I’ve peppered the backyard
with peppermint. Inundated,
really. Dead pot tossed
into a corner for another plant
another day.
Rain revived it, so happy
it grew and grew and grew
across the lawn, under trees,
through bushes, until the whole
yard smelled like Christmas.
This has not actually happened, but it was fun to imagine for d’Verse’s Quadrille Monday this week. Years ago when I started an herb garden, I did have to keep mint in the pot rather than the ground. It tends to take over an herb garden, especially when it rains a lot as mint loves wet feet. And this probably explains why it doesn’t do nearly as well in a pot. For me anyway. I’m still looking for a good place to plant my mint as I love it in hot tea at night with a little fresh ginger.
Mom told me once, in the midst of divorce
(mine, not hers) she wished she could keep
me at 10 years old, never let me grow up.
And that angered me. And confused me.
I know she hated to see me hurt, turtles
in my own little world where hurt
couldn’t touch me anymore, floundering
through the grief of betrayal and broken
fairy tales, unsure of who I was or how
to move forward, small child in tow.
That small child is grown now, turtles
in his own way as we all do at some point
in our lives, ferreting out who we are,
who we’re to become or morph into,
magpies after shiny things until we do.
But I wouldn’t want to take him back
to 10 years old, to keep him a child.
He’s still bright-eyed, favorite treats
chipmunked in his cheeks, a sly smile
creasing his face as he tries to tiptoe
away. Already a man, still a child.
For d’Verse Poets Pub Poetic Tuesday this week, we were tasked with using an animal verb (or four). Floundering came to mind right away, and I knew I wanted to write about this awkward teen-adult transition my 19 year old son, Nick, is going through. This one will likely go back to the editing board as I think there’s something there to be fleshed out with more time.
Photo: Nick graced me with his presence on a recent outing for my travel blog, Wander Florida. We went out early, watched the sunrise, ate breakfast at a fabulous hidden gem, hiked Weeki Wachee Preserve (where he took over camera duties for a bit), and explored an historic fishing village. After I showed him how to use my camera on manual mode, he spent a long time experimenting with different shots. I couldn’t resist taking a photo of him checking his shot on the camera before making an adjustment.
The water is like one of those paintings that changes when you move, except I’m not moving. I’m sitting still, in the car, hiding from the rain that threatens to come, clouds crowding the sky, but only a light misty rain comes. Another sunsetless evening crawling from gray afternoon to gray night, light ebbing as slow as the tide. Except the water only appears to move when I look straight ahead through the misted-on windshield. Look right, the bay is a still pond with storm fingers ruffling the surface, the storm’s dark passed and on the horizon. Look left, same except a patch of light that’s broken through the clouds reflects off the water as an illuminated cloud. Is the tide coming? Going? Not moving at all? I love storms on the water, when we were cozy in the boat’s cabin, kerosene lamps illuminating walls and the narrow galley, fat flames reflecting off the closed hatch like the sun’s light bouncing from that cloud to the sea and back again.
Thunder hammers ears,
rain pounds decks, wind pushes boat
“are we dragging anchor?”
I didn’t realize how late I was in posting and how long it had been until I came here to share this haibun which I wrote back on the 24th for d’Verse’s Haibun Monday. Even then it was late!
If you’re unfamiliar with the form, a haibun “consists of one to a few paragraphs of prose—usually written in the present tense—that evoke an experience and are often non-fictional/autobiographical. They may be preceded or followed by one or more haiku—nature-based, using a seasonal image—that complement without directly repeating what the prose stated.”I love these because they combine two of my favorite types of writing – imagery-filled prose and haiku.
On the 24th when I wrote this, I sat in my car at a nearby causeway having cancelled a sunset photowalk with my photography club because of this rain. We were to meet at a different location an hour or so away. I decided to try to capture the sunset anyways, which was nonexistent that evening. Sitting in my car, watching the rain, reminded me of living on our boat as a child, cozy in the cabin playing cards or reading when rain whipped. Sometimes the storms were pretty bad, but I always felt safe and secure though I know my parents were on edge during the worst ones, especially when they came on at night.
unnoticed most days
blooms burst forth when needed most
like a mother's love
Happy Mother’s Day to everyone who celebrates it, in which ever form that takes for you!
This morning, I stepped outside with Cookie when I put her out to play in the back yard and noticed my Ocean Blue Morning Glory in bloom at the back fence line. I haven’t seen it bloom for a couple of years and thought I’d killed it moving it to that spot. Yet, here, on Mother’s Day, it peeked out of all the overgrown shrubbery to share her beauty with the day.
