Coloring Spring, Haibun, NaPoWriMo, Day 19

Today’s [optional prompt] for NaPoWriMo, Day 19: “to write a paragraph that briefly recounts a story, describes the scene outside your window, or even gives directions from your house to the grocery store. Now try erasing words from this paragraph to create a poem or, alternatively, use the words of your paragraph to build a new poem.”

Process:

So, early this morning, I wrote the paragraph below, which described what I saw while sitting in my usual kitchen spot. I didn’t change it, except to add the last line—because the sun did come out—briefly. This became the paragraph part of the haibun. Then I used Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday prompt words for the haiku. I used “accruing” for gather and “feathery” for soft. This was to give me new words, so I was not simply revising.

Finally, I took words from both parts of the haibun to create a new poem. Works in progress!

Poems:

Outside the world is grey with mist, and yet the green of evergreens and new spring growth provides color in the gloom. A red-breasted finch sits in the bird feeder at the window. The cats take their morning naps, one on my lap, the other in the basket in front of the window. Soon, children will walk out their doors to go to school. But now, I see the sun breaking from the clouds.

pale sun shines through

turning feathery clouds gold

accruing spring light

 

Grey and green

the world from my window,

feathery, the mist, drifting between trees.

But what colors does the red-breasted finch see?

Greyer greys and emerald greens,

vivid hues–

to me unseen?

I hear him sing—

such heartfelt joy–

as the pale sun caresses,

draping his shadowed shape with light,

turning his chest to fire,

to ring in the colors of spring

 

Isn’t this document box with finch exquisite?

Document Box, Philadelphia Museum of Art

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I’m going to link this to dVerse Open link night, too, where Grace is poet bar tending. Because, why not?  🙂

 

 

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As Linnets Take Wing, NaPoWriMo, Day 18

“There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.”

–W.B. Yeats, “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”

 

Around the glimmering lake, where birds still sing,

though you’ve been gone for many a year,

I stayed and watched as linnets take wing.

 

Once I longed to wear your ring–

before things changed, I sought you here,

around the glimmering lake, where birds still sing,

 

You promised the sun, the moon, and everything.

before the bad times came and settled near,

I stayed and watched the linnets take wing.

 

I realize now, I was just a fling

though I thought you loved and held me dear

around the glimmering lake, the birds still sing

 

Here at my side, our baby did cling

without a father. She brought me untold joy and cheer–

I stayed and watched the linnets take wing.

 

I dreamt I was a queen and you my king,

before you sailed far from my pier

around the glimmering lake, where birds still sing,

I stayed and watched the linnets take wing.

 

Faye Collins, “Pine and Fog at Thirlmer”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhat related to today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, I’ve stolen Jane Dougherty’s idea, so it only seemed right to base my villanelle on her beloved Yeats. In the spirit of the prompt, this one probably needs a lot of revision! 🙂

I’m also linking this to dVerse, where Sarah is hosting for the first time. She’s asked us to write an ekphrastic poem (which I’m not sure that this is)  based on the work of artist Faye Collins.

Woodland Magic: Haibun, NaPoWriMo, Day 17

In my childhood memories, when my grandpop visits, it is always a golden-glowing, long spring day with an azure sky dotted with drifting marshmallow clouds. When I am perhaps four or five, he takes me and my younger sister on a walk through a wooded area in Philadelphia. We stop to eat a snack. My grandpop shows us how to rinse our hands in a spring that flows between some rocks and rub them together until they dry. It does not take long on this pleasant day, but I think it is an amazing trick to dry our hands this way. Suddenly, three horses with riders materialize on the trail and gallop past us. The horses are huge—or so they seem to me–and it happens so quickly that it is almost like a dream, a magical moment in the woods. The magic of the woods stays. All these years later, my grandpop, the horses, and the wondrous spring live on, a warm spot in my heart.

 

light lingers, pauses

capturing spring memories—

nimbus of white blooms

Henry Ward Ranger, “Spring Woods,” [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am taking care of three prompts with this Haibun:

The prompt for Day 17 of NaPoWriMo is to write about a family anecdote. This is simply a memory I have, but close enough.

Victoria, who is retiring from hosting duty for dVerse asks us to write about lingering day for Haibun Monday.

And Frank’s Haikai Challenge, asks us to use the prompt warm.

By the Sea We Gather, NaPoWriMo, Day 16

Monday Morning Musings:

“My soul is full of longing
for the secret of the sea,
and the heart of the great ocean
sends a thrilling pulse through me.”

–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Secret of the Sea”

“Look at that sea, girls–all silver and shadow and vision of things not seen. We couldn’t enjoy its loveliness any more if we had millions of dollars and ropes of diamonds.”

