Night Tones

    Nocturne in Grey and Silver by Jame McNeill Whistler

Dark walls of water

and sea-foam lace

reach up for a moon

pinned impossibly high,

while the woods settle in

to the bed of the earth

with a shrug and a yawn and a sigh.

Then you lean into me

as I reach out for you

and we bid all the specters good bye,

 at the edge of a world

where the nightmares are curled

and the stars fall away from the sky.

Over in the Imaginary Garden Hedgewitch asked us to write a piece in keeping with the Tonalist painting movement, "with 'no under drawing,' by tkaing an idea, a place, a persn, an event or a mood and quickly fleshing out a portrait of it in a blur of words.  Use language to mass light and dark verbal'tones' and build up our poem in dashes of description and image. The end result should be something immediate but 'misty.'  Or we could use a painting from this school to inspire our writing.  I'm not sure I achieved that first bit, so the painting is one from the Tonalist School. 

On Time

I have this skein of time

to knit into a 

life unraveling

faster and

faster each year

each season

each day

tangled at my feet

This if for Karin's challenge to write about some aspect of time, at the Imaginary Garden. 

Lil

    Image from Tess Kincaid

Do not wake me

from my green dreams.

In them we are blameless

perfect, and the garden is ours.

 The marbled world, blue and new

grows through me

like the pit of a peach

I cling to,

fruit sweet and ripe

and dripping

with juices.

No, do not wake me

from my green dreams.

Here are 55 words (including title) for the toads at the Imaginary Garden about the picture from Magpie Tales.  

Dylanw

    Photo by Tess Kincaid: Merchant Seafarers' War Memorial, Cardiff

Where

are we?

blinded and

betrayed by time,

endless skies press down

with the weight of water.

Sanded and salted, preserved,

we thought, like a pearl of great price

lamented but unfound and scattered

so my ribs no longer know each other.

Over at the Imaginary Garden Margaret asked us to "play it again" with a previous prompt. I chose a form called an Etheree, an unrhymed syllable counting form, beginning with a first line of one syllable, and continue for ten lines increasing the syllable count by one each line, as follows: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10.  The image is from Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales and is also posted there.  Please follow the links to both of these outstanding writing sites.

On Receiving Orphaned Kittens (or How Not Being Able to Say NO Can Lead to Becoming a Crazy Cat Lady)

    Photo by Mary Bach

Meditation time

is confined to the bathroom

and my Zen sand garden

is a litter box

tended between loads

of laundry.

My life is filled with

dry, crusty milk replacer

and grace.

When Karin asked us to write about grace in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads I thought I could tell about recent events at my house.  My husband is a vet and we own a rural, veterinary practice that mainly serves farmers. And in our small community I'm known to be a push over for orphans and waifs, so every once-in-a-while when a farmer runs over a mother cat the babies somehow find thier way to my house.  My son insists we are one litter away from being featured on the show "Animal Hoarders," but in spite of everything... I still feel this (sort of) falls under the category of grace. 

Look at this adorableness!

I'll close with a quote: "Don't forget to spay and neuter your pets."  -Bob Barker (and me!)

Final Words

Over in the Imaginary Garden Izy presented us with the following writing prompt:

A few minutes from now, you will lose all means of communication with humanity.  You will not die, but will no longer be able to interact with the world.  What’s the last thing you say?  

Quite a bit, as it turns out!  I've been having trouble finishing up the 30 poems in 30 days, but it turns out with this prompt I came up with a couple of very different responses.  (And yes, I'm counting this as three poems for NaPoWriMo.)

The first thing that pops into my mind is the song from the Carol Burnette Show, “I’m so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh or sing a song.  Seems we just get started then before you know it, comes the time we have to say so long.” 

Then I wrote the following:

If I couldn’t

communicate

with the world

anymore

how

would that

be any different?

   ~~~~~~~

If I couldn’t communicate

with the world

anymore

would I want to scatter

all my pearls of wisdom,

my humor

my clever, profound ruminations

that the world simply cannot live without?

Look out for the military-industrial complex

tell the people you love that you love them

but keep the people you hate guessing

be kind, be fair, be generous

use your parking brake on hills

remember the stories your parents tell you

time rules your life

be kind to animals

Earth is the only home we have

(so far)

show her some respect

Remember to water the plants

tell your gods to stop fighting

hang up your wet towels             

and the answer is

42

   ~~~~~~~

When I can no longer talk 

to you

perhaps it is time to listen

My Wish for You

Wistful and wishful

what more can I give:

a ladder to reach

and a screen to sieve

Then twine your fingers

through a meteor tail

and whatever lingers

collect in your pale

palms and drop through

your colander,

gather what’s true.
That's my advice 
for as long as you live.

Wistful and wishful

what more can I give?

Over in the Imaginary Garden we have been asked to write about fairy tales or with a "wishful" quality these stories often have.  The first poem is one I wrote today, and the second is several years old, but fits the prompt so well I couldn't resist adding it here.  The image is from what I believe is an open source, article.wn.com.  If you know this to be incorrect please contact me via email and I will remove it.

