Farm to Cup

Walking The Farm

I make an early rise to check on the trees, inherited from father four years ago.
The rains were heavy early in the year, a good sign.
The last trees father chose should be ready for their first harvest.
His influence still covers the hillside, encouraging and intimidating me.
The workers will be arriving soon, ready to pick the bright red fruit.
Many of them knew father, mourned with us.
I wonder if they have confidence in my abilities or worry as much about the future as I do.
Then comes a few weeks of stirring, rotating, and hoping for strong sun,
until the batches are the perfect parchment.
Father had a knack for knowing when it was time.
He'd get out of bed one morning and announce,
"Ready the hulling machines."
As a child, I loved to help with the manual sorting.
I think father liked giving me a small task near so many adults,
even if my work needed checking over.
Now, my favorite part is the sisal bags stacked up and ready to go.
It feels like an end to the hard part,
but in some ways the planning between seasons is the most difficult.
That's when I wish I could still ask for father's advice.


Cupper

Nose, roast, crack, rest.
Nose, slurp, repeat.
100 tastes a day
To find the perfect blend.
Every seed has a story
Of rainfall, sun, and wind.
The attitude and altitude
Of the farmer and the land
Influence the flavors
Of the beans in my hands.
Floral, chocolate, toasty,
Tangy, acidic, sweet.


Conversation of Questions
Heya!
How are you doing?
What can I get ya?
Big or small?
Extra shot?
Room for cream?
Anything else?
Here or to go?
Do you have a punch card?
Need a reciept?
Thanks!


Cup of Clouds

Swirling clouds of cream push to the bottom,
Half settling and half mixing,
A visual for the science behind density and solutions.

Rippled edges like afternoon tide pools.
Little peaks of color fighting to find equilibrium
Between layers of mahogany, burlap, and fresh cut pine.

Take a sip or give it a spin
To see more blending, more gradations.
Until it's all one,
Or all gone.


There are a steps left out, but four poems felt like enough for a series.

Elegy

One time, she tripped my boyfriend with her oxygen cord.
She was playful like that,
Even using her misfortune to bring joy.
And she wasn't short on misfortune,
Especially as a child,
But she still managed to find good in the bad.
Her faith helped with that,
A faith she pieced together and struggled with over the years,
Making it stronger and more genuinely held than most I've seen.
She was pretty strong in her convictions overall,
Giving careful thought and time to making a decision
And then sticking with it.
Stubbornness is this way seems to be a family trait,
Or maybe she just trained us that way by example.
She set a pretty good example in most things, I think.
I'm grateful I got to live with her a while,
Even it was a result of the same event that gave her that oxygen cord.


The NaPoWriMo.net prompt April 3 was to write an elegy centered on a little known fact or something quirky about the person. Nothing came to me yesterday, but this morning, that first line popped up. The rest kinda came tumbling after.

The Apostrophe Question

I always wonder where the apostrophe should go: inside the word or next to it.

Inside implies one mother.

Perhaps it means “motherhood’s day”

(but that didn't fit as nicely on the sign).

Maybe it means a more personal mother:

the day to remember and honor your specific mother.

But, everyone has more than one mother.

On a biological note, all mothers have mothers;

it’s mothers all the way down.

Then there are the surrogates:

teachers, friends, spiritual leaders, aunts.

Anyone that helps a person grow.

Outside makes it plural possessive.

The day of many mothers,

the day of any and all mothers,

the day of celebrating nurturing itself,

and Mother Nature itself

(another mother we all have).

These days, I wonder where I should go: inside the group or next to it.

I am between maiden and mother spiritually.

I am fairly old or still quite young,

depending on culture, time, and personal opinion.

I did not yet feel motherly or mom-like

(more like a still-developing proto-mom)

when I experienced miscarriage.

I don’t much feel like I lost a child,

more like a particular vision of the future --

a (now alternate) reality to which I’d become accustomed,

and of which I was growing quite fond.

But I wanted it,

I was preparing for it,

and I had (nearly) accepted it as part of my identity.

I’m caught between alternate versions of being.

The apostrophe and me - in or out?

The answer feels ambiguous at best.

Because I wonder about this every time I type Mother's Day, I have researched it. Officially, the apostrophe goes before the s. Here’s the brief wikipedia explanation.

Quinzaine

Thought I'd play around with a new form today. So here are a couple quinzaines.

Quinzaine : The name comes from the French word meaning 15, quinze, describing the total number of syllables. There are three lines with 7/5/3 syllables. The first line is a statement, followed by two questions.


The palm leaves move with the wind.
How many are there?
How much wind?


Father has gone to the store.
When will he return?
What's for sale?


Grandma made yummy cookies.
How many for me?
Just one left!?

St. George Street

Walking on the street,
people go around
as we amble,
browsing storefronts.

Chocolate shops,
ice cream parlors,
pizza dens, and
open air grilles

call us inside.
Smells wafting out
convince us to
take a long look.

We leave with a
pound of pralines
and caramel
for later.


