Blue Teapot

Little blue teapot:
a toy a child forgot
sits waiting for the day
the child returns to play.

Found this in the yard the other day.

Truffula Tree Haiku

Poor truffula trees

made into useless thneeds

for the Onceler's greed.

Do you remember

truffulas in November,

our dancing: limber.

Today's prompt from Patricia K. Lichen, Author
Weekend Haiku & Limericks: truffula trees

As to the second one, it's about my college's homecoming-type event, Cornhuskin'. My senior year, our class's theme was Dr. Seuss.
Our class sweatshirt:

Photo by Meghan Laurin

Another poem about Cornhuskin' here as well as some more info on Meredith College's most unique of events.

Poetry

As you many have noticed, this post is not a poem. Do not be alarmed, you are still at JP's Poetry. As part of National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo), there are prompts Monday through Friday all month. Today's prompt asked bloggers to discuss their secret (or not so secret) passion.

For a long while, writing poetry was my secret passion. It wasn't a huge secret, but I certainly didn't volunteer to share my poetry with many people. As a kid, I often made up little songs and loved poetry units at school. I wrote some angsty stuff during my teen years, but it wasn't all bad. As college approached, things got busier at school and I didn't do much of anything related to words during my free time. If poetry came up as an option during classwork, I always chose that form of the project. Occasionally I would submit a poem to an online contest and even had half a dozen or so published in anthologies.

College was even busier. I managed to squeeze in some semi-regular journal writing, nearly daily reading of about five pages from a personal novel, and an occasional poem writing session. I wasn't feeling totally uncreative, but there was lots of science and learning happening. Plus, I was meeting new people, helping to run campus organizations, and having all kinds of new experiences.

I graduated in May 2010 and moved in with my boyfriend. Not finding much available in the way of work gave me some free time and a flexible schedule between chores. I wrote more often and read a lot more. I've even started helping to run the alumnae book club, taken up sewing, and learned how to meal plan on a budget. I heard about National Poetry Writing Month a few days before it started, and decided I'd set up a blog to help keep me accountable. I loved it. There weren't tons of visitors, but I was sharing my creativity, meeting other poets, and learning new forms and styles. After April, I wrote regularly for a while and then let life get in the way.

I'm glad to be back for another month of regular writing and posting. Sometimes I think about collecting some of my work and publishing a book. Making a little money from it would be nice, but mostly there's something magical in seeing your work published.

Mind you, poetry isn't my only passion. I love biology, especially aquatic ecology. And I enjoy helping others learn. I even have waves of other creative pursuits: sewing, painting, cooking, and crocheting. Some days are more creative than others, but creativity is an important part of life. Creating something, even if you don't think of it as art, helps replenish the soul.

What about you, do you have a secret passion? Did you or do you keep it to yourself?

Gravity Gave Up On Me

Earlier this morning,
I fell into the sky.
It started without warning,
and I can't figure why
gravity
gave up on me.

I swerved around a tree limb
and nearly hit a bird.
Clouds were all around me
when suddenly I heard,
"Hey there, you!
You're floating too?!"

Just as I came to a stop,
I saw a smiling face.
"We're kids gravity forgot.
You'll get used to this place.
My name's Sly,
let's share this sky."

And so I settled in
to live atop the clouds.
The air is a bit thin,
but at least it isn't loud.
Gravity
gave up on me.


Inspired by Shel Silverstein's "Falling Up".
A new book of his poems came out recently, and I'm excited to read it!
Every Thing On It

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

Trees in the Yard

I've always loved plants.
And I've always asked questions.
Behind our yard was a forest.
Or, it looked like a forest to me.

Pine trees so crowded
I couldn't see the road,
though I could hear cars
in nighttime's quiet.

Needles were always falling
into the yard, sometimes cones.
In summer, their pollen
painted everything yellow.

Why don't the pine needles fall
like the trees in the front?
Mom said they were just
different types of trees.

The front trees were in fact
three Bradford Pears.
Trees with leaves hanging
low enough to investigate.

They had beautiful, tiny,
detailed flowers I could study.
They smelled heartily.
I cherish that smell even now.

The pines were felled
to put in more houses.
The Bradfords died slowly;
the species is short-lived.

Every time I smell or see
those beautiful flowers
and when pollen coats cars,
childhood memories flow.



