Cinnamon and Snow: Haibun

 

Valerius_De_Saedeleer_-_Winter_landscape

It snowed, and the earth was devoid of color. The wind howled and shook the house, knocking to get in. Robins, sparrows, tufted titmice, and cardinals huddled in their nests. Wise squirrels had gathered acorns from the old oak tree, but now they, too, sought shelter. The roads were unplowed, and the schools were closed for days. I baked an endless supply of cookies, bread, cakes, and donuts. My comfort for the storm. The house was scented with cinnamon and love.

 

frosted white-veiled world

sighs drifting from cloud-draped moon–

from home warmth beckons

 

It’s midsummer, so to be contrary I thought I’d write about a blizzard. When my children were young—perhaps in kindergarten and third grade—there was a blizzard that left two feet of snow, and more in the drifts. I know that some of you live in areas that have more snow, but I think it wasn’t only the amount, but the intensity of the storm and the drifting afterwards. It might have been this one. 

 

 

 

 

Remembering

Monday Morning Musings:

“The purpose of theatre is to bring into public that which is kept offstage. . .”

Paula Vogel, The New Yorker, May 12, 2017.

“We have a story we want to tell you . . .About a play. A play that changed my life. Every night we tell this story—but somehow I can never remember the end. … No matter. I can remember how it begins. It all starts with this moment—”

From Paula Vogel, Indecent

 

About that breeze

carrying the scent of flowers

in the rain—

now rust-tinged with blood–

does it haunt you?

Listen–

the sound of ghosts walking

through ashes, whispering, whispering

the sound of pain

the sound of love and desire

carried through time

***

 

We walk

(through, around, over

ghosts)

steps echoing

a city filled

with art and history

there a bridge

named for a poet

(who lived in Camden)

who celebrated history

and nature

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human bodies and love

(he spoke of that

which was not spoken)

indecent, some said

unnamed the fear

of love

is love is love is love is love

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Celebrating Walt Whitman’s 200th with homemade pizza and Auburn Road’s Eidolon wine

 

We walk after

seeing my mother

her body dimmed,

no longer so electric

but still pulsing light

 

generates the warmth

the air, the sky

on a beautiful spring

we eat outside

where souls once gathered

celebrating god and man

and new beginnings

(blinks of time)

 

the ghosts gather

telling the story

over and over

knowing how it begins,

never knowing how it ends

 

the play begins with ashes

that later return

but remember the rain scene

(that rain scene!)

that glorious love

passionate and innocent

that shocked—

indecent they said,

that play, and this play

about it–

this love song to Yiddish theater,

to theater,

to the light within us

to memory

to time

 

so relevant the themes again

immigrants demonized,

and we more polarized

and there is fear

all around

(like ghosts)

 

twelve more dead,

we shake our heads,

go on with life

(with thoughts and prayers)

but the dead stay dead

and the ghosts whisper,

remember. . .

 

Yet, we create

and generate

(our bodies electric)

music,

art, and poetry

channeling muses

and spirits

remembering

(the rain scene)

the scent of rain

the light through the trees

Sylvia Schreiber, Giverny Sketches

and love–

there is love

all around

 

and friendships

that stay true

through births and deaths

generating

regenerating

remembering

this moment

to the next

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always how it begins,

but never how it ends–

the lights go down,

the lights come again,

the ashes fall,

the ghosts whisper,

remember this moment,

remember this

 

It was a busy weekend: another mass shooting, a celebration, visiting my mom, seeing Indecent at the Arden (I love this play), walks, a bridal shower. We also saw Book of Mormon, the Broadway touring company, but I couldn’t fit that in. We’ve seen it before, and it enjoyed seeing it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

This Life, NaPoWriMo

William Heritage Winery

This life, dull

as it seems, without

flashy cars

or jazzy

toys, expensive vacations

to island beaches–

 

still, it’s mine

loved for its loving,

family,

husband, and

children, friends, the poetry

found in moon and stars,

 

in sunshine

moments of cat purrs–

wine kisses,

coffee and

talk, a movie, and a walk

into the sunset.