Bedtime Stories

Somewhere out in Nowhere Land a songbird waits for me,
and sings of things that never were, and that will never be.
I’m smitten with the music that he warbles sweet and clear.
He’s in the treetops high above, and yet he sounds so near;
and if I close my eyes and rest
I feel wings flutter in my chest
and magic places far away in space and time seem near,
like they’re more real than my home, and what’s around me here.

Princes bright and dragons bold fight battles round my bed,
and giant ogres want to grind my bones to make their bread.
Witches cackle, donkeys bray and cats wear leather boots,
Children run through forests, and play tunes on magic flutes.
Then knights and trolls and goats come out to skip across the floor,
and Irish women selling clams clap hands and call for more.
So bears and pigs and wolves join paws and dance ‘round in a ring,
and mermaids swim up to the shore to hear the sirens sing.
Old men grow young, and strong and straight,
whilst black birds argue and debate.

And it does not seem strange to me; I do not feel perplexed.
I shake my head and laugh and wait, to see what happens next.
Then the moon smiles down at me and asks me to come swim.
The stars agree. ”The air is fine,” they say, “so come on in.”
I dip my toe into the sky, and it does feel just right
and so I close my eyes and dive head-long in to the night.

Food for Thought: Are You Pulling My Leg? or Does this Bug You?

Why my darling,

your legs are

long

elegant

glistening

succulent

said the spider to the fly.

~o~

I’ve

always been

a leg man

said the caterpillar

sadly

to the

butterfly

~o~

The average chocolate bar contains eight insect legs. –Yahoo Answers(and you KNOW it must be true if it was on the internet)

Over in the Imaginary Garden Karin has asked us to write about some aspect of  "last" and/or "legs". I really couldn't think of anything, so I did what I usually do in such situations - I went for absurd, gross, adolescent humor.  Really, that's all I could come up with, so apologies to Karen and the rest of the toads. 

Half-Life

Here I am,

half way through

(if I live to be a hundred)

and what have I accomplished?

Not a lot…

a half-time job that

I only half hate,

a half-assed attempt

at a novel and a poetry book,

half a dozen children

and a husband who’s  

a half-wit,

but

gives me a full measure

of loving.

Meh…not half bad.

Alrighty then, over in the Imaginary Garedn Karin prompted us to write a poem that somehow used the word or concept of “half.”  Sorry, I was only half serious about this one. ;-)

In the interest of whatever interest there might be, I have taken some poetic license  in the above poem to incorporate the term “half,” i.e. I have two children, not six and my husband really isn’t really a half-wit.

Supporting Actor

“If you don't turn your life into a story, you just become a part of someone else's story.” 

-Terry Pratchett

She is a minor character,

the sidekick

the wingman

her job:

to serve as contrast, support.

she will never sparkle In the spotlight

but that’s ok.

She’s grown comfortable here,

in the wings

with less pressure,

less attention.

She comes from a from a family

of safety seekers.

Her dad used to say,

“Bid ‘em high and sleep in the streets.”

So she will stand aside,

and watch the big drama

splash across the stage,

lend support when needed ,

then disappear to the wings

during the grand finale. 


In the Imaginary Garden we have been asked to use a quote from either Leonard Nimoy or Sir Terry Pratchett as a jumping off point to inspire our writing.  I have used a quote from Sir Terry.  While I adore his humor and satire I didn't that direction with this.  Perhaps another time... RIP to Terry Pratchett and Leonard Nimoy.  The the world is a bit bleaker and weaker without you. 

Transforming Skies

   Wiki free images

Sun-shot, spun gold clouds

graze the morning sky above 

stratospheric flocks

                +++

Grey-stained spitting sky

crackles with power and life

sending out the winds

   Open source image

In the Imaginary Garden we have been asked to write haiku for Transforming Fridays with Nature's Wonders.  This is National Haiku Day, so go crazy in 5, 7 and 5 syllables!

Cosmic Egg Roll

    Cosmic Galaxy Egg by Andrew Logan

Time swirls across the cosmic egg;

what wonders will it hatch?

and what came first? the question begs.

Time swirls across the cosmic egg -

come roll with me on this next leg,

grab all the moments we can catch.      

Time swirls across the cosmic egg;

what wonders will it hatch?

Over in the Imaginary Garden Lolamouse asked us to write a visionary poem about an image from The American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore, MD.  I chose the Cosmic Galaxy Egg and wrote a sort of Triolet.  This is a stanza poem of eight lines. Its rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB: the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines, and often all lines are in iambic tetrameter (though not this time).

Waiting

"Time is the school in which we learn."  -Joan Didion

The waiting room attendant

is bright, chipper, relentless

as an alarm clock.

The room itself is filled with

soft muzak and soap opera dialog

competing to be white noise, but

at least they cover over

the florescent hum.

I sip elderly, burnt coffee

without really tasting it

as I recite silent prayers and promises

to learn the lessons of patience.

In the Imaginary Garden we were asked to write something based on a quote from Joan Didion.

