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.

Rubaiyat

In this lifetime there is no other way.

You must do your best to enjoy today

if you desire to feel truly alive.

that is what the wise men and women say.

If what you are really hoping to find

is a deeper and more meaningful life,

you have to pick yourself up and begin

to discover what will give you the drive.

It's important to remember that when

your struggle starts frustrating you again,

you should not putter about or delay.

You can never know when your life will end.

Real Toads: Rubaiyat

Four line stanza

10 syllables per line

aaba rhyming scheme

I often have trouble with form-based prompts because I don't know about what to write. This time I decided to just come up with the ending words and see where it led me. It might need some revising for more compactness and a less repitious sound.

Also shared with Poets United Poetry Pantry #77

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

You Choose

Life happens.

If you ignore it

or pretend that

time isn't hurtling forward,

you miss out.

Death happens.

If you ignore it

or pretend that

you can prevent getting old,

death still comes.

Life happens.

If you enjoy it

and do your best

to find happiness each day,

you will live.

Poetic Asides Poem A Day prompt: what won't wait

Playing With Brevity

My friend Mike put together a nice guest post for me. In it, he challenged me, and any willing reader, to try Hemmingway's six word challenge. I enjoy playing with brevity, so here are a few bits of micropoetry.




6 Words:

Couch cuddling:
a dog's perfect day.


Thermostat settings:
'parka needed'
or 'naked'


Ecology: the scientific circle of life.


Death: the inescapable eventuality of life.


Everything alive
adapts or it dies.


Love lets lovers glide like birds.


Lie down. Now a little pinch...


Five fearless fighters freed fertile fields.



10 Words:

i slipped
i ache
i laugh
really
i am embarrassed


Chop. Fry. Add spice.
Stir. Simmer. Serve.
Eat. Drink. Enjoy.


Meditation:
may I be
happy,
healthy,
peaceful,
safe,
and loved.


If you're intrigued, you can search #sixwords on twitter for lots of people trying it out. Some are quite clever.


Three Word Wednesday CCLV: adapt, glide, lie
ABC Wednesday: Letter F

Dew

Dew clings to the window screen,

blurring my view. Not that I care.

The only thing that interests me

is wallowing in my despair.

The new day only serves to remind:

my best friend died last night.

Witnesses

Keep it a secret!

It was not their fault.
They could not see his face.

The winter snow
found him wishing
he could explain.
He never was given admittance. 



Found on page 121 of Camber of Culdi by Katherine Kurtz

Earn Eternity

Ephemeral though life is,
this seems an early end.
I cannot evade death.
Ejected from my body,
my essence ebbs away.

Please, return me to earth.
I'll return enhanced and
aim to erase my errors,
or ease their ill effects.
Let me earn eternal embrace.

ABC Wednesday Letter E

Death of a Queen

The Vengeful King

"An eye for eye!"

the great king cried.

My queen has died.

Now, how shall I

punish this crime?

None can compare

to my lady fair

whose lustrous hair

fluttered in air.

Who would have dared

to leave her there?

Killers beware

I'll find your lair

and have you snared.

Revenge, I swear.

Killing the guy

who did the crime

will satisfy

my wish to find

justice this time.

The Peaceful King

I know that an eye for an eye,

will only make the whole world blind.

Revenge will not help me to find

relief or any peace of mind.

No one will ever replace

her gentle, sweet, smiling face.

But now I must show some grace

and refuse to become base.

I can show others the way

if I correctly display

how to handle this sad day.

May her soul find peace, I pray.

I felt like writing on both sides of the prompt. Personally, I hope for the second outcome.
Part of Carry on Tuesday #118.

An eye for an eye will make the whole world go blind. - Mahatma Gandhi

Sirens' Song

No man is immune
to the sirens' song.
While love seems to
radiate from the shore,
hearts and ships are
dashed on the rocks and
drenched in the sea.