 

This life, dull

only to others,

but to me

contentment

(most of the time). Yes, worries,

but still, I’m dancing. . .

into the sunset.

 

 

Today, Day 12, NaPoWriMo, challenges us “to write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why (and how) you love it.”  Another shadorma train and more lists.

 

 

 

 

 

Waves Again (and Again)–Redux

Ilya_Repin-What_freedom!

Ilya Repin, “What Freedom!” Wikipedia Commons

 

No flask, no wine, no book of verse, this night,

we reach for stars and moon, seek gleams of light,

hear the silver streams from the humming moon,

time moves in pulses, like a fairy sprite

 

seconds and memories, here and then gone

scented by sea-mists, turned rosy at dawn

or aglow under sweeping, sparkling stars

remember we say, remember hang on–

 

there on the sand, waves pitch and break and roar,

while spindrift flicks in salted breeze to shore,

and you with me, now standing hand in hand

watching the sea, waiting for dreams, we soar.

 

This is a Rubaiyat for dVerse, where Frank is hosting a month-long challenge. This one is reworked from a previous prompt that he did. I’ve added a quatrain, keeping in mind Jilly’s challenge to appeal to the senses. I’ve obviously played upon and given tribute to Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of Omar Khayyam’s famous verse. Comments welcome.

 

 

 

 

 

For My Older Daughter on Her Birthday

Ocean City, NJ

Little girl

gambols by the seaside

 

the saltwater flows,

and she grows

 

wondering who she is,

who she’ll be

 

as onward flows

the sea, she knows

 

kisses, and soaring free

to be

 

herself, and shows

a world images–she knows

 

what dreams can be

 

A quadrille for dVerse, where De is asking us to use the word kiss. Sorry for all the birthday poems, but I wrote a poem for younger daughter’s birthday, so I had to write one for older daughter’s birthday today. I’m struck by how many of her paintings are of soaring figures—both people and sea creatures. You can see some of them here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreams and Wishes

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More than cake—

remember magic

lives long. Let

it always

surround you, a breathing cloud,

a dance in kisses

 

and so, this—ask if,

but explore the secret stars

in a universe

time ghost-laughs a fevered breeze

and a heart blushes, flowers

 

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The Oracle knows everything, so she knows it is birthday month at my house. Both daughters and my husband (and mother-in-law) have birthdays in February. When the girls were little, we often had a combined Valentine’s-birthday party. So here is birthday love and wishes in a shadorma tanka combo for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday challenge.  But there will also be a lot of cake and celebrations this month.

The Old Lovers: Magnetic Poetry

 

Robert_Vonnoh_-_Lingering_Rain,_Moon_and_Eventide

Robert Vonnoh, “Lingering Rain” Public Domain, Wikipedia Commons

Recall, she says,

we watched the moon

 

and time stopped

as shadow mist played

 

above the blue forest.

What was it you wanted?

 

Us?

The sea?

 

A dream of if—

lives on for us, my love,

 

like the smell of spring rain

as sun shines through it.

 

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From today’s visit to the Oracle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

All That and Love: Magnetic Poetry

Guillermo_Gómez_Gil_-_Salida_de_la_luna

 

Soaring through dream-time. . .

 

we watch the sea pounding

gorgeous fluff licking

 

sun shadows–

beauty at play.

 

Summer storms whisper,

a symphony

 

the wind urges

in language of will—not when—

 

and there is life,

sad, bitter, delirious, and luscious—

 

all that—and love.

 

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I consulted the Oracle earlier this morning, but I’m just getting a chance to post it now.  It seems a like a good message, especially this time of year.

The Sea Sings: Magnetic Poetry

Guillermo_Gómez_Gil_-_Salida_de_la_luna

Guillermo Gómez Gil, “Moonrise” [Public domain] Wikipedia Commons

The sea sings

the music of time

 

recalling

in her shadowed beauty

 

gorgeous life and bitter blue-black

screams of why ripped by purple water.

 

But I sit beneath the light of tiny diamonds

and dream

 

seeing ships go,

and wanting you.

 

The wind licks my skin, whispers

when, if. . .let love in.

 

My weekend message from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle.

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