acrostic

Dictionary poem

/ Fran Haley / 16 Comments

Katrina Morrison hosted the March Open write at Ethical ELA on Tuesday.

Her invitation: I am calling [this] a“Dictionary Poem.” If anything can define and expound upon the meaning of a word, it is poetry…pick a word to take apart and put back together in a poem. Begin with the dictionary definition of the word. Obviously, some words will offer multiple meanings. Craft your poem however you will. After the definition, expound upon the word’s meaning…the vicissitudes of life may direct you to write a haiku or a villanelle or free verse today.

I will NOT be attempting the villanelle again anytime soon; I wrestled that form to the ground on Saturday and haven’t recouped the stamina yet to give it another go. I went with an acrostic, because the word “shards” stays in my mind, and I keep turning it around and playing with it anyway, to find out all it wants to tell me. I love this word, so…the poem:

Defining

shard

  (shärd) also sherd (shûrd)

n.

1. A broken piece or fragment, as of pottery or glass.

2. Zoology A tough scale or covering, such as the elytron of a beetle.

—Dictionary.com

The Poet’s interpretation:

shards

plural

sharp-edged fragments of memory, or

seeking healing among remnants, despite suffering

Somewhere in the shattering
Healing awaits, disguised
As sharp points
Ready to draw yet more blood…
Dare to touch the memories. Discover
Scattered diamondlight, all around.

Image: beasternchen. Pixabay.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge

Otters

/ Fran Haley / 15 Comments

My granddaughter, Micah, loves otters.

It is my fault.

Last summer, when she was just a year-and-three quarters old, I showed her a clip of a squealing baby otter in water for the first time (I find this scenario confusing but I’ve chosen to accept it for the time being).

Her dad, my son, recorded her reaction…oh, and that’s Dennis, of course. He has to be in the middle of everything:

On every subsequent visit, Micah has asked to see the baby otter.

I’ve played the clip a million times.

Naturally I started buying her otter toys.

Micah’s Mama gave her the CUTEST otter bedroom slippers for her second birthday (I so wish I had a photo; I must get one).

Imagine my delight upon finding this blanket at Christmastime:

Micah adores it so much that she must have it now to go to sleep.

This gives my Franna-heart so much joy, as she’s struggled with going to sleep all of her little life.

When she stays at my house, she will crawl into my lap and say, “Snuggle. Need baby otter blanket.”

So I carry her to retrieve it. We return to the sofa. I wrap the baby otters around her, rocking gently, gently, until she drifts off.

And I will hold her for ever how long it takes, until she wakes.

Once in a while
There comes a creature so wondrous
That you will hold it close forever
Embracing joy, erasing fear…
Rest here against Franna’s beating heart
Sleep, my darling, sleep.

*******

Composed for Day 12 of the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers

Screenshot

/ Fran Haley / 8 Comments

Usually it’s the sound of cicadas that stirs my soul, their rattling courtship-chorus reaching a feverish crescendo in late August. Summer hits its brutal zenith just before it begins to die. Interesting how August means to increase.

On the last Sunday of August, it’s not the sound of cicadas which captivates me.

It’s the sight of one clinging to the screen in the kitchen window, early in the morning.

So still that I wonder if it’s dead.

I am tempted to go out and see, but I don’t. Let it be. If it’s dead, it will still be there after church and I’ll save its body to show the granddaughters. Cicadas are big insects that evoke terror in many people; I do not want the girls to fear them. The antidote to fear is understanding. Study. Fear not. Maybe even learn to love.

I take a photo instead.

It is a dark morning, like the one in the sermon text for this day, Mark 1:35: Jesus rises “very early in the morning, while it was still dark” to find a desolate place to pray. He’d spent the previous day healing the sick, including Simon Peter’s mother-in-law, and driving out demons.

When I return home, the cicada is gone.

Not dead.

All I have is this snapshot of it resting alone in a quiet place on the grid, with the crape myrtle by the old dog’s grave blooming in the background.

I could write an entire book, perhaps, on the symbolism and metaphor here.

I settle for a poem.

Clinging to the grid
In respite from work
Crape myrtle abloom
August’s crescendo is the last
Defying death in the wings
As love drives resurrection

The cicada and crape myrtle are symbols of life, longevity, immortality, and resurrection.
Summer is dying, but only for now.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge

Blessing

/ Fran Haley / 19 Comments

noun

a favor or gift bestowed by God, thereby bringing happiness.

—Dictionary.com

*******

I could hardly wait to get home yesterday to check the progress of the new finch nest on my door wreath.

On Day Two, it now has the characteristic cup shape. It’s lined with white fuzz, a soft cushion for the precious eggs to come.

It is comprised almost exclusively of fresh green grass. The color of newness and life.

House finches are said to represent new beginnings.

Their nests always fill me with awe, and never more than now, watching the parents working together to rebuild immediately after two of their babies died in the previous nest, which I tore down. Confession: I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing. Nature is mighty, ever-resilient, wise; it is imbued with regenerative power. Yet there are so many delicate balances within it. I didn’t want to upset any of these. I am a mere student of these birds. They are the experts.

So to see this nest being built in the exact spot as the ill-fated former one is a gift. It sends my spirits soaring, exponentially.

House finches are considered symbols of joy. If you ever hear one singing, you understand why.

In some parts of the world, they’re called the blessing bird.

They chose my door years ago as the place to bring new life into the world. I now share the wonder of it with my seven-year-old granddaughter, our “nurture scientist.” Together we have witnessed the miracle of tiny life coming into existence and eventually taking flight. In a couple more seasons, her baby sister will be able to enjoy it, too.

After I took this photo of the new nest, rejoicing and wondering when the first egg will appear, I went into the house to find a mysterious package my husband had retrieved from the mailbox.

Neither of us had ordered anything.

Curious.

I opened it…

A gift from a friend I met through writing, who reads about my finches each spring, who knows of the recent loss.

I am awed again.

A writing community is like a nest: a safe place especially created for growth, where we nurture one another and encourage each other to stretch our wings and fly.

It is here that we learn the true power of story and how it knits our hearts together. In the beginning, in the end, we are story.

To live it, write it, build it together, is a gift.

And the time for doing it is now. Today.

My love for the finches, like my love for writing, is inextricably woven through and through with gratitude for the blessings in my life. It’s all a song in my heart, greater than words.

Each day brings its own gifts. It’s up to us to see them, accept them, celebrate them.

And to give in return.

Beyond the horizon
Lies infinite possibility
Eyes cannot see.
Sky meeting sea
Sea meeting sky…
I fly ever onward
Nested and rested in the
Giver of every good and perfect gift.

Today, there might be an egg.

********
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge

and my dear gift-giver

Herself

/ Fran Haley / 10 Comments

an acrostic

Her style is uniquely her own:
Everyday, all day, wear a coat.
Refuse to let it be removed.
Shoe, one of her favorite words.
Eyes full of determination—
Let’s go, people! I’ve got places to be.
Franna’s favorite fashionista.

My precious Micah, 16 months, being herself.

*******

with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge

Holly

/ Fran Haley / Leave a comment

History believed in your magic power
Object of healing and deliverance from evil
Legend made you a crown for Saturn’s brow
Lore of Druids: tree of eternal life, that lightning won’t strike
Yuletide of yore endures

The holly tree was believed to have eternal life as it remained green in winter when other trees appeared to die. It is a symbol of endurance. This lovely specimen grows by the playground of the school where I work. Stuff of ancient legends and lore aside, its merry, festive appearance is a spirit-lifter here on the cusp of winter break…