Oops, I Did It AgainI am not going to write a poem, I say. I will be present, simply present. No need to press perception to paper, No call to flatten the roundness of day into fragments of speech or winnowing words. But finches are pecking at their maple perch, and nettle is rising to purple the mud. Geese are calling, they echo the water, rushed and rising from recent rain. Winter delivers end punctuation. SPRING is printed in capital letters. Plum blossoms gleam as white as the page, and everywhere green alliterates the ground, stems sprung from the same beginning— warmth, water, sun. If I’m not meant to write a poem, then the earth ought to be far more prosaic.
I agree with Larry - every bug (and bird and mammal and tree and rock and . . . ) needs a poem as lovely as yours! The ending is particularly beautiful - "not long for this world / much like our short lived spring / which swiftly segues into summer."
Karri, this may be the first poem written for a "mosquito hawk! Your poem is sweet and song like, and I love each line, especially these last three: "Prey rather than predator and not long for this world. Much like our short lived spring, Which swiftly segues into summer." Oh, that describes a northern New England spring, too!
I just asked my friend google to give me a primer on the mosquito hawk...indeed they are worthy of your ode, sounds like they are an important food source for birds and plants (maybe you haven't given them too much credit?). I love the image of them carpeting your "not so landscaped rural yard along with the dandelions and henbit."
LIsa, your poem is beautiful and makes me miss the Virginia moutnain spingtimes, which unfold over several weeks, even more. I followed your sugesstions for sitting in mindful observation and listening, and this one emerged. It feels like a penciled-in sketch of a painting to come, but if I were a painter, I fear sketches might be most of what I have!
Ode to DST (Daylight Saving Time)
An hour vanishes without a trace,
and I’m never sure if I am
springing forward or falling back.
But there is always movement.
Even when the stillness swallows me,
and a quiet numbness reaches my bones,
there is beauty to be seen, felt, heard, breathed in.
There's so much to delight in in your poem, Larry! Bird BnB! Roller coaster road! And the whole notion that these vanished hours are waiting for us somewhere, and there will be a reunion. I love it!
Thank you Lisa! I envsion these hours at a great open market, where we barter and trade them for treats, like homegrown veggies and fruits, drums and poems!
Ah, is it too soon to say even though I do welcome spring after the winter, once summer arrives I will be eagerly yearning for that Autumn!!! But one season at a time I suppose!
This is such a great braiding of the whimsical ("picky homesteaders browsing Bird BnB") with imagery full of anticipation of what's to come. I love this line: "A salty wind slides off the bay/faint traces of spring wander in/fickle and elusive this time of year/but always full of promise and hope." I can easily see this transformed into visual art, whether pencil sketches or paintings :)
I feel you on this, too, Larry. Two of my siblings had careers based on their art, but that gene seems to have skipped me. But, if I may say so, you more than make up for it with your wordsmithing. You paint with your poetry! <3
This was so fun Larry! Loved the flow of it all, truly an ode to DST! I relate to "the talk in the café turns to planting." Seems that is all I am hearing right now, tis the time!
I am delighted by the idea of moss making a blanket over one of the fallen. And that is exactly what happens! I love the way nothing gets wasted in nature's economy...the "dead" are just as valuable as the "living" and vice versa.
I love the simplicity of this poem -- a single moment in a stand of trees, then a gentle panning out with your final line. Your poems often have a spare quality that I love -- so much said, and still so much blank space left on the page. Something I aspire to!
That's so kind of you to say. I often wish I could write more, but longer poems tend to elude me. 😅 I guess the metaphorical grass is always greener, right?
I really am inspired by it. In fact, this morning I was playing around with cutting the words from my spring-prompted poem to see how few are needed to still convey the feeling I was going for. It's a helpful process for me!
A., what a delightul and soothing poem. I love the way your description of sprign emetging seems liek a person waking to the day. Oh, and to have a blanket of moss as our covers! Sweet!
I fully expected the prompt to be "your favorite Britney Spears song," which would have been really challenging for me. The springtime prompt was far more welcome & I really enjoyed it. I loved your poem too, sis -- "green alliterates the ground" is brilliant, along with the ending.