I woke with the intention of writing something for Mother’s Day. I usually don’t but felt like I wanted to today. The morning glory gave me the inspiration for this little haiku.
Hope your day is as beautiful and unexpected as this flower. 💙💜
Summer
Heat
pervasive as
an unwanted sheen,
skin puckering into rivers
of sweat pouring down
face - arms - legs.
Swamp crotch. Swamp ass. Swamp pits.
Vegetable gardens dead and dried
(not even rain can save the sensitive ones).
Northern methods don’t work here.
Pack away tools - seeds - expectations until fall.
Park in the shade; wait for the shady spot; park
a block away and walk in the heat to avoid
first degree burns later from
the steering wheel - seat belt - seat.
Keep extra clothes in the car. Dry socks and shoes.
Or fuck it,
just wear flip flops everywhere.
Daily thunderstorms
usually in the afternoon
the day’s heat overflowing
into clouds that trip
over each other to reach higher and taller
until they tumble back to Earth,
rainy atmospheric Jenga scattering
across the ground.
Lightning cleaves the sky into puzzle pieces,
especially when storms hit late,
evening darker than normal,
the sun’s daily death hastened
by storm’s growing darkness.
Rain quenches the ground’s thirst,
cleans the air,
feeds plants - trees - lawns
until they spill their edges and grow full
in shades of green so bright
they seem like an oversaturated photography project.
Mow twice a week.
Pack all the umbrellas
into cars - bags - desk drawers.
And you’ll still be without one when you need it.
Honestly not sure how I feel about this one. It feels a little all over the place. Anyway, for this week’s Open Link Night #338 over at d’Verse Poets Pub, Linda looked for any poem we wanted to share and tossed out summer as an optional prompt/theme.
Summer in Florida is beautiful and dark and wet and oversaturated and paradise and hell. I love all of it and am equally happy when October’s relatively cooler mornings roll around. It’s mid-May, and we’re following a pattern that started last year – a cooler month made so by the stronger than usual breezes we’re getting for much of the day.
Layers of Change by Erik Johansson inspired today’s poem.
Take a deep breath. Commit.
Step outside.
Walk in the park. Go for a hike. Hug a tree. Eat outside.
Watch the stars. Watch the clouds
Listen to the rain on a tin roof.
Draw a plant. Photograph an animal. Shed a layer from yourself.
Walk on the beach. At sunset. Or sunrise.
Go camping. Find pretty shells. Feel the heat of the sun
on your back. Your face. Your arms.
Grow a garden. Get dirt under your nails. Pollen in hair.
Grass stains on knees. Stand in the forest.
Listen to the silence as it grows louder. Shed another layer.
Walk barefoot
through a field of zinnias.
Float
in saltwater.
Swim. Kayak. Sail. Leave the noisy motors on the shore.
Shed another layer. Forgive yourself
for the argument. The tears. The fears.
The words lodged in your throat.
The unanswered phone call. Lost
friends. Forgotten memories.
Shed another layer.
Today’s prompt comes from d’Verse Poets Pub. Mish challenged us to slip into the surreal with inspiration from photo artist, Erik Johansson. I used his piece, Layers of Change, as my inspiration. It’s the photo featured at the top of the page.
A Wish for River's Freedom
On the river’s current I seem to fly
past the banks of palms and oaks so
thick they block out the sky
in places. This is where I go
when I need to think past a cloud
in my life, need to relax and ride
through the outside noise to the sound
of my inner truth, to glide
back to where I’m me. A breeze
pushes dark clouds across the sky
much like the current pushes waters to sea
or how time pushes grief (or joy) by
our days until each is a memory below
consciousness, brought forth to play
in spare moments, pass them around
for tears or laughs before we wave
them away, a bid to be free
like the river, flowing in bright
reflections during the day
and the deep dream silence of night.
Today’s poem comes from three prompts smushed together. The main one is from d’Verse in which our host, Laura, challenged us to:
write an alternate rhyme poem of at least 3 stanzas
the rhyme scheme is ABAB; CDCD; EFEF etc
borrow the alternate rhyme pairs from a published poem
in the order they were written
either a famous poem or one of our own previously published
do cite the source (or even post with the original in parallel)
Note: there is no strict ruling on meter but avoid the tum-te-tum rhythm by using enjambment as well as irregularities such as different line lengths and breaks within lines, as per the two poets above.
write a dream poem, and/or write a reality poem (WD)
The poem I borrowed alternate rhyme pairs from is Sometimes I Dream That I Can Fly by Patricia Fleming. I only borrowed the first five stanzas. Her poem goes on for another six.