Three Word Wednesday CCLIII

Dose Me (Four Poems, One Title)

A small pinch, the needle pierces my skin.
A wonderful dose flows into my veins.
I appear comatose for a few hours,
but my mind is exploring other worlds.




The doctor finally appears.
The piercing pain in my stomach
is only getting worse, I feel.
Will someone give me a dose
of something soon, morphine maybe?




The doctors here dose me daily.
I appear more affable, but
the piercing parley in my head
is not quitting or quieting.




One small dose with his meal today.
No piercing to give it away.
"Natural causes," they will say.
How much are you willing to pay?



Three Word Wednesday CCLII
Appear, Dose, Pierce

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

No Railing

No railing. Saw her slipping.
Suddenly, she fell through.
I'll never again feel my
lover's delicate fingers.

Slipping on the mossy stairs,
through the air she tumbled.
My darling took her last breath,
fingers grasping only air.


Carry On Tuesday 109
Words from Abba:
Slipping through my fingers

Day 3 - Predicting My Death

NaPoWriMo posted this prompt:
"Cesar Vallejo wrote a pretty famous poem that begins with him saying that he will die in Paris, in the rain, on a Thursday (different translations from the Spanish make it hard to quote precisely in English). So go ahead and write a poem predicting your own death — at night in Omaha at the Shell Station, in an underwater Mexican grotto after a dry spell. It’s less morbid than you think!"


Spring Rain

I will die on a Wednesday in May,
happy to have seen one last spring rain.
Any later, and summer will make it too hot for dying.
Any sooner, and I'll miss some of the best flowering.

It will be raining because that relaxes me,
and reminds me of growth, childhood, and magic.
Perhaps I'll have just finished drinking a bit of tea.
Maybe, I won't even have been sick.

Life, and death, sometimes just happen that way.
On a Wednesday,
in May,
after a spring rain.



And because I thought it would be fun, I have translated it into Esperanto. I have been learning this language, practicing a little bit every Monday by getting online to chat with others and visiting lernu.net where there are free Esperanto courses. I love this beautiful, wonderful language.

Esperanto was created by L.L. Zamenhoff in order to be everyone's second language. Because it didn't come from one nation or group of people, every one speaking it would be on even ground, as opposed to English being used at the UN meetings and native English speakers having an advantage in debates and discussions. Because there are no rule exceptions (such as oddly conjugated verbs), Esperanto grammar and structure are much easier to learn than most languages. There are about 900 roots, suffixes, prefixes, and main meanings, which can be combined to form over 100,000 words. This means learning even 100 roots can help you understand about 1000 words. Over one million people speak it fluently worldwide, and some schools teach it to younger children as a framework for learning other languages. Through local, national, and international meetings, Esperanto has also developed its own culture. The original idea was a language to help foster world peace and equality, so that feeling carries through all of the gatherings and interactions between Esperanto speakers.

Give the poem a read, and you may even see some words you can recognize.


Printempa Pluvo

Mi mortos unu merkredo en majo,
feliĉa vidis finalan printempan pluvon.
Pli malfrue, kaj somero faris lan veteron tro varma por mortado.
Pli frue, kaj mi mankis kelke de plej bonan floradon.

Pluvus pro tio ke malstreĉiĝas min,
kaj memorigis min de kresko, infanaĝo, kaj sorĉado.
Eble mi finis trinkadon iom teo.
Eble, mi ne estas malsana.

Vivo, kaj morto, kelkfoje okazas en tia maniero.
Unu merkredo,
en majo,
poste printema pluvo.

It's National Poetry Month

In case anyone doesn't know, April is National Poetry Month. In an effort to encourage some creative thinking in myself, I've decided to participate.

There's a nifty site to help provide inspiration and encouragement. Check it out: NaPoWriMo


Day 1 was technically yesterday, so here's a make-up poem based on the first prompt provided by NaPoWriMo. This poetic form is known as tetractys, a type of cinquain.


Green

Wise
Woman,
Decaying,
Drank her water.
Like Dickinson, concerned with death, yet not.