Like Larry & Keith, I found there was no way to talk about spring without mud!
I read this earlier today and got interrupted before I could reply . . . and I'm so glad because what I treat to read it again! I love your opening description of the snow's radial retreat and of the 360 degree soup with its not-exactly-tasty ingredients. But there are gift birds alongside the dog turds! Your description of their sounds is so vivid, and the whole notion that they are putting on a dress rehearsal is lovely. What a beautiful poem! I look forward to seeing what you come up with tomorrow when I post my Britney Spears prompt (thanks for the idea). 🤣
I've never heard the thaw described as radial, and that's such an apt descriptor...and the "pulling inward, deflating toward center," is such a precise and apt description, too. And oh, those piles of mushy dog poop revealed when the snow curtains part (lol). Having never really been to the PNW, I was completely ignorant of snowbrush ceanothus...so sorry to hear of its trauma this past winter, and I hope it recovers. I, too, loved "their tiny feet tasting brand new ground." Really charming :)
Ohhh "the fact that it’s a dress rehearsal makes it that much dearer." Where I live this phase is fading away. Life has begun to burst forth. And I love that idea that it is all a dress rehearsal till the colors take the stage!
I for one am very glad that earth is not prosaic and that you did it again. Your poem was lovely: "nettle is rising to purple the mud" and "green alliterates the ground." What delightful words to describe the miraculous return of color to the grayscape of winter! We are a bit behind here in New England, but change is still in the air. This came from a long walk this morning:
Oh my, I can’t even tell you how delighted I was by the phrase “Mother Earth has bed head!” And then “tiny heads bowed from the exertion of birthing themselves into the wind” . . . stunning. And the ending - “you, too contain miracles beneath the mud of yourself.” I have nothing intelligent to say, just wow!
Thank you, friend! So glad you enjoyed it. The bedhead metaphor was really channeled to me by my inner kid, who was getting quite a crack out of how the flattened field grass looked like bedhead. The earth is so generous with its metaphors and also endlessly patient with being endlessly personified!
This was perfectly slow and steady. Leading up to the marveling of "these pale sweetlings, which remind you that you, too contain miracles beneath the mud of yourself." I am touched by this. I feel this inside myself. The hibernation within is cracking open like the shell of the seed, letting out a new sprout.
Thank you, Julie. I'm so glad you enjoyed and felt the renewal of spring inside yourself as you read it. What a profoundly transformative time of year it is, so very layered.
This is so good, Keith! I love the tiny heads of the snowdrops "bowed from the exertion of birthing / themselves into the wind." And the reminder that "you, too contain miracles / beneath the mud / of yourself." And a lovely word I've never heard before: sweetlings!
The tiny bowed heads of snowdrops is such a wonderful visual, as is the way you describe mother nature with her bedhead and mud mask. It's just delightful, Keith.
Thank you, A! As I walked yesterday, I heard my inner kid giggling over the fact that the flattened weeds and grass looked like bedhead, and that the earth really is just waking up again. :))
This is sweet, Keith! I laughed out loud at "Mother Earth has bed head!" That is an incredible, delightful, genius line! It takes an insightful mind and a hopeful heart to see below the surface at what can be, not just what is. My sense is that it takes that type of wisdom to appreciate a New England spring! The flow of yojur poem really shines, and it ends so sweetly:
Thanks so much, Larry! I knew you, as a fellow New England transplant, would have an intimate understanding of mud season (and then I saw your poem also touched on it) and the incredible bounty that awaits under the rutted roads and mucky marshlands. I'm so glad you liked my poem, and thank you very much for your always-generous reflections :))
Oh I just loved, "If I’m not meant to write a poem, then the earth ought to be far more prosaic." Thank you for your poem Lisa. I feel a bit late to the table here, but from my walk the other day...