We visited St. Augustine, FL today and walked along St. George. It's part historic district, part tourist trap, and part unique shops. It's a place I've visited a few times over the years, since it's close to my grandparents' place. If you're ever in northeast FL, I recommend it.

Cuddles

Cuddling the dog
'til he tries helping me type.
His claws just won't work.

The all brown loves to get in my lap during computer time. I was trying to write a poem, and he insisted on helping.

Simply Receive

ABC Wednesday features the letter S this week. Thursday is Thanksgiving in the US. Here's two version of the same four line poem reflecting on themes of thanksgiving. The second includes more S words.

Simply receive the earth's blessings.

Be thankful for the harvest's bounty.

Treasure true friendship and of love

that lasts a lifetime in all its forms.

Simply secure in Earth's sacrifice,

Be satisfied with the harvest's surplus.

Sing of sincere shipmates and of love

sustained for a lifetime, in all its shapes.

Death of a Twin

Today's prompt/form idea came from dVerse: Craft prose to poetry There are three steps.
1. Find a prose passage that seems poetic. You know you read some stuff that just sounds cool.
2. Break it up into more poetic lines and stanzas. Reformat it, basically.
3. Alter it to better fit your definition of poetry. A few options: even out rhyme, meter; more flowery words; clearer images.

I used a passage from Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese, which I copied below the poem. I loved reading that book. It's about a pair of twins born in Ethiopia, Shiva and Marion. Their parents were an Indian nun (who died in labor) and an English surgeon (who fled shortly after their birth). They were raised by two Indian doctors at a mission hospital. Very interesting story about love, medicine and family both chosen and natural.


Death of a Twin

His body was warm. 

He never took a breath 

after. 

His expression never changed. 

I felt his pulse,

regular for a full minute.

Then it paused,

as if the heart had just realized 

the lungs had quit. 

With a final throb, he was gone. 

Of all the pulse types, 

this was both the rarest 

and the most common.

Every pulse possesses

the potential to be absent. 

I closed my eyes and cradled him, 

his skull buttressed against mine.

I felt physically vulnerable

lying here next to him

in a way I hadn't known

when we were a continent apart.

With his death 

my biology was altered.

The heat was rapidly leaving his body. 

I lay there, my head against Shiva's, a finger resting on his carotid pulse. His body was warm. He never took a breath after the tube came out. His facial expression never changed. His pulse stayed regular for almost a minute, then it paused, as if it had just realized its lifelong partner-the lungs-had quit. His heart sped up, became faint, and then, with a final throb under my fingers, it was gone. I thought of Ghosh. Of all the pulse types, this was both the rarest and the most common, a Janus quality that every pulse possesses: the potential to be absent.
I closed my eyes and clung to Shiva. I cradled him, his skull buttressed against mine and now wet with my tears. I felt physically vulnerable in a way I'd never felt when we were a continent apart, as if with his death my own biology was now altered. The heat was rapidly leaving his body.
Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

Two Families

On either side 

live families 

with young kids. 

No words make it 

through the walls, 

only thunks, shouts, 

& upstairsdownstairs. 

Memories of my own 

noise-making & amok-running 

mix with thoughts of 

future child-chasing. 

I live between two families with kids: 

my neighbors' 

and my own. 

BlogHer Prompt: Things your current home is between

Three Years Between Us

It was my whole lifetime,

unimaginably long.

Then it was just enough 

to be amazingly cute,

my own real live babydoll.

For a while, it was quite

intolerably annoying.

You were always on my nerves.

A few years more brought

friendly cooperation

and increased peace.

For now, we still feel

the difference,

but only occasionally.

Over our lifetimes, 

the same three years will

become increasingly smaller.

Eventually they will be

unimaginably short.

I have a younger brother who was born on my third birthday. I've always loved him, but there were long stretches where I didn't like him one bit. Fortunately, we've grown closer over the years and even enjoy spending time with each other's friends.
BlogHer Prompt: talk about siblings

Answers: Two Truths and One Lie

The three sentences:
1. I like mustard.
2. I enjoy going to car shows.
3. Daisies are my favorite flower.

References:
1. Evil Twin
2. Flying Umbrella
3. Asteraceae

The first one is false. I like ketchup, not mustard.
I love going to car shows with my Dad. Despite cars not being the best thing for the environment, they can be beautiful. Amy, I appreciate your thoughtfulness on this one.
Daisies are such a happy flower! Asteraceae is the family of flowers, and I love the whole family!

Thanks for playing along!

Birthday Cake

My brother was born 
on my third birthday.
We've gotten good 
at sharing the day.

We come up with great cake ideas.
My favorite design so far
really bothered our mom.

Anatomically correct human heart cake:
red velvet cake with black and red icing,
four lobes and a few arteries and veins.
Dad did a great sculpting job on that one.

We turned 22 and 19 that year.

I found the cake especially hilarious as I was in Comparative Vertebrate Anatomy at the time. Grossness warning: this class involved bringing a freeze-dried pig heart home over Thanksgiving break to study for my final exam. Mom found it repulsive, which of course made it more fun to have around. :-)

Free Write Friday: What's your most memorable birthday?