Seasoning

    Four Seasons in One Day from Open Source Images

After drooping heat,

grey autumn rain chills into

winter’s mocking snow

which settles on bud and shoot.

That’s April in Wisconsin.

This is for PAD Day #11 and the Imaginary Garden, sort of. 

Dear Future Granddaughter

Your daddy was a funny kid

he loved dinosaurs more than anything

and even when he was only two

he could carry a tune

like nobody's business.

Aunt Kate was a cute little kid,

carting around kitties

and giving them “giggly hugs”

with her orange curls bobbing.

Grandpa had the best memory

he would say, “Three years ago today

we had an inch of snow

and the Brewers beat the Cubs three to one.”

You had to tag along after him,

cause he never stood still.

Grandma read to you

and told stories with you as the hero,

The cats and dogs loved her best,

and she always looked sort-of far away.

Great-grandma grew up in South Dakota;

she used to shoot prairie dogs

from her bedroom window.

She worked when no one's mom did,

but mostly she was kind to everyone.

Great-grandpa was sooo funny.

When he was little he loved cars and licorice.

He was always into mischief

with go-karts and fire crackers,

skating and card playing

and telling stories.

Remember the stories -

tell your children,

and their children

for as long as you can.

In the Imaginary Garden we were asked to write to your ancestors and/ or descendants.  I've chosen to write a very personal one, to my future descendants about their ancestors.

Deep

   Sculptures at the Bottom of the Ocean by Jason deCaires Taylor 

     image from johnboildstep.wordpress.com

Poets are not afraid to drown. -Janet Frame

From little on we are

rocked in cradles

on waves,

pulled back and forth

by sun and moon.

As we go deeper

we do not fear.

though we are ruined

we do not fear.

through countless days and nights

poets are not afraid to drown.

I must be a mermaid, Rango. I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”  -Anais Nin

Over in the  Imaginary Garden we were asked to to combine words and art. using a work of art and a quote to inspire our writing.

Portrait

    Ambroise Vollard by Pablo Picasso

Here is the child,

running and singing

and drawing before knowing

that drawing is hard

cutting class,

fighting and loving

and thinking

of the magic between pages

and stars.

Here is the parent, the sibling the spouse

giving and tender,

arguing, withholding

open, reticent, stern

eating potatoes, sorting the mail

thinking of winter 
and making love.

Here is the worker, here the boss

productive, proactive, lazy

smoking a cigarette

worrying about shoes

and overtime 
considering the nature 
of beauty and loss.

Here is the artist

crying and spitting and drinking gin

darning a sock,

selfish, doubt filled, egomaniacal 

trying to pay the rent

and save the world

with a pen

thinking of the magic

between words

and stars.

Over in the Imaginary Garden we were asked to consider exerpts from Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons, which has been called verbal Cubism, and write a poem about an object, food, or a room in the style of Stein. Alternately we could write a poem without any gendered pronouns, as she did.  I tried doing my own "Cubist-ish" poem, considering Wikipedia's definition, "In the Cubist Style subjects are rendered from multiple perspectives using faceted forms and simplified geometric shapes."  And this is also my PAD Day #4. 

Happy National Post Pi Day!

    Photo by Mary Bach

We made it through 13th, Friday
to Saturday, National Pi Day!
I shouldn't have to say it twice,
come on in and have a slice.

I'm not just a word nerd, I'm also a sort of a number nut.  And, hey, any excuse to have pie is good enough for me, so I just had to bake a pi pie.  :o)  And thanks to Jazz Bumpa for reminding me to post about about this!  I did bake this on Pi Day, but it's a post Pi Day post.  :o)  For the Toads Sunday Mini-Challenge.

Butter Me Up

Way back, when I was only three

and Aunt Loretta sat for me,

Uncle Erwin put me on his knee.

He taught me a crucial skill for life:

how to eat butter off a knife.

When I was little my parents hired Loretta Kleinschmidt to clean house and 'sit' for me on Tuesdays and Thursdays when my mom was at work.  She was strict, exacting, and loved me like a grandchild, and became my "Aunt Loretta."  She didn't drive, so sometimes my mom would get her, but frequently her husband, Erwin (pronounced Ervin) would come to our house to get her when he was finished with his work for the day, as a carpenter.  And that's when I learned about the wonders of butter.  Sadly, but maybe not surprisingly Uncle Erwin died of a heart attack December 26, 1985.  Aunt Loretta is dead now too, but I still remember them both with love. 
And this is for IGRT Sunday Mini-Challenge.  You should go there and check it out!

Carrot Underground

    Image: Toril & Tully "Carrot-eristics

We look so

normal

striving

to repress

comply

fit

to hide

the things

that make

us

most

beautiful

that give

us

meaning

but

underneath

where no

one else

can see

we

run

riot

Over in the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads Margaret has provided some beautiful paintings by Toril Fisher for us to write about.  I've chosen one with vibrant, lovely carrots, but you should check out the imaginary garden and see all the other paintings and poems too!