Category Archives: Poems

The Caretaker

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I’ve planted my gardens, the seedlings are nestled in soil.
Their placement in sunshine and shade impacting the toil
of the growth and the fruit that they bear.
All I can now do is tend to the water and care
of the ground and the branches where the issue resides
and pray that fair weather and gain will intensify.
That one day these young for which I’ve aided and viewed
will grow with abandon, and with their sustenance accrued
plant their own gardens and remember the day
of planting and harvesting love in their own unique way.

****************
Not sure of what to call this yet. And I think it is a sonnet in the making. Right now, though, it expresses a profound sentiment in this poet’s life.

debris/hubris

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I’ve noticed how
you reach for a speck
or a fleck of dust –
a strand of hair –
and remove it;
using your thumb and
middle finger to cinch
then pull away
the stray trinket.

And just as nimbly,
You eye
with a glance,
just on the chance
that some appraisal is not
justified.

Then release -aside-
the interloping bits
that cling-
These things.

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I like to observe how people interact – with others, with their surroundings. Sometimes you can infer things by observing behaviour. Sometimes not…

In all, a simple poem with some nice elements.

ingrained

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My poems seem like a recipe
for whole grain bread.
The water and oil,
though critical,
don’t mingle – dissimilar things
have no bound surfaces- but you add salt and sugar anyway-
Having faith in the mix.
Pouring in flour and seeds
can appear chaotic, yet it is
purposeful to the blend. Some flour
is white and smooth,
some of it is wheat and coarse
– textured-
with grittiness of flax seeds,
and oats, and rye.
A small divot in the pile
is home to bread yeast, a catalyst, an ache,
that fuels the rising dough over time.

If using a machine, then you’re done.

The poem can bake and rise, and still be tasty –
but it misses an opportunity.

A need.

Something you add.

Handle the dough
Grasp
Folding the blend
Feeling the texture
between your fingers.
Press into the bowl
massage and cajole-
form and remake
this merger, new
with each tumble
and clutch.

This wielding power comes from you
to make the poem combined and mingled
and mean something that will not dwindle
with time.

And the bread will be just fine.

*************
Trying to jump back in the saddle of writing again. I’m not so sure that this is best, final version of this. I enjoy breadmaking for the robustness of the bread and the physical handling that makes it such an individual creation, much like poetry.

After reading the completed poem, I like the additional symbolism that this offers as well.

Keep on keepin’ on

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National Poetry Month is half done! If you are participating in NaPoWriMo 2015, how are you doing?

So far, I’m keeping pace, though it is difficult on some days to get something written. I’ve only “cheated” with a haiku once (I only say cheated because at 3 lines, it is among the easiest forms to spit out – not that mine is a great one.) I’ve used prompts a couple of times, but usually the day after they have been posted.

My NaPoWriMo 2015 poems are posted over at an alternative site Rudimental Words

As always, I welcome comments and thoughts.

Let’s try this again…

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Because I don’t like how WordPress will not allow you to tag and categorize pages like posts, I’ve decided to move my NaPoWriMo poems over to an alternative blog, Rudimental Words. It just seems like double work to post a page, then post a blog post telling you about the page. And I wanted to keep all my NaPoWriMo stuff together, with tags and categories…but separate from Taps and Ratamacues.

Probably too much of an explanation. I’ll post a link to Rudimental Words on the side bar.

Thanks for visiting.

Popcorn thoughts of kindness

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I’ve been doing a bunch of bits and pieces of things over the past week, I feel very scattered. I haven’t really had time to sit down and write much. This is OK. Life happens. I do have a lot on my mind these days.

I had some blogworthy tidbits I wanted to jot down, but they were not worthy of single posts…kind of like kernels of popcorn that presented themselves.

National Poetry Writing Month is just around the corner. I last participated in 2013 (I think). I proudly completed the entire month for the first time. Well, I’m committing to do it again in 2015. It’s a good way to stretch your poetry legs, gets some things written down, try new forms, and shake out the dust. If you are a poet, and are participating, let me know. So we’ll see how this goes.

A reminder, my very first chapter book Accidental Songs is available on Amazon. I self-published this collection. I invite you to check it out, purchase it 🙂

Spring is getting its claws in the seasonal change, judging from the number of robins that I’ve seen recently, the rapid changes in weather that are apparent, and my allergies ramping up. I’m looking forward to the green landscape though.

I happened to read this quote in my twitter feed this week,

“We’re all smart, distinguish yourself by being kind.”

This was posted in a twitter account entitled “ShitAcademicsSay”. I don’t know the origin of the quote, and have been looking for it’s primary source. The original context apparently has to do with academic publishing and review, but I see it as a more universal restatement of the golden rule. I like it.

I heard Nat King Cole’s version of Smile a few weeks ago. The music by Charlie Chaplin, John Turner and Geoffrey Parsons added the lyrics and title in 1954. It was a mantra for a few days in the bleakness of winter. I love how a verse, a song, a quote, or even a picture can present a moment of beauty and relief.

That’s it. Popcorn’s done.

If it weren’t for poetry

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If it weren’t for poetry
I think I might sleep better
and disregard those dreams
that alliterate the night,
and ride around looking –
looking for new vistas in the dark.

If it weren’t for poetry
I could just look at
red glass bottles and ignore
what hides behind
the refracting light.

If it weren’t for poetry
I might walk on the cool
morning grass, but never
look up to see the sun.

If it weren’t for poetry
words would never project
what I dream or see.

If it weren’t for poetry
I would not awaken.

If it weren’t for poetry.

sevens

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Stop and hear the hornpipe and jig
as the springtime rolls in, pushes away
winter’s white cloak.
It draws the living from their depth
to click heels – stomping the last
of the chill- pointing to summer’s thrill
as it leaps and bounces and reels.

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Something for the emergence of spring, also in keeping with the recent St. Patrick’s Day festivities.