Today’s prompt didn’t spark joy, so I simply wrote. All day long the phrase “I sat for years like an elephant in the garden…” stayed with me as I pondered where the words might take a poem.
Well, read on, my friend, and you will see… the journey is always worth it, even when it is hard and long.
Garden View
I sat for years like an elephant in the garden waiting to become a feather.
White quilts warmed on winter afternoons; windows opened in the spring—
the subtle scent of daisies wafting on the breeze. I grew slowly into my skin—
five decades of painstaking transformation; my narrative unfurling slowly
as a fern frond in the first light of dawn— a singular dance of joy.
Today’s prompt was based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it.
Today’s challenge was to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which I live.
We shall see how this goes today. We shall see what form my dream-visitor takes.
Happy reading!
Our Lady of the Garden
In the garden a tiny, perfect bird landed on my shoulder.
Jewel-toned and stunning, the bird morphed into a beautiful woman right before my eyes.
The trumpet vines flashing brilliant orange flowers shone in the sun like a halo around her head.
My angel with her flaming crown, and delicate hands, she felt born of spirit, born of dream.
Sing, she told me Sing of the Universe. Sing of the beauty of the earth.
In my dream-state I sing her song.
I see in her the land and sky; she connects me to water and earth. The waves roll in her laughter; the plants flourish under her hands.
From my heart I sing of us.
We become a tapestry, woven together— garden and bird, woman and earth.
When I wake, it is daylight. I look out my window and see a hummingbird— wings whirling without resting— sipping nectar from flaming goblets shaped like trumpet flowers.
Thanks to Eleni Trapp @elenies for making this photo available freely on Unsplash.
Today’s prompt challenged me to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. I’m not sure I really accomplished this, but I certainly managed an idea to the cherry blossom.
Can you tell I’m longing for spring?
My bones miss the energy of the warm sun on my skin. Each morning they beg for mercy from the chill of frost and bitter wind.
My nose misses that honey sweet scent mixed with the musty wet earth that accompanies the spring blooms.
Please come quickly!
The Blossom
Born in boggy sorrow, blossoms billowing in the breeze after the harrow of heavy spring rains.
Sunshine and spring leave their stamp on stained fingers and lips sealed with a kiss of ruby goodness. Juicy
life carefully cultivated from the bitterness of winter— the making of a miracle.
I raise my cupped hands to drink in sweet almond and honey fragrance— so delicate that it’s nearly
indiscernible. The secrets of spring in a solitary word: cherries are a metaphor
for life—the taste is tart, the scent is sweet, the process leaves its mark lingering on our skin for days.
I am certain the Cherry knows the full weight of power possessed for it returns year after year.
Hope comes alive in each blossom; otherwise we would waste away in a world of constant winter.
Thanks to Josefin @josefin for making this photo available freely on Unsplash
The prompt for today was to write a poem . . . in the form of a poetry prompt. If that sounds silly, well, maybe it is! But it’s not without precedent.
The poet Mathias Svalina has been writing surrealist prompt-poems for quite a while, posting them to Instagram. You can find examples here, and here, and here.
And as always, you can read my spin on it below.
An Ode To Writing Prompts for Spring 2022
1. Come to the garden gate 2. And lie down in the patch of hydrangeas. 3. Write your name in the earth; 4. Remember how it belongs only to you. 5. Count the plants and name the blossoms; 6. Write their names in the sky like clouds. 7. Choose the most brilliant blue to mark this sacred place 8. and choose to remember (do not be fooled: this is the hardest part)— 9. Choose to remember where you alone have been.
The backyard has been a minefield of mud for the entire spring and summer months. The contractor we hired the end of April has used very excuse you can imagine as to why the work wasn’t complete.
As a teacher, I have heard many an excuse in my day as to why work wasn’t finished, why books weren’t brought to class, and why one child needed to insult another child. Often I have reminded students to simply stand tall and own their truth, even if they think they might “get in trouble” for it.