BlogHer Prompt: Things your childhood home is between
The front yard and the back yard :)

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

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Quartz

I
numberless clear crystals
arranged to opacity
and varrying whites

II
Sorry I'm late.
A small bump in the path
tripped me up.

III
This small rock
(the length of my pinky)
was once part of something larger:
a mountain.
We are all small,
and yet part of the whole
of humanity.

IV
A glint caught by
the corner of my eye
Then lost in the dirt
until a short wind
revealed it to me.
A happy discovery.

V
Without its own locomotion
it travelled quite far,
no quartz sources nearby.
A few minor forces
combined,
water trickling,
a short kick,
but it made it here.

VI
Small beauties in life
like this bit of quartz
are often surprises.
Appreciate them.

VII
Straight edges
softened with time.
Half rough and
half smooth sides.
Some parts got more wear.

VIII
Cracks & crevices
too small to notice
but for the dirt
clinging in them.
Oh, the dirty details.

IX
looks to be a puzzle
with pieces carefully put together
and not easily pried apart

X
a rock hurled
a face cut
a crystal reddened
a scar formed

XI
Chance made it cloudy,
imperfect.
But not unbeautiful.

XII
Random gifts of
beauty are proof
the universe loves us.

XIII
“I found this shiny rock
just for you, Mommy.”
A little girl's
I love you.


Inspired by Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens
We Write Poems Prompt #68
Poetry Pantry #63

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A few fun things derived from spam emails. 
Thanks to the Found Poetry Review's weekly prompt.

Child's Prayer

"If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take."
She thinks only, 'this prayer rhymes,'
knows not its meaning, but in time
life's true dangers she will see.
Then hopefully she'll think of me
and the protection I will give
for as long as I shall live.


Carry On Tuesday 117
Rupert Brooke's poem, 'The Soldier'
"If I should die, think only this of me"

Carlos

The goal was to use the letter C for inspiration (via ABC Wednesday). While listing C words, a migrant's story started to form. I've been reading Sonia Novario's book Enrique's Journey. It details the struggles of a boy from Honduras attempting to reach his mother in North Carolina and what happens after.

I survived Chiapas, the beast.

An unlucky comrade was

cut off from the group.

Border police have corralled him

in confinement with other migrants.

I am crazy to attempt this

journey from central america

crossing Mexico

to the United States.

But, it is the only cure

for missing my mother,

who used to coddle

and cuddle me

when I was cute and small.

I hop on and off moving trains.

Churning wheels threaten to cut off

a foot, a leg, a life.

Men chase me.

I hide in a clump of bushes.

A church!

I burst in and

careen into a corner.

Churches often provide sanctuary.

It's cool in here.

A clergyman appears.

"Breathe easy.

I care for children of the train."

I notice others. 

For dinner, we consume

cucumbers and chimichangas.

I even get a cookie!

We console one other.

We cajole one other.

We cheer up for the safety

of resting in the church.

I cover up for sleep,

and dream of mami.

Thousands of children travel along the tops and sides of freight trains through Mexico. Children as young as seven jump on and off of the moving trains, trying to avoid immigration agents. Some states are generally friendly and the people are helpful to the migrants, like in Veracruz. Chiapas, the southern most state, is notoriously difficult to cross without deportation, and the people despise migrants. These children are typically trying to reach a parent in the US, most often a mother. Single-parent households appear more and more in Central America, and parents who cannot make enough at home leave for the US. They plan to stay 1, 2, or 3 years, but many end up staying for 10 years or more. Children who can barely remember their mother, or have only an idealized version of her, undertake deportation, gangs, rape, physical mutilation, starvation, and dehydration for days and sometimes months hopping trains in order to find mom and love.

Aug 7: Included in Poetry Pantry #61

Is that all there is, Mommy?

Is that all there is, Mommy?
    Yes, sweetie, I'm sorry.
    Mommy can't find work.
    Try to be grateful
    we found anything
    at all.

Is that all there is to do?
    I'm afraid we have to wait
    and keep hoping
    I find something,
    anything,
    soon.

If that's all there is
let's say blessing
so we can eat.
I'm really hungry.
    Thank you, universe,
    for this. 

My friends at school 
want to know why
I don't bring lunch
anymore. I said, 
"No reason. Lay off,
stupid."