The line "I continued walking, though now with a lighter step" says so much and describes the magic of going for a "simple" walk in nature so beautifully. I love, too, how a poem like this recreates a lovely moment in time, both for the reader and for the poet. Maybe a picture is worth a thousand words, but a hundred or so well chosen words can also be worth quite a few pictures . . . however confusing that math might be.
I felt lighter for having read this, Julie. As bird activity increases here, I feel uplifted by the chatter, too. It feels companionable. And hopeful. I loved the idea of the hawk "soaring expediently" and the crow laughing at the absurdity of the hubbub.
Oh this is so good. I love the way your poetry flows, sweet, lyrical, poignant and powerful. I love the image of the soaring hawk, with a purpose, and the trickster like crow always observing and commenting from the bleachers. Your ending is so complete:
"I continued walking, though now with a lighter
step to my pace, moved by natures simple
and extraordinary ways."
So wonderful. I'm with Keith, I feel lighter and freer reading your poem. Your have such special gifts!
I love the line "the earth ought to be far more prosaic!" What a lovely image you paint with your words. And thanks for the encouragement to go outside!
Thank you so much, Karri! If anyone here hates nature, I'm sure they have tired of my poetry and prompts by now. But it feels like I'm among kindred spirits!
I give you....the ode to the "mosquito hawk"
I suppose we have given them too much credit
Those feathery harmless harbingers of spring in the south.
They appear with the warmer, yet still cool, days
Along with the dandelions and henbit
That carpet our not so landscaped rural yards.
Prey rather than predator and not long for this world
Much like our short lived spring
Which swiftly segues into summer.
I agree with Larry - every bug (and bird and mammal and tree and rock and . . . ) needs a poem as lovely as yours! The ending is particularly beautiful - "not long for this world / much like our short lived spring / which swiftly segues into summer."
....not so landscaped rural yards.....
I have one of those.
This is "marvelous and mundane"! Agree, "Much like our short lived spring Which swiftly segues into summer."
Every misunderstood bug deserves a poem like this! I like the parallel of the mosquito hawk's fleeting lifespan with your fleeting spring.
I love "not so landscaped rural yards." I'm going to be working on rewilding our front yard.
Karri, this may be the first poem written for a "mosquito hawk! Your poem is sweet and song like, and I love each line, especially these last three: "Prey rather than predator and not long for this world. Much like our short lived spring, Which swiftly segues into summer." Oh, that describes a northern New England spring, too!
I just asked my friend google to give me a primer on the mosquito hawk...indeed they are worthy of your ode, sounds like they are an important food source for birds and plants (maybe you haven't given them too much credit?). I love the image of them carpeting your "not so landscaped rural yard along with the dandelions and henbit."
I thought for fifty damn years the things ate mosquitos!!!!
Haha, I thought that for a long time, too, and was so disappointed to hear it wasn't true!
Well, with a name like "mosquito hawk," why would you have thought otherwise (I'm sure I would have, too!)?
LIsa, your poem is beautiful and makes me miss the Virginia moutnain spingtimes, which unfold over several weeks, even more. I followed your sugesstions for sitting in mindful observation and listening, and this one emerged. It feels like a penciled-in sketch of a painting to come, but if I were a painter, I fear sketches might be most of what I have!
Ode to DST (Daylight Saving Time)
An hour vanishes without a trace,
and I’m never sure if I am
springing forward or falling back.
But there is always movement.
Even when the stillness swallows me,
and a quiet numbness reaches my bones,
there is beauty to be seen, felt, heard, breathed in.
Not to mention the daylight being saved,
hopefully shared with those places where
shadows seem to linger.
Bluebirds perch on garden fence,
stare down with a Robin inconclusive;
assessing the bird house two trees over,
picky homesteaders browsing Bird BnB.
A salty wind slides off the bay,
faint traces of spring wander in,
fickle and elusive this time of year,
but always full of promise and hope.
A patch of green by the flowers,
mud soup transforms to roller coaster road,
and the talk in the café turns to planting.
Tonight, I’ll wave goodbye dear hour, sixty lovely minutes,
say a prayer for letting go and a dream of reunion.
I’ll welcome you home in Autumn,
satiated by the beauty sprouting forth,
in each blessed day.