Secrets in the Forest
There are secrets hidden
in the forest, homes
no human eye
will ever see, carved
out of hollow twigs,
cozy beneath a pile
of leaves, tucked away
in the crook of a dead
tree’s roots, concealed
spots where solitary bees
drift to at night to sleep.
Poetics Tuesday over at d’Verse challenged us to write about an animal’s home (except birds – those were off-limits) in any style we chose. I started and scratched out many attempts and finally closed my notebook and decided I just wasn’t up for writing a poem this evening.
Then I saw the list of poetry prompts for May from @libbyjenner.poetry on Instagram, and it just clicked. I used the second prompt “secrets hidden in the forest”.
A side note about bees which, you’ve probably seen, I adore. There are approximately 320 native bee species in Florida, and the majority of those are solitary bees. They do not live in hives; rather, they create their homes in fallen leaves, old tree branches, and basically anywhere that’s somewhat protected and available. Unfortunately, every time we rake up leaves or insist on the perfectly manicured yard, we destroy important places for bees and other small animals to find shelter (looking at you HOAs and leaf-blowing maniacs).
It’s Quadrille Monday again here at dVerse, which happens to be my favorite. To Quadrille with us, you simply need to pen a poem of precisely 44 words, including one word we provide. This week, I’d like you to become Poet-Cartographers, and put those pithy pieces on the map. Mapping. Mapped. Map it out. Write all over the map. Be a mapmaker. Whatever form of the word you choose, just be sure your poem is mapped out at just 44 words.
Watermelon
lobed leaves hide yellow flowers,
exposed just enough to beckon bees,
invisible scent mapping a route
to their sweet depths - pollinate me -
vines spill across the ground
where they will deposit,
through summer, plump fruit for greedy
hands to pluck, cut, and suck on
The photo of the adorable bee butt was shot in my garden where the watermelon vines are overrunning their containers and spilling to the ground. Yesterday I counted 7 melons on the vines. In another few weeks we’ll have watermelon for breakfast every day!
Waking
If waking isn’t (as some imagine)
a war, a dark disturbance of the body,
why, when sleeping so lightly
do I feel handed a misfortune?
Why is it so joyful to sleep with the moon?
Those hours give us a believable escape
so complete it can only be confused
with an energy sleep explains
as truth, which could well be whole
realities of the loss of the vitality
of an ephemeral orb which has a role
and that the night preserves in its originality.
Who will I be today in bright wakefulness,
on this side of my nakedness?
The prompt is to write a palinode – a poem in which you retract a view or sentiment expressed in an earlier poem.
Yesterday Mom, who was a teacher of Spanish lit and introduced me to Borges, Neruda, and others, read my poem from Day 3 – Wake and declared the translation I had used in writing my opposite of Borges’ poem, Sleep, “terrible”. So, I found the original in Spanish and found the translation on Poetry Foundation on which I based my poem is, indeed, atrocious. So I’m taking back that version of my opposite poem and presenting a new one.
When I searched for the untranslated Spanish poem, I found an accompanying translation which is much better. Both are here. I fiddled with the translation a little more, changing just a couple words, because I felt it didn’t use the intended meanings of some of the words/phrases if you read the Spanish poem as a Spanish speaker, not as an English speaker trying to understand the Spanish language through an English lens, if that makes sense. Anyway, here’s the translation of Jorge Luis Borges’ El Sueño:
If sleep were (as they say) a
truce, a pure repose of the mind,
Why, if woken so brusquely,
do you feel robbed of a fortune?
Why is it so sad to rise with the sun? The hour
strips us of an inconceivable gift,
so intimate that it can only be translated
in a lethargy that wakefulness gilds
in dreams, which could well be truncated
reflections of the treasures of the darkness,
of a timeless orb which doesn't name itself
and that the day distorts in its mirrors.
Who will you be tonight in dark
sleep, on the other side of its wall?
My opposite poem not an exact opposite; I fiddled with the words and placement of them a bit for two reasons:
they make more sense, I think, and
Borges’ poem in Spanish is almost a version of a sonnet with a beautiful rhyme and rhythm that can’t be attained using exact opposites of the words in English. I wanted to retain, at least, the use of rhyme though mine doesn’t rhyme in the same places as his.
So, there you have it. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think.
Update 5/13/23 – Manja Maksimovič has composed all of the last lines of the NaPo poems written on April 30 into a series of centos. Here is the one containing the last lines from this poem.
The Scribbletorium 