with thanks to Kim Johnson for this invitation on Ethical ELA’s Open Write Today: “The interplay between the title and one word can provide context, illumination, and clarification, emphasizing the importance of title in poetry. The title can be as long as you wish. Write a one-word poem.”
Here goes…
Of Stars, Songs, Baby Granddaughters Learning to Talk, and the Devotion in a Dog’s Eyes
Infinity
with thanks to Kim Johnson for the inspiration on Ethical ELA’s Open Write today. Kim offers the monostitch form: “a strong sense of connection between a title and a poem of one line inspires the writer to consider the relationship between the title and the word.”
And so I share an observation from today…
Heaven’s So Near
Little girl sings The cattle are lowing…preacher-Grandpa’s face is streaked with tears.
Here’s a two-line version, for good measure:
Heaven is Near
Little girl plays in the floor, singing so pure, so clear: The cattle are lowing…
Preacher-man Grandpa rests in his recliner, listening, face streaked with tears.
Familiar cheeping
at dusk, out on the front porch
-can it really be?
Opening the door
a fluttering of feathered wings
-the finches remain?
Should I be so blessed?
I shall need to buy some seed
for the frost has come.
House Finch with Goldfinch. beaucon. CC BY-NC 2.0.
House finches are regular nesters in my front door wreath from Eastertime through the summer; I have not been aware of their remaining so close by in the autumn months. They aren’t nesting now and as yet I haven’t ascertained where exactly they’re living, only that it’s somewhere near the porch. I see them fly when we pull up in the driveway, and when we open the front door. I can’t even get a good look at them; they’re being evasive.
Their presence lifts my spirit immeasurably: Take heart, be of good cheer, we are still here… the fluttering of wings was so near my face when I opened the door in the dark after hearing the familiar bird voice. It wasn’t alarming. Out in the yawning chasm of night flew the little bird, with my soul tethered to it by inexplicable hope.
The Boy and I
are stargazing
with our SkyView
phone apps
reading names:
Dabih
Mirzam
Capella
Aldebaran
Taygeta
Elnath
Tien Kwan
Betelgeuse
Fomalhaut
Altair
Vega
Deneb
the Pleiades
—makes me remember
that God knows all the stars
and calls them by name
I tell The Boy.
His face is turned up
toward the glittering heavens
after a long moment
he speaks:
I wonder what names
they are.
—Me, too, Boy.
He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name. – Psalm 147:4
The preacher man sat
open Bible in his hands
immersed in the Word
little dog took note
claiming some light for himself
as good creatures do
Dennis assisting the preacher
The poet asked:
What is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
The inner critic replies:
Things are what they are.
Can’t change much now.
Don’t even think about it.
The writer-soul contradicts:
What changes shall I make TODAY?
The possibilities
are exhilarating.
For, in the end,
one’s wild and precious life
is all about
craftsmanship
and
belief.
The cover of my daily planner
–with gratitude for the late Mary Oliver and her poem, The Summer Day–
On my drive to work
at the stop sign
where the grassy green field
borders the rail-fence pasture
where two horses graze
beside the goat pen
where fat little
brown-and-white goats
rest atop their knees
beside the still waters
of the glassy pond
with rising mist
I see a man
walking his old, old dog
(its body is black
but its face as white
as snow)
as I pass
they walk and walk
in the autumn-chill
of another new day
against a backdrop
of brilliant red-orange-gold
and moody sky
the dog’s amber eyes gleam
as it it chugs along
despite weary bones
somehow
this continuity
this reliability
this faithfulness
every morning
is a tonic
to my soul
a shot of goodness
an understanding
that in the far, quiet reaches
something is right
so right
with the world
Beautiful Micah-girl:
Your big sister has decided
that the leggings
of the fall outfit
I got for your birthday
are “bonfire red”…
that is now
officially
my favorite color.
If I could
make time stand still
I would have made
this one bright day
last for years
just me and you
bathed in brilliant
sharp-edged
autumn light
your beautiful pensive
baby face
considering
fallen willow-oak leaves
stretching beneath us
like a russet rug
as you swing
in and out
of my shadow
you cannot know
(not now, anyway)
how I treasure
these moments
this day
and you
but one day you will
oh, if I could make
time stand still
The Boy and I
walking under
the evening sky:
he notes the bright, bright star
glittering high
—not a star, say I
that’s Jupiter
and that’s Saturn,
right over there—
I take out my phone
open an app
hold it to the sky
aim at these ‘stars’
up pop the planets
on the fly
—oh, the awe
in The Boy’s eyes—
he shows me his watch
I didn’t know
he’d set its face
to the solar system
planets positioned in orbits
line by line:
I know where they are
but I didn’t know I
could actually see them
in the sky
—what app is that??
—SkyView, say I
in an instant
The Boy has downloaded it
and is turning every which way
phone pointed
at the night sky
—Mars is right there
by the streetlight! he cries
I LOVE this,
says he,
by and by
I watch him
with a sigh
remembering how
he first fell in love
with planets
around age five
The Boy’s solar system artwork, created for me about twenty years ago.
It remains taped to the back of my bedroom door.
lit bits and pieces 