There's so much to delight in in your poem, Larry! Bird BnB! Roller coaster road! And the whole notion that these vanished hours are waiting for us somewhere, and there will be a reunion. I love it!
Thank you Lisa! I envsion these hours at a great open market, where we barter and trade them for treats, like homegrown veggies and fruits, drums and poems!
Always movement, ready or not.
I like the idea that we are not in charge.
Ah, is it too soon to say even though I do welcome spring after the winter, once summer arrives I will be eagerly yearning for that Autumn!!! But one season at a time I suppose!
Not too soon, just honest!
This is such a great braiding of the whimsical ("picky homesteaders browsing Bird BnB") with imagery full of anticipation of what's to come. I love this line: "A salty wind slides off the bay/faint traces of spring wander in/fickle and elusive this time of year/but always full of promise and hope." I can easily see this transformed into visual art, whether pencil sketches or paintings :)
Thank you Keith. Oh, if only I had a modicum of painting or drawing ability--I'm an afficionado of visual art!
I feel you on this, too, Larry. Two of my siblings had careers based on their art, but that gene seems to have skipped me. But, if I may say so, you more than make up for it with your wordsmithing. You paint with your poetry! <3
Thank you! A deep bow to you!
This was so fun Larry! Loved the flow of it all, truly an ode to DST! I relate to "the talk in the café turns to planting." Seems that is all I am hearing right now, tis the time!
Thank you Julie! Seeds of hope in spring!
I love the idea of welcoming our missed hour home in Autumn! Not to mention Bird BnB, ha! This is a lovely snapshot of spring.
I love your sketch of spring! Fickle and elusive are such great words for this time of year.
A fresh, lone clump of green
climbs up a trunk that would
otherwise be lost in a sea of
brown, sleepy stalks still
shifting their energy upward,
yawning and stretching taller
while moss makes a blanket
over one of the fallen.
We should all be so lucky.
This is lovely! I love the idea that the changing of seasons is really just a shifting about of energy.
I am delighted by the idea of moss making a blanket over one of the fallen. And that is exactly what happens! I love the way nothing gets wasted in nature's economy...the "dead" are just as valuable as the "living" and vice versa.
I love the simplicity of this poem -- a single moment in a stand of trees, then a gentle panning out with your final line. Your poems often have a spare quality that I love -- so much said, and still so much blank space left on the page. Something I aspire to!
That's so kind of you to say. I often wish I could write more, but longer poems tend to elude me. 😅 I guess the metaphorical grass is always greener, right?
I really am inspired by it. In fact, this morning I was playing around with cutting the words from my spring-prompted poem to see how few are needed to still convey the feeling I was going for. It's a helpful process for me!
I'm so glad! I've found myself challenged in really beautiful ways by this community and these prompts too.
This feels like peace. Simple natural movements, simply living and dying.
What a peaceful poem and picture. Your poem "feels soft" as I read it!
That's exactly what I was hoping for! 🧡
A., what a delightul and soothing poem. I love the way your description of sprign emetging seems liek a person waking to the day. Oh, and to have a blanket of moss as our covers! Sweet!
COLLARDS!!!!!
With a chunky hammock, apple cider vinegar on the side.
Yes!!!
Ham-hock, not hammock, stupid ass autocorrect.
Hahaha i actually really loved the idea that you eat collards exclusively in a hammock.
I like the idea of a ham hock serving as hammock for your collards, with a little wading pool of apple cider vinegar waiting on the side.
Oh, I miss them collard greens!
I fully expected the prompt to be "your favorite Britney Spears song," which would have been really challenging for me. The springtime prompt was far more welcome & I really enjoyed it. I loved your poem too, sis -- "green alliterates the ground" is brilliant, along with the ending.
Like Larry & Keith, I found there was no way to talk about spring without mud!
.
All over the landlocked north
the white tide is going out.
It’s a radial retreat – each crystal,
each clump, each patch pulling
inward, deflating toward center,
making 360-degree soup.
.