–L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

 

By the sea, we gather, we four

full of longing to share our secrets–

no special sequences–

but in the way of friends

they flow like waves, rolling to the shore

tumbling, one after another

silvery shadows and thrilling pulses

visions of things almost seen

things that are and things that might be

 

We embrace and sit in this lovely space

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

this place in which my friend has found welcome shelter

a temporary place for body, if not heart,

a house between homes,

a loan

where she and her husband have lived

between and around unexpected circumstances—

well, life is chances,

no smooth sailing on this ocean–

sometimes we turn about

sometimes we tack into the wind

begin again,

navigate through a choppy sea

till we are free

to sail calmly and be

 

So, we

sit in this interim home

where we can hear the water play

(come this way, stay)

and seagulls laugh as they fly about

black-tipped white wings sing in the sky

with the sun glowing warm and high

and the wind sighs from sea and land

spindrift covers windows, cars, my hand. . .

 

is held out to my friends

we gently hold each other’s hearts

apart too often to know the everyday annoyances

of ailing mothers and troubled kids,

roosted egos, wandering ids–

we talk of husbands and silly cats,

all of the this and all of the that

and move from living room to kitchen

pitch in

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(though it is all prepared)

take our chairs

and over quiche

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

we relax some more, release

and feel a bit at peace. . .

 

to venture out to see some history of place and space

a concrete ship, a lighthouse, a bunker, the beach,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

where we walk a bit and feel

the sand beneath our feet–

in this moment, life is sweet,

away from troubles and toxic tweets,

this faux-summer day

holds us in its sway

I am mesmerized by the tumbling waves

the ocean takes, the ocean saves,

(à bientôt, inside, I say)

as we turn and walk away

 

back to the not-vacation house

where my friend offers us food and drink

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and we sink

into a relaxed state,

where troubles abate,

as we talk and drift

(eyes open, close, open again)

the golden sun beats down through window panes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and slowly in a ball of fire, sinks

extinguished in the sea

 

we see it after we’ve walked

(ten miles one friend exclaims)

heading for a restaurant, but too long a wait,

no debate

and none of us that hungry anyway

no need to stay

so over pizza we watch Letterman, Seinfeld, and Obama

wishing we could get rid of the current nightmare, drama

and farce, in every moment, tweets and cheats–

the outside world, outside this place–

but even here the temperature drops

and the sun hides the next day, stops

her summer-teasing ways,

and in the morning, we watch branches sway

and the tom-catting chairs dance and prance

out on the deck

and the windows are specked

with salt and rain

we hear the sea

calling. . .

but let it be

 

to breakfast or brunch

(perhaps call it lunch)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and linger around the table,

unable,

unwilling to part

our lives and thoughts

tumbled like my friend’s sea glass

smoothed and polished by laughter and tears,

friends together,

friends apart

friends in joy, in troubles,

friends for years

we’ve shared our secrets here by the sea

now it’s back to reality,

(we sigh)

we must do this again

spend

time together,

let’s do this, friends–

time flows and bends,

(an arc)

and ripples like the sea

and on it our friendship sails

(an ark)

so, we’ll journey together, and then—

well, we’ll see.

 

 

 

I’m off prompt for Day 16, NaPoWriMo.

Unusual formatting due to WP gremlins and a cat sitting on my keyboard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

http://www.napowrimo.net/day-sixteen-5/

The Chairs–NaPoWriMo, Day 15

Oh, those chairs,

upon the deck

drunk on sun-glow–

a tableau

quiet

staid

but, false like the deceiving day,

that turns from summer warmth to winter cold.

Bold,

these chairs,

to us, reveal their tom-catting ways

as they scamper and dance

with the wind they embrace

turning face to face

and then apart

until—well, we’re startled

it’s too much to watch—

this shameless farce after the calm of yesterday

cart them off

(we all say)

and so, they’re captured

wrestled

pinned

against the wind

and into the garage they go

to stay for long, forever,

or

until. . . another sunny day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s a bit of silliness for Day 15, NaPoWriMo.  I was in Cape May, NJ, yesterday, an overnight trip with friends. One friend challenged me to write a poem about the chairs we were watching blowing about on the deck this morning. It’s possible there will be more about the trip tomorrow. 😉

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Counting Chickens, NaPoWriMo, Day 13

Count it all–

their accounts

of no account

when actions speak

much louder than bombastic words–

reactions to polls and money–

but the interest accrues

while we are bruised.

Then come choices

so, choose—

or believe fake news.

Ready?

Set.

Go–

put on your boots,

there’s muck to rake,

and much at stake,

and much to count,

a HUGE amount.

So, raise your feet,

slop through the fetid tweets.

Where does it end–

well, how much does truth bend?

Or, is truth a sword?

Then thrust and parry, stab and swoop,

count all the chickens in the coop

and when you truly know their number,

then at last,

you can slumber.

