaves chatter, "Foul,"

to the southern blow.

"Make up your mind, it's December,

we've given all."

The neighbor's awkward palms

planted out of place, 

wave their fronds

like silly schoolgirls—cry, "Bully."

Swaying on the banks,

naked cypress wag

lacy Spanish moss north or south

harlots to any passing gusts.

Red vinca hold fast their bed;

snap like a matador's cape,

"Bring it ON,"

they taunt the North wind.

Now tears of rain splash dance

cold across the surface.

Father Christmas Smiles Gray

in Southwest Louisiana.

Winter Thanks

In winter I lean toward melancholy. I tend to leech happiness from nature's color.  

Today I wrote a poem and wanted to share. 

Winter Thanks

The gold and copper jewels

lay scattered brown across the lawn.    
A week ago their glitter

shimmered in the breezes.

Bare branches beseech the sky,

or is it praise?

Upstretched thanks for the rest.

Sap’s down with a winter nap.

Frozen Kingdom

Recently, freezing rain shocked our south Louisiana sensibilities. As I sat warm in my living room, I watched some brown finches duck under a leafy green bush near the porch to escape the icy drizzle. While I pondered the small birds plight, white accumulated on the wood planks of our wharf. Mist rose from the chilled river in buffs that scurried across the ripples from the North Wind's breath.
Twice in sunny weather, I've spotted a bald eagle taking flight from the trees on the far bank. It prompted me to write this poem:

Frozen Kingdom

Where is the eagle?
Where does he roost in an unlikely storm?
The sparrow hops beneath the evergreen,
but not his majesty.
No cover for the king, whose wings require space.
Free to rise above his realm—
glide the frozen pathways of the wind.

Around 10am, hoping to glean some warmth through osmosis and a familiar laugh, I called my aunt in Phoenix. As we spoke I looked out the window and perched on a dead pine, 150 feet in the air sat my eagle. I ran to get the binoculars. This is my third sighting and the first time I've seen him perched. His backside towards me, he glance over his shoulder to reveal that magestic white head and hooked beak, and I saw his eye close. From this direction, I'm not sure if he was blinking or if that was a wink, but with that he took wing and was gone.
What a writing prompt—what motivates you?

carnose

fresh paper, like fresh meat
a ravenous appetite
to touch the lined sheet
tear nourishment from my pen
rip the fear
calm the hunger pangs

striations

            the grain of wood
            a tree’s life measure
            jagged and stained
            knotted beauty
            cut and sanded

            pillar and post
            sound foundation
            pressed over time
            striations of strength
            weather the storms
        
         

Poetry in Your Pocket

April is National Poetry Month, according to the Academy of American Poets, and they’d like us to celebrate by carrying a “Poem in Your Pocket.” It’s a fun idea to energize a flagging spirit. You find a cherished poem from childhood or write one yourself, keep it in your pocket or purse, and gift it to someone. If you’re a teacher, it’s suggested you make class more exciting in April by giving extra credit if someone can produce a poem from their pocket. http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/406

I took a Leisure Learning class at McNeese State University in February. Our lovely instructor, Connie McDonald, inspired us with her enthusiasm and knowledge, dragging our winter weary minds into spring with some fun poetry exercises. My middle-aged mind hesitated at first, then grabbed the rope and took a step. Swinging out over the river of imagination, I let go and enjoyed the metaphor and mechanism that poetry embraces. When our four weeks were over, I wished it could have been a few nights longer.

For the next few months, I’m committing to blog about different types of poetry and encourage you to carry in your pocket that Shell Silverstein poem you read your kids a million times, or the Langston Hughes or E. B. Browning poem that gave you goose-bumps the first time you heard it. http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets.html  When you see a long face at the grocery store, or that special person at work who makes you laugh, gift them with a poem. Let’s celebrate. Happy Easter.

       The Swing                                                             

       by Robert Louis Stevenson

How do you like to go up in a swing,

    Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
    Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

    Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
    Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green
     Down on the roof so brown
Up in the air I go flying again,
     Up in the air and down!

Home

As the leaves fell in September, I remember my despair. My mind ached with the coming gray and bare, the monochrome of winter in South Louisiana. There's no promise of snow here, that fresh fall of magic, waking in the morning to white silence; the reverent beauty that washes the soul. I remember January in Michigan. Shovel in hand, the romance fades; snow turns to gray and fluff to mush.

I pass the barren woods near my house and recall my earlier fears. Striped of its green undergrowth, the new horizon, unseen in summer, stands naked and proud, majestic, serene, uncomplicated. My backyard hosts several ruffly azaleas, dotting the landscape with whimsy. Last year's green lay yellow and dormant beneath the final fallen leaves while perfumed hyacinths sway top heavy with white blossoms. Down the street February Camillas scream spring, dressed in their red finery. Along the country highway thousands of birds, reminiscent of Hitchcock, swoop and dance in migratory clouds, performing avian acrobatics, above fallow fields and unconcerned cows. This is home now, I feel it in my bones, or maybe it's that northeaster blowing in for one last who-rah.

April - Poetry Month

April , if you have not been informed, is National Poetry Month. Only two weeks into this month and it has been full to overflowing, ALREADY. A few days ago, I planted our little garden patch, and I'm living on Ibuprophen. Hallalujah, Spring has Sprung (my back).

But it's a beautiful time of year, especially in Southwest Louisiana. Because of my many committments, I'm finding little time to ply my trade of writing, and I'm hungry. Poetry is what I need--verse compacted, a good measure, tamped down, spilling over and covering the junk that needs to be done. My good friend, Marsha Kushner reommended www.poets.org . I went this morning and had a fiest. Enjoy.

Poetry in Progress...,

My mind cloudy,
floating, white, puffy
mass of moist possibility.
Imagination molocules
rise through the formless void.

Linear thoughts
obstruct the view,
vaporized per chance to dream.
Awesome wonder decorates
my clouded mind.