And in this soup, all of fall’s
unfinished projects, and
all of winter’s dog turds,
and the saddest bit of science:
the snowbrush ceanothus,
normally a glossy evergreen
sea in this open forest, not
even half-buried this year
and seared by days below zero.
Its waves are brown and
crackling, no green but in
the troughs, and I don’t know
what will happen next.
.
But there are also gift birds here,
singing far from where they will
build their nests. Analog ringtone
of junco, Irish tin whistle of thrush,
and the fact that it’s a
dress rehearsal
makes it that much dearer.
They mill around beneath
the feeders, their tiny feet tasting
brand-new ground.
I read this earlier today and got interrupted before I could reply . . . and I'm so glad because what I treat to read it again! I love your opening description of the snow's radial retreat and of the 360 degree soup with its not-exactly-tasty ingredients. But there are gift birds alongside the dog turds! Your description of their sounds is so vivid, and the whole notion that they are putting on a dress rehearsal is lovely. What a beautiful poem! I look forward to seeing what you come up with tomorrow when I post my Britney Spears prompt (thanks for the idea). 🤣
Soup feels like such an apt word for the muddy mess of spring! I also love "tiny feet tasting brand-new ground."
I've never heard the thaw described as radial, and that's such an apt descriptor...and the "pulling inward, deflating toward center," is such a precise and apt description, too. And oh, those piles of mushy dog poop revealed when the snow curtains part (lol). Having never really been to the PNW, I was completely ignorant of snowbrush ceanothus...so sorry to hear of its trauma this past winter, and I hope it recovers. I, too, loved "their tiny feet tasting brand new ground." Really charming :)
Ohhh "the fact that it’s a dress rehearsal makes it that much dearer." Where I live this phase is fading away. Life has begun to burst forth. And I love that idea that it is all a dress rehearsal till the colors take the stage!
I for one am very glad that earth is not prosaic and that you did it again. Your poem was lovely: "nettle is rising to purple the mud" and "green alliterates the ground." What delightful words to describe the miraculous return of color to the grayscape of winter! We are a bit behind here in New England, but change is still in the air. This came from a long walk this morning:
In the Berkshire foothills,
early March is, by some accounts,
an unlovely time.
Mother Earth has bed head.
Her roots are showing
and mud masks her every pore.
In the bosom of her hidden hills,
winter is slow to release its grip,
and spring drips slow like sap
tapped from maple trunks.
But look closely, and you will see
Snowdrops pushing quietly
through ice-crusted
tangles of blonde brush and
leafy detritus, their tiny heads
bowed from the exertion of birthing
themselves into the wind.
You will marvel
at the unassuming heroism
of these pale sweetlings,
which remind you that
you, too contain miracles
beneath the mud
of yourself.
Oh my, I can’t even tell you how delighted I was by the phrase “Mother Earth has bed head!” And then “tiny heads bowed from the exertion of birthing themselves into the wind” . . . stunning. And the ending - “you, too contain miracles beneath the mud of yourself.” I have nothing intelligent to say, just wow!
Thank you, friend! So glad you enjoyed it. The bedhead metaphor was really channeled to me by my inner kid, who was getting quite a crack out of how the flattened field grass looked like bedhead. The earth is so generous with its metaphors and also endlessly patient with being endlessly personified!
This was perfectly slow and steady. Leading up to the marveling of "these pale sweetlings, which remind you that you, too contain miracles beneath the mud of yourself." I am touched by this. I feel this inside myself. The hibernation within is cracking open like the shell of the seed, letting out a new sprout.
Thank you, Julie. I'm so glad you enjoyed and felt the renewal of spring inside yourself as you read it. What a profoundly transformative time of year it is, so very layered.
This is so good, Keith! I love the tiny heads of the snowdrops "bowed from the exertion of birthing / themselves into the wind." And the reminder that "you, too contain miracles / beneath the mud / of yourself." And a lovely word I've never heard before: sweetlings!
Thanks, Rebekah! Sweetlings really seemed like the perfect word for those deceptively delicate snowdrops. I love that word too :))
The tiny bowed heads of snowdrops is such a wonderful visual, as is the way you describe mother nature with her bedhead and mud mask. It's just delightful, Keith.