 

José Maria Sousa de Moura Girão (1840/1916), “My First Egg,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wasn’t sure what to do with today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, “to write a poem in which the words or meaning of a familiar phrase get up-ended,” so, I just started, and this is what happened.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is Home: Haibun, NaPoWriMo, Day 12

Here, are two, then three, then four, then two again. Here, atop a settling foundation and slightly slanting floors, are family dinners, friends, love, and tears. Here, the venerable oak tree stands tall, shading and shadowing, though the swing set that stood beside it is long gone–and here, decades-old daffodil bulbs still bloom. Generations of mockingbirds have sung through summer nights perched on the new greenery of aged trees. Here is home, where amidst clutter and dreams, cats gaze from windows–then look within.

 

blooms and snowflakes fall

drift through Earth’s revolutions–

ghosts sing to living

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s NaPoWriMo  prompt was to write a haibun “that takes in the natural landscape of the place you live.”

 

 

 

White Blossoms Fall: NaPoWriMo, Day 11

white blossoms bloom, fall,

enjoin us to remember

time’s susurrus stream

twists and swings, no steady course

to follow through seas of life

Hiroshi Yoshida, “Kumoi Cherry Trees,” Toledo Museum of Art [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This tanka is for Frank’s Haikai Challenge using the prompt, Cherry Blossoms

And for

Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday using synonyms for dance and command.

And

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt asks us to consider the future, but I don’t see the future as a straight line. Perhaps there are many futures (and many pasts).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Questions for a Traveler, NaPoWriMo, Day 10

Wherever you’re from–

do the stars twinkle and glow

when you look from below?

Do clouds zip by in a stormy sky?

Or birds sing effusively

and wing conclusively

to greet each spring?

True, life’s often a Sisyphean trial–

yet, stay awhile. . .

Earth beguiles.

Harald Slott-Møller, Spring, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is  a quadrille for dVerse. The prompt was to use the word zip, or some form of the word.

I’m saving today’s NaPoWriMo prompt to ponder for another time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Connections, Past and Future: NaPoWriMo, Day 9

Monday Morning Musings

“I guess I can say that I just wasn’t connecting to everything, because I wasn’t given enough information to know that we all are connected somehow. To every living breathing thing.”

–Denis Dodson, a Maryland prisoner, in Anna Deavere Smith’s, Notes from the Field

“On Passover, among other traditions, we pass down “the spirit of roast beef” and how to make light and fluffy kneidlach instead of “sinkers.”

—from our family Haggadah

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winter turns to spring,

the week is fraught

and we are caught–

the minor annoyances and major fears

(of fate held back, now it seems, for years

coming due,

in arrears)

the morning call about my mom—

not as frightening as one late at night,

but still the toll

the stress of them all. . .

 

And so, we are comforted by rituals

though celebrated past the date

still cherished, even if they’re late

connecting with our ancestors,

connecting with our past

remembering absent faces

remembering all that’s passed

 

Passover, a celebration of freedom

but so many are still not free

we watch a filmed performance

about people caught in circumstances—

a need to redesign

the school to prison pipeline,

though many are disinclined

(after all, there are profits to be had

in the incarceration of those considered bad)

But how to address the major issues–

there will always be officious officials.

There are big problems, addressed in this drama

food desserts, racism, epigenetic trauma?

Freedom Fighters, John Lewis

the brightest, the truest—

and still problems go on—

a young girl thrown across a room,

and I wonder if we’re doomed?

 

We celebrate freedom

we were slaves, now we are free

but for so many that will never be.

My family picks and chooses our traditions,

most of us without true religion,

accepting each other and the love that we need

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and so, we sit at the Passover table to read

my daughter’s Passover play

(this year’s edition)

each reading our part,

with laughter, we start–

some allusions maybe going over some heads–

the Pharaoh likened to current leader who believes his lies,

(despite the facts before his eyes)

and Moses to Hamilton who’s not going to throw away his shot–

perhaps high art, it’s not,

but we laugh as we sing and say

Dayenu

and name the plagues,

then almost through

pour more wine

and let us dine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the after-dinner glow

I am comforted by our rituals

and all we hold dear,

connections to the past

my niece says do you know—

grandmothers literally hold a part of their granddaughters in their bodies

in the already present eggs of their girl babies in utero?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and so, it goes–

this love of family

past, present, future—

an arch

through which we pass

somehow connecting,

in the parade of time

moving forward and back,

and we here are fortunate not to lack

nourishment of love, food, the mind.

I see the students march,

hear my daughter talk of how she teaches,

begin to hope that some glimmers of light reaches

far away,

floating through both words and deeds

following the leads

of young and old

truth and justice, never old

hoping this trend to hate recedes

hoping the light grows

hoping truth and beauty proceed

Seeking a patch of light

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s an article from The Atlantic on Anna Deavere Smith’s one-woman play, Notes from the Field, in which she plays many different roles. A filmed production is currently on HBO. I did some research on prisons for my forthcoming books on rape and sexual violence. Some people may not be aware that the U.S. has the highest incarceration rate in the world.

Day Nine’s Prompt for NaPoWriMo is “to write a poem in which something big and something small come together.” I feel like that is always what happens in my Monday Morning Musings.

It was a busy weekend, so I’m behind on reading, but I will try to catch up later today!