It is the season
of newness
of flowering
of fresh color
of cloudless sky
so blue it hurts
it is the season
of grass
of earth
of birth
of birds
of Eastertide hatchlings
leaving nests
to wing their way
through the world
it is the season
of contemplation
of existence
of life
of purpose
of time
not standing still
and therefore being
infinitely
piercingly
precious
Micah contemplates pink sorrel and a piece of pine straw
Late one evening
when I was a child
I rode in the car
beside my father
when he turned
onto our street
I saw, up ahead
dead in the center
a light
Look at that,
I said, a light
in the middle of the road!
Daddy chuckled
—it’s not in the road,
that’s the lamppost
in our yard.
When I see it, I know
that’s home
All these years later
I can still see it
from so far away
glowing in the dark
in the center of it all
Maybe it’s me
when I look at you
I see
maybe it’s me
❤
Me at six months and my granddaughter, Micah, at six months.
Overlords of sea and sky
Sunward soaring, unafraid
Precise piscivore pair
Riding the winds with
Easy grace
You see and seize the moment
Osprey pair. Photo by my friend E. Johnson.
“Fierce beauty,” as Sy Montgomery would say.
Flipping through my planner today, scheduling even more things to be done before school is out in June, I discover this quote…
We go through things we never imagined but it may lead us to places we never dreamed.
For just a fraction, a breath, the brokenness of things diminishes…
I could write of this school year’s hardships on colleagues, with colleagues, on families, and on children most of all…
of COVID still rearing its tiny invisible head in the community…
of young and beautiful creatures that have died…
of incomprehensible suffering and loss…
but I will write instead of lush green moments, the “birdiest” spring I’ve ever known, an abundance of wings and chatter and song each day, so many things I’ve never seen before, like a pair of great blue herons flying low over the road from pond to brush…
my son arriving at home, placing his baby daughter in my arms, her tiny sweet hand reaching to pat my face as she drinks from her bottle…
a newness that is more than seasonal, invoking the eternal like shafts of sunlight in shadowed places…
for just a fraction, a breath, I have a sense of undoing, of forests, animals, people restored, rejoicing, the Earth itself laughing, the whole atmosphere charged with absolution, pure, deep, and complete…a bright glimmering, a pulled curtain quickly falling back into place.
It is enough.
I turn the pages and keep writing on my tomorrows.
One-week-old finches
sport mohawks with drowsy pride
in their tiny nest
There are actually four baby finches in the nest on my front door wreath,
one of whom was Little Blue Egg.
This photo was taken a week after they hatched on Easter.
Finch eggs in a nest
on my front door wreath
captivated me
to such a degree
that I failed to see
what was happening
outside the back door:
a bright flash of blue
disappearing in
the little bird church
-bluebird occupants
brought Easter eggs, too.
On my back deck, Easter afternoon: a male bluebird is either bringing food to his mate or helping to feed babies. He entered and exited multiple times; once I was sure he was flying off with a bright blue piece of eggshell. These are the first-ever occupants of the little bird church, which has just been sitting on the deck as decor. I’ve seen the female as well. So hoping to get photos of bluebird babies soon (I need a better camera…this was taken with my phone through the kitchen window and screen).
My soul rejoices in this proliferation of feathered life, that songbirds have chosen my home for their own.
How lovely is your dwelling place,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longs, yes, faints
for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and flesh sing for joy
to the living God.
Even the sparrow finds a home,
and the swallow a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young,
at your altars, O Lord of hosts,
my King and my God.
Psalm 84: 1-3
Today on Ethical ELA Sheri Vasinda invites teacher-poets to compose “How to be” poems for VerseLove, in honor of National Poetry Month. The idea is to choose a topic, research it, list facts, and write a poem incorporating those facts in a Do/Do Not format. Sheri says students love this. Imagine their awe at seeing facts take on poetic form…and the power they find in it.
I’ve written of seahorses before; they fascinate me for many reasons. As a writer, the seahorse remains one of my favorite symbols.
How To Be a Seahorse
Don’t worry about being the slowest swimmer
in the sea;
just anchor your prehensile tail to long grasses
so that strong currents
don’t drown you
Don’t worry about your posture
being different from other fish;
let them be horizontal
you stay upright
Don’t worry about having no teeth
and no stomach
and no etiquette;
rejoice that your loud lip-smacking vacuum
enables you to eat constantly
so you can stay alive
Don’t worry about not having scales;
wear your bony armor
with befitting chivalry
Don’t worry how other fish do it;
you find someone
you blush, you flush bright colors
you court for a few days
prim and proper
keeping apart at night
meeting again just after dawn
—ye who are males, step up
sacrifice your own time and energy
on behalf of your beloved
by carrying the babies for her
(even if there ARE 2000 of them)
-out of all the universe
you be Dad Extraordinaire
and commit
for life
Never mind—if you do—
that your scientific name means
“horse sea monster”
—just wonder, if only you can,
little Hippocampus
why your very likeness
is embedded deep
in the temporal lobe
of the human brain
as the central storehouse
for emotion
for learning
for the vast, rolling sea
of human memory.