Thank you, A! As I walked yesterday, I heard my inner kid giggling over the fact that the flattened weeds and grass looked like bedhead, and that the earth really is just waking up again. :))
This is sweet, Keith! I laughed out loud at "Mother Earth has bed head!" That is an incredible, delightful, genius line! It takes an insightful mind and a hopeful heart to see below the surface at what can be, not just what is. My sense is that it takes that type of wisdom to appreciate a New England spring! The flow of yojur poem really shines, and it ends so sweetly:
"You will marvel
at the unassuming heroism
of these pale sweetlings,
which remind you that
you, too contain miracles
beneath the mud
of yourself."
Indeed!!! You are such a fine poet, my friend.
Thanks so much, Larry! I knew you, as a fellow New England transplant, would have an intimate understanding of mud season (and then I saw your poem also touched on it) and the incredible bounty that awaits under the rutted roads and mucky marshlands. I'm so glad you liked my poem, and thank you very much for your always-generous reflections :))
How come squirrels never ever ever seem to recall
where they stashed their precious nuts.
And why does god keep showing me this.
Maybe there is no treasure without a hunt?
Yes. Good.
Thanks for the maybe.
Maybe squirrels don't give up,
why should you.
Maybe hmmmmm, I wonder what's in the refrigerator.
Love to make the maybes pop up.
Thanks.
This strikes me as a bit of a modern koan ;)
If I’m not meant to
write a poem,
then the earth
ought to be
far more
prosaic.
🩷🩷🩷
I promise I didn't see that before I typed the exact same line!
Creative synergy between two beautiful hearts and minds!
Yes, this! 🧡
Ok, had to go to the google....
"provoking enlightenment"
Google again
"provoking spiritual knowledge or insight"
Yeah.
Provoking. Like with a stick.
I like that word.
Thank you, Keith
Yes! Your poetry is provoking and provocative! Own it :))
Oh I just loved, "If I’m not meant to write a poem, then the earth ought to be far more prosaic." Thank you for your poem Lisa. I feel a bit late to the table here, but from my walk the other day...
.
The soft cool wind caressed my face,
as I took my afternoon walk.
Birds carried upon these gentle currents,
to awaiting tree limbs above.
Chirps and tweets became a cacophony of
unending chatter, of what I could not say.
Till a screeching sound met my ears,
drawing my head up to the skies.
There, a hawk was soaring expediently
to a destination I do not know where.
Truly an important mission was at hand, a nest
needed protection, a territory fortified.
Then a nearby crow cackled and laughed from a
protruding branch at the absurdity of it all.
I continued walking, though now with a lighter
step to my pace, moved by natures simple
and extraordinary ways.
The line "I continued walking, though now with a lighter step" says so much and describes the magic of going for a "simple" walk in nature so beautifully. I love, too, how a poem like this recreates a lovely moment in time, both for the reader and for the poet. Maybe a picture is worth a thousand words, but a hundred or so well chosen words can also be worth quite a few pictures . . . however confusing that math might be.
I felt lighter for having read this, Julie. As bird activity increases here, I feel uplifted by the chatter, too. It feels companionable. And hopeful. I loved the idea of the hawk "soaring expediently" and the crow laughing at the absurdity of the hubbub.
Oh this is so good. I love the way your poetry flows, sweet, lyrical, poignant and powerful. I love the image of the soaring hawk, with a purpose, and the trickster like crow always observing and commenting from the bleachers. Your ending is so complete:
"I continued walking, though now with a lighter
step to my pace, moved by natures simple
and extraordinary ways."
So wonderful. I'm with Keith, I feel lighter and freer reading your poem. Your have such special gifts!
I love the line "the earth ought to be far more prosaic!" What a lovely image you paint with your words. And thanks for the encouragement to go outside!
Thank you so much, Karri! If anyone here hates nature, I'm sure they have tired of my poetry and prompts by now. But it feels like I'm among kindred spirits!