    Then let's keep eating. 
    You'll get breakfast, too, 
    from school if you take 
    these forms in. 
What about you?
    Nope.

Dancing. Let's go near
a coffee shop that has
a live band. Listen from
outside, and dance.
Can we please?
    Yes. Eat. 

    'Break out the booze and
    get drunk' my friends said
    when dancing. But, you're
    too young, and I feel too 
    old for that kind of
    party.  

'Have a ball' my teacher said
when we had a pizza party
for good attendance.
     We can have a ball
     at the coffee shop.
     Let's go.

Part of Carry On Tuesday #111
Word from Peggy Lee's 'Is that all there is?'

"Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing
Let's break out the booze and have a ball
If that's all there is"

Flying Umbrella

Woah!
Mommy, look at that!
Is that an umbrella?!
Yeah, it is.
Huh.

Flipping, twirling, spinning
in the air.
Held up like a kite,
but wihout a string.

It has a no direction,
flits around
in the air
above the building.

Blue over blue,
handle over canopy,
up on a draft,
down after a tilt.

Twisting, turning, flying
out of sight.
Is that an umbrella?!
Yeah, it is.
Cool.


At a Mustang car show I attended recently with my dad, just as we were starting to leave, a little kid noticed an umbrella up in the air. So, a few of us watched it tumble around for a while until it disappeared behind a building. I wrote the poem for it later that day. It was a magical little moment reminding me of the wonder of childhood and the magic to be found in everyday life.

Submitted to Promising Poets Thursday Poetry Rally 45

*June 6: Thank you to Promising Poets Cafe and the Poetry Rally community for this Perfect Poet Award Week 45.
I am honored.
I would like to nominate MindLoveMisery and C Rose of The World Poetized.

 

I write to share my

emotions and ponderings.

Glad you liked it. Thanks.

Grandma and the King's Son

"Yes ma'am," the boy told grandma.
"Heard about you out here in the living room from mama.
About nine-thirty last night you were laughing, mama says."

"The king's son was there, in my dream," grandma explained.
"'Like meat loves salt' he claimed he loved me. I was young.
And when they got a right long ways off, his guards I mean,
squintin' squirrels were the only ones left to see us."

Grandma just laughed and hollered last night through the whole dream.
"The two boys slept on, too tired to notice," Mama added.


Found poem using arbitrarily selected first phrases on pages out of Grandfather Tales, edited by Richard Chase.

Green

Spring has come:
frogs are speaking up,
turtles are poking out their heads,
and the regenerated chlorophyll
of spring buds
adds verdant shadows
to the forest,
formerly only pine and brown.

While not a tropical rain forest
showing off all 520-570 nm,
the lawn
of grass,
wild leek,
and clover
makes a sort of mini-meadow.

Ferns appear again
as moss grows anew,
adding olivine
and kelly shades to the trunks.

No electric
or neon
colors here, in the suburban jungle's
natural verdigris.

No sapphire
or emerald
(no matter the cadmium included)
could ever replace my celadon dreams.

Rejoicing in the viridian revival,
I'll take some tea
with mint
to help me remember guppie days from youth
and know the joy of jade.


Every line includes a reference to green. Some are trickier than others. I found Wikipedia's List of Colors very helpful.


*May 10: Included in Poetry Potluck Spring, Color, and Rainbows.
**May 18: Given the Celebrate Poets of Summer Award by the Promising Poets' Poetry Cafe community 

Nursery Rhyme

Marky went for a walk one day
in the beautiful month of May.
He tripped on a log
and hit his nog.
Now he looks for things in his way.

Day 7 Afternoon with a Friend

The bright smell of vines
strawberries, and dandelions,
of Tristan remind.

Could we have had more fun?

You remember childhood playing,
les enfants in the trees.
Lucky winnings were these.

Day 5.2 Sometimes I Wish

Having finished today's oxymoronic poem, I was reminded of something I wrote probably more than 10 years ago, perhaps in 5th grade. Not too bad for a 12 year old.


Sometimes I Wish

Sometimes I wish
I could wish
The world away.
Sometimes I wish
I could wisk
My cares to bay.

Some problems are:
I'd set up a bar.
There won't be gladness
Without the sadness.
There can't be peace
Without the madness.

So when I wish
That I could wish
The world away,
I remember this:
There can't be love
Without the hate.