a reverso poem
Such stars
you are
I tell the children
after they sing
fitted for heaven
they are
in the season
of stars
of song
of wonder
there is a scent
of snow
just a hint
in the air
a sense of an angel’s hem
in the air
just a hint
of snow
there is a scent
of wonder
of song
of stars
in the season
they are
fitted for heaven
after they sing
I tell the children
you are
such stars
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
Not one but two hummingbirds
visit the new feeder now
as if the first brought a friend
to a cool new place for a drink
This is not the case
It’s a competition
a quarrel, a chase
each determined
to drive the other away
each little but fierce
Methinks I will call them
Helena and Hermia
(no sign of any males;
perhaps they’re in the woods
asleep)
What I’d say to these tiny warriors
if I could make them understand
is that there’s plenty to go around
but humans
(what fools we mortals be)
who should understand
have yet to learn
about living peaceably
about there always being enough
if only…
I sigh as I ponder
the solitary existence
of hummingbirds
and the mad beating
of their wings
“And though she be but little, she is fierce…”
July morning
before the dawn
I step outside
with the dog
night clings
like a heavy curtain
silhouetting trees
against indigo sky
waning gibbous moon
gleaming bright
bathing the earth
in silversoft light
that’s what draws me
the ethereal glow
and a strange star
above the moon
the dog is here
on practical business
trotting out in the yard
obediently
—he is not mine
but he loves me so
he lived here
not so long ago;
he belongs to my son
away on vacation—
the dog
is like the morning
velvet charcoal
silent
peaceable
watchful
I can barely glimpse
the glow of his white breast
out in the darkness
a whippoorwhill calls
from the pines
while I try to discern
what star that is
so bright above the moon
—Jupiter
king of the planets
and there in the east
Mars, glittering red
the ancients could read
their preordained ritual
but I, in the silverdark Now,
cannot
—a loud animal cry
shatters the stillness
No!
I know without knowing
—here comes the dog
shy and humble creature
who’s not really supposed to run
on his congenitally malformed
frail back legs
here he comes, running
as hard as he can
through the shadows
charcoal in charcoal
soft shape in his mouth
No! No!
how is it that
this most benevolent creature
who’s never done another harm, never
should be ceremoniously dropping
a rabbit at my feet
no, no, I cry
horror and awe intermingled
at the unnecessary death
that he can even catch a rabbit
—incongruous,
how Elvis starts singing in my brain
as if this act
is the sole measure
of a dog’s worth
for here stands The Dog
magically transformed
from meek pet
to mighty hunter
bringing the solitary catch
of his life
to me
a blood offering
under the waning gibbous moon
beneath the winking planet-king
oh beautiful dog
oh beautiful rabbit
I am sorry.
I could never be
a god.
July morning. Jupiter above the waning gibbous moon.
fantasia
nounMusic.
1. a composition in fanciful or irregular form or style.
2. a potpourri of well-known airs arranged with interludes and florid embellishments.—Dictionary.com
They’re still here,
the finches
with the nest
in the magnolia wreath
on my front door
four weeks after
their Easter-egg hatching
I feel certain
these babies can fly
yet they linger
every little singer
adding its glory
to each new day
how I wish
this gold
could stay
Short recording of the finch fantasia
On the last day of National Poetry Month, Sarah J. Donovan, creator of Ethical ELA, invites teacher-poets to celebrate thirty days of writing for VerseLove. In studying a collection of poems dealing with struggle and celebration about what we are told and believe about ourselves, Sarah says: “I thought a lot about how our bodies hold and shape so much of who we are.” Today we write to own that we are writers and poets, considering figurative body language, other voices that have influenced us, and our own song.
For me, writing calls from sacred places, inherently requiring, as an act of creation, sacred spaces.
As such, writing, poetry in particular, takes on a life of its own. It starts as one thing and becomes another. This may be more than one poem. I am just letting it be.
Polyhymnia at the Core
And there was I as smooth and soft as a peeled switch and smaller than I had been.
—C.S. Lewis, “How the Adventure Ended,” The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
The ghost
of my father
and grandfather
are here
in the shape
of my face
something of them
about my cheekbones
my mouth
a certain turning
My grandmother
is in my bones
those are her arms
in the mirror
fixing my hair
no denying
my mother’s eyes
the Spirit sighs
I imagine Polyhymnia
nearby
(if I can choose
my Muse)
in long cloak and veil
finger to her lips
bright eyes glimmering
silken rustlings
as she leans
whispering,
always whispering
it is with great love
that she raises
the lion’s claw
piercing every knobby layer
of my being
peeling away
until all that remains
at my tender core
is wordless song
singing there
all along
you are alive
alive alive alive
in the listening
in the remembering
in the faces
in the sacred spaces
where you have been brought
to learn
the unforced rhythms
of grace
now find your words
and be
Polyhymnia. Joseph Fagnani, 1869.
Polyhymnia’s name means “many praises.” She is the Muse of sacred poetry, hymns, and meditation.
