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Memories…within yew, without yew

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We do gardening on summer holidays.

It’s what we’ve always done.

Most of the time, it involves planting impatiens or petunias or marigolds. Sometimes, it can be more…I remember one Memorial Day weekend when I boldly decided to rip out a row of old growth yew shrubs from the front beds of our house (at the time). I was intent on creating new flower bed spaces and getting rid of an old shrub that I could no longer shape into anything attractive (think basic geometric shapes, 3-5 feet in size). And while yews have their redeeming qualities (they are evergreen, offer an herbal remedy for rheumatism, potential cancer cure in taxus, and they make awesome hedgerows for mazes), it wasn’t doing anything for our curb appeal.

In taking this on, I did have some concerns: I was afraid of destroying our foundation, hopeful of discovering a lost cache of pirate gold (in Ohio….yeah), or worse yet, getting half way through and realizing that the roots extend DEEP into the ground and having to call in reinforcements to yank it out of the ground.  The foundation was ok and the treasure wasn’t likely anyway, as there have been no stories of privateers sailing up the Ohio River (plus no evidence of a treasure map in our attic).

However, the roots went deep and wide…probably 50 years deep, judging by the age of our home at the time.

The first one came out easy enough, but it was near the driveway, and I either had more leverage or more horizontal root spreading to chop. The last one was not so easy… it just laughed at me, as only yews can do. I had to dig, and chop, and wedge, and dig some more…I broke a shovel. I took a break to go the nearest hardware/home improvement warehouse and buy another shovel. I think I borrowed a chainsaw or an axe from a friend. It’s all a blur now.

Axe_shovel

Finally, I won.