You can’t worry about that, Seahorse.
Just keep rolling your eyes
in every direction
independently of each other
and swim
(if ever so slowly)
onward
*******
with special thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge
On Day 10 of National Poetry Month, my friend Margaret Simon invites teacher-poets to compose a definito poem for VerseLove on Ethical ELA. It’s a form invented by her friend Heidi Mordhorst: “A free verse poem of 8-12 lines (aimed at readers 8-12 years old) that highlights wordplay as it demonstrates the meaning of a less common word, which always ends the poem.” Margaret’s suggestions: “Choose a word that has a certain fascination to you. You can look for the Word of the Day or any word that comes to mind. Play with the etymology of the word. What do the sounds mean? How does the meaning play with your thoughts? Explore the word using imagery, metaphor, and word play.”
So… I tried, I really tried, two things: 1) Getting away from my OLW, “awe” and 2) Keeping to the recommended 8-12 lines. I failed in both. I did, however, have a lot of fun with the unfolding of this pseudo-definito…
Awe “Definito”
So, Children,
maybe you have seen something
so wonderful
that you went all shivery inside
and maybe your skin
even got tingly
or goosebumpy
a thing
so beautiful
that you don’t have a word
for how beautiful it is
the feeling you get when
the sun’s slanted golden light
breaks through the clouds
after a storm
or when you see a rainbow,
(not made with crayons,
a real one) in the misty height,
colors glimmering, glowing, blurring,
an ethereal sight
—ethereal? Sorry. It means
to be so airy and light and beautiful
that the thing almost doesn’t belong
to this world
like stars, crystal-bright
against the black-velvet sky
on a winter’s night
maybe you have felt their stab of
silvery coldness, looking up
while your breath
hangs white
in the air
—yeah, that’s the feeling;
should we stop to
discuss metaphor
again?
No, it doesn’t have to be cold.
It can be a rush of warmth
on seeing a puppy
tiny, pink-mouthed, and so new
that its eyes are not yet open
—please note: The word is not spelled
the same way as what you say:
Awwww!
This, Children, is a homophone,
a poem for another day—
and the feeling might not come
from something you see
at all.
It can come from something you hear.
Once I was in an auditorium
where a girl who was trained in opera
sang just one high note;
her lips never moved
I couldn’t see her breathing
and the sound grew bigger
and bigger
and bigger
until the room
and my brain
and my heart
were filled, almost bursting
with the pure, clear
starlike sound
-oh yes, I can tell by your eyes
and your open mouths
that you are beginning
to understand
awe.
After the tornado
Yesterday on Ethical ELA’s VerseLove, Scott McCloskey invited teacher-poets to compose around “tell me without telling me,” the popular social media meme from a few years ago: “Tell us (through vivid sensory details and whatnot) that you are __________ without telling us you are __________. ” In his model, Scott masterfully incorporated many fragments of famous poems that have inspired him to write, followed by this reveal: “Tell me you’re a poet without telling me you’re a poet.”
So for Day 9 of National Poetry Month, here’s mine… it incorporates bits I’ve written before… and there’s SO much more to write…
It all began, I suppose,
in a darkened room
when Grandma plugged
this thing called a color wheel…
it sat on the floor, rotating, illuminating
the all-foil Christmas tree.
There in the dark
the sparkling silver tree
transitioned to red, blue, gold…
a stillness, a riveting
There was a girl
in my childhood church
who played the piano
accompanying the sanctuary choir.
Once, she stood alone
in front of the handbell table
reaching, grasping,
her white-gloved hands
a blur of choreography
playing those bells solo
never missing a note.
She was sixteen.
a stillness, a holding of breath
I don’t remember
learning how to read.
It was just a thing I could do.
But in fourth grade, the teacher
(built like a mountain, with a face
and heart of carved stone)
read to us every day.
An intelligent, artistic spider
who saved a less-than-radiant pig.
A boy who didn’t want that annoying,
subversive, endearing, ol’ yeller dog
that ended up saving his life,
before picking up the shotgun…
My God. My God.
I almost died with that dog
and there have been books
in my hands,
in stacks by my bed,
ever since.
a stillness, an absorbing
There’s more, so much more.
At nineteen,
walking into the community theater audition
where the handsomest man I ever saw
sat with a script…
we were married in less than six months.
Thirty-seven years this summer.
Two years in, when he said he was called
to preach, I said
Well, you’ll be miserable
unless you do.
a stillness, an abiding
Our oldest son saying
over and over
I’ll never go in the ministry.
It’s too hard a life.
Not getting married or
having any kids, either.
Just after he enrolled
in seminary,
he met a lovely young lady
with a little daughter
named for the title character
of his favorite book.
In the fullness of time
and in the span of a month
he became a husband, father,
and pastor.
It was ordained. Jehovah jireh.
God provides.
Last fall, he named his newborn daughter
Micah. Which means
Who is like God?
Indeed, who?
I am still, and know.
*******
(Tell me you are awed without telling me you are awed)
(likely to be continued…)
lit bits and pieces 