In my own life I have found that honest self reflection leads to growth.
Unfortunately, this contractor wasn’t interested in self reflection or growth. He was a poor communicator and gave excuses instead of owning his truth. Nearly four months later, he finally poured our patio. All the roots still aren’t trimmed around the edges of the patio, and the attention to finish details simply aren’t anywhere to be seen there, but we have a poured patio.
For now this is enough.
After the concrete patio was set, we hired these young men (with better communication skills, respect, and follow through than the older contractor) to build the gazebo kit we bought. They communicated clearly the dates they were available (all within the week’s time) and showed up right on time. When they finished there wasn’t so much as a scrap of paper lying about the yard. The job was finished above and beyond our expectations. The work ethic and follow through of these young men restored my hope in builders.
Tonight Trace, Ev, and I sat out on the patio with our dear friend Jen, listening to the thrum of cicadas and watching the dragonflies dance in the evening sky.
Peaceful rest is what Jen called it, and I quite agree.
In those moments, I rediscovered my muse; it was the magic of the late summer garden at sunset.
Late Summer
Swarming dragonflies, honking geese heading south— they left me wondering how the summer waned into fall without word or warning. All I did was blink.
I’ve been taking some time to regroup after a grueling year and a half-is of teaching. I didn’t think relaxing would be as hard as it has been. I don’t think I realized just how taxing a year of virtual work and life was until I started to slow down.
Given that Trace needed her spinal fusion immediately, her recovery has been our primary concern this summer. We had already booked plans to head down south and camp in Laurel, Mississippi, navigating our way down to Folly Beach and maybe even New Orleans, but we had to cancel all those plans to concentrate on things closer to home.
We found out in the early spring that our beautiful big red maple was causing foundation damage to our home, so out it had to come. This meant tearing up our beautiful wood deck out back. But we had to do what we had to do, so I decided if the deck was getting ripped out anyway that we would replace it with concrete. We would enjoy our summer vacation from the luxury of our own new patio. Win-win!
With the hope that all construction work would be done by the beginning of June, we ripped out the deck and threw tarps down so the dogs could still use the backyard. Well, those of you near us know the massive amounts of torrential rain coupled with brutal heat we have had this summer. Now the back yard is one muddy lake and the dogs have to be walked on leash out in the front in order for them to take care of their business.
And the construction work has yet to begin.
Except now we have an excavator taller than our house in the backyard and the contractor is heading off to vacation next week.
Sigh.
My poem today is in honor of the tiny gold finch bathing in the mud lake that is now our backyard, the late great Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., and staycations.
Heatwave
Summer came on steamy winds of spring
the torrid heat belied the month of June;
summer storms raged like May shower
bombs of heat detonating in waves.
All that remained come muggy morning
was the mucky mess of mud called garden
and one tiny goldfinch preening in a puddle
making me wish I had been born a bird instead.
--Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan
After talking with my poetry buddy today, I was challenged to write a tanka. The tanka is described as the form of poetry that comprised the majority of Japanese poetry from the ninth to the nineteenth century. In fact, several sources list it as possibly the central genre in Japanese literature. According to one website, the tanka has “prototypes in communal song, in oral literature dating back to the seventh century, or earlier.”
A tanka is structured much like a haiku with each line containing a certain number of syllables. There is no rhyming and no end punctuation used in this form, however, it does make use of a “pivot” or “turning point” line. The third line is the pivot that divides the tanka into two different sections that are joined in the middle in order to tell the whole story.
The syllable breakdown for the five lines looks like this: 5 – 7 – 5 – 7 – 7
Lately I’ve really been pining for my red maple. It’s my favorite tree, and Monday it must come down. In full disclosure, this may not be my last Red-Maple-Inspired Poem. I will be pining the loss of it for years to come.
vast red towering
gnarled trunk with knotty whorls
a testimony
to holy righteous living
today we fell it
Earlier this spring, we discovered that our beautiful red maple tree had finally gotten so large that its roots were encroaching on the foundation of the house. In fact, those determined roots had begun to push their way into any cracks or crevices they found, pushing aside mortar and widening cracks in the cement blocks.