The lion’s claw in my poem is an allusion to the referenced chapter in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, where Aslan peels away the enchanted dragon skin from Eustace, restoring him to his true—and transformed—self.
“Learn the unforced rhythms of grace” is from the paraphrase of Matthew 11:28-30 in The Message.
On Day 4 of National Poetry Month, Jennifer Guyor Jowett, inspired by poet Irene Latham, offers this invitation for VerseLove at Ethical ELA: “Create your own burrow. Find a seed at the end of the piece, something to begin your own writing today. Let it serve as a title or beginning line.”
I borrowed some of these beautiful ending lines from fellow VerseLove poet, Kevin Hodgson:
We poets keep watching
for dust, falling,
in flight.
Ars Poetica: Dustcatching
We poets keep watching for dust, falling
we would capture it with our hands
feel it on our tongues as it lands
genesis of words breathing life
dust to dust, falling
from the stars
from the stars
dust to dust, falling
genesis of words breathing life
feel it on our tongues as it lands
we would capture it with our hands
we poets keep watching for dust, falling
Stardust. Send me adrift. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
a pantoum for Micah, age 5 months
When you first laughed
your family stood
surrounding you
oh how sweet the sound
Your family stood
filled with awe
oh how sweet the sound
of happy forevers beginning
Filled with awe
we are your cloud of witnesses
of happy forevers beginning
on the last day of your first winter
We are your cloud of witnesses
surrounding you
on the last day of your first winter
when you first laughed
Micah, here are your first laughs, captured on video. Your mom, dad, big sister, Grandpa, and I were all there to see it. Notice that the word “Happy” is on your onesie. I hope you know, someday, how much happiness you’ve brought to all of us. This actually occurred on the last day of winter. Your first spring has begun. A whole lifetime of love, blossoming…
You are a joy, sweet Micah-roon.
Love you forever.
—Franna
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Slice of Life Story Challenge every day in the month of March
I was born in a state named for a queen, by a river named for a king, and in a hospital named for the river. I adore books, words, wind chimes, church bells, birdsong, the crying of gulls at the shore, ocean waves crashing, the utterance of my newest name, Franna, in my granddaughter’s voice, the aliveness in my son’s fingers dancing over the keys of my grandmother’s piano until the house and my soul burst with his music, and silences. I bought a white flannel nightgown and sheets with bright red cardinals on them at Christmastime because Grandma loved cardinals and Christmas, it is the season of her birth and her death, she is nearest then, so now I lay me down to sleep in heavenly peace. I have her wedding band; I wear it every day. I never dreamed of being a teacher. One of my sons became a teacher, too, then a preacher, like his father. When I was eight or nine, I had an imaginary black cat; one time after climbing from the backseat of Grannie’s car, I flung my hand out to keep the imaginary cat from escaping and Grannie slammed the door on my fingers (no one ever knew about the cat…sorry, Grannie, it wasn’t your fault). My favorite place is out in the middle of nowhere along an old dirt road where my grandmother then my father then I played as children, where cicadas in the woods sing as loud as Heaven’s choir about being born, living, dying, and the Resurrection. I can still smell Old Spice in the cool of those evenings when Granddaddy leaned down to offer me his clean-shaven cheek to kiss, Good night, I love you, see you in the morning. I dated the handsomest black-haired man I’ve ever seen for just three months when we decided to get married, thirty-seven years ago. I fainted at a funeral one summer afternoon but not from grief. I gave my real black cat to Daddy when I got married because I couldn’t take her to the tiny apartment that would be my new home. I once had a yellow parakeet; Daddy got it for my sixth birthday and it lived until I was twelve, dying one summer when I was at Grandma’s playing on the old dirt road — such a mysterious balance, the giving of things and the living of them. I am a grandmother now. I want to have a good dog as long as I am alive and to see my granddaughters grown into all their beautiful becomings before the cicadas sing me away to the riverside where I shall meet the King, at last.
If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
Psalm 139:9-10
*******
with many thanks to Denise Krebs for the inspiration. Here are Denise’s starters (borrowed from Linda Rief) for a rambling autobiography:
I was born…
I adore…
I bought…
I have…
I never…
One of my…
When I was (age)…
My favorite place…
I can still (sense)…
I dated…
I fainted…
I gave…
I once had…
I am…
I want to…
and thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Slice of Life Story Challenge every day in the month of March.
Today SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog invites us to write about a catchphrase…here’s one I use quite often…
When my colleagues
have more questions
than I have answers
I say
stay tuned
When my husband
bemoans the day
longing for simpler times
I say
stay tuned
When my children
are anxious
about their tomorrows
I say
stay tuned
When I sit staring, despairing,
at an empty screen
the Muse leans in close,
whispering
stay tuned
When sleep turns the knobs
of my weary brain
to receiving messages
on a channel of dreams:
stay tuned
When waking, I realize
the story isn’t over.
It’s a new beginning…
stay tuned
stay tuned
“Stay tuned” is an idiom meaning “keep listening” or “keep watching.” It originated in the days of dial-tuned radio receivers and eventually transitioned to television.
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lit bits and pieces 