Just thinking about cutting down that tree grieved my spirit.
Last summer, I spent many a summer afternoon laying on the deck furniture and watching the sky through the lacy red curtains of leaves. I wrote poetry there, I sang songs, and told stories. Cutting down the tree felt like cutting down a piece of our family history.
But when the foundation expert came and confirmed that if we didn’t cut down the tree, we would suffer irreparable damage to our home’s foundation that would cost thousands to repair, I knew it was time.
We have done all the preparation now–taking up the back deck, removing all the landscaping rocks, resituating other plants and flowers. The backyard seems so barren. My solace has been looking up potential replacement trees, shrubbery, and flowers.
In my research, I discovered some lovely facts about beech trees. I wish I had the space to plant one in our garden, but I’m afraid I would end up in the same predicament I am in now as beech trees grow in groves and 60-80 feet tall.
The poetry writing prompt I found for today asked me to write a poem in which mysterious and magical things occur. Immediately my mind drifted to our trip to Ireland in 2018.
One of the best parts of our trip to Ireland was the driver we hired as a guide. Having been a guide for many years, Tim knew some of the most interesting, out of the ordinary places to see. He tapped in to the stories I had heard or read as a girl.
Faery Stories were always my favorite. I loved the stories of magical wee folk, whether cute or capricious, bringing joy or sorrow to those around them. When Tim told us we were close to a “faerie ring”, you can imagine my joy.
Our driver explained that the faerie ring is any free-standing circle of trees. He said that farmers will not cut down the trees even if they are in the middle of field.
Superstitions are strong in Ireland.
Sometimes you get a Wishing Trees inside of a faerie circle. A Wishing Tree is a hawthorn tree where people tie ribbons to ask blessings from the local saints (or from the wee folk). The story is told that if you go into these forests today and tie a string to the trunk of the tree in the center, you will be able to “hear beyond”.
We did visit a sacred circle of trees with a wishing tree in it, and I found it eerily peaceful. This poem pays homage to that visit.
The Circle of Trees
They called and I came, the circle enfolding me in silence.
Listen to the hum of the ancient rhythm. Listen to the rumble of wisdom.
They called again and I heard, like whispers floating down from the trees.
Do you know that churches do not house God?
We are the keepers of all things wise and wonderful.
We are the storehouse for memory.
Did you hear that? Did you hear the whisper?
But the only voice I hear is my own echoing back to me;
until there on the tree,
I see my string flickering on the breath of the wind.
This was our first berry, and we were delighted. Until something ate it in the night. 🙁
So we are taking about the garden beds today. I know we probably should have thought of that before the first of May, but Michigan weather is so …. Michigan-like.
Not knowing much about bed gardening, we built them last year inside of a small 10’ x 20’ kennel we used for the dogs when they were puppies. Well, no one told the squirrels and the birds that a fenced in area means “KEEP OUT”. Too late to save the strawberry patch, we discovered bird netting and covered the top of our enclosure.
This year, we want to be proactive, so each bed is getting individual bird netting to protect our harvest.
I know, I know. I’m forgetting a Core Principle of Kindergarten: Share everything.
I don’t care. I’m not feeding the squirrels and birds. They both attack our feeders with gusto. I say they need to stop being so greedy.
Save some for the humans!
I cannot wait for the tiny green plants to start to grow. And better yet is the day when the buds of fruit appear. All tightly curled in to itself, the bloom is very self-contained. But at some point, the plant decides that it the risk of opening up is worth it—the plant must bloom to grow a seed pod and perpetuate after all.
And I have decided to be more like that bloom. Remaining tightly closed up is more painful than the risk of blooming.
I choose life.
I choose legacy.
And with that decision, this blog is truly born. I am not sure how often I will post, but I am determined to write more this year.
Poetry, Ponderings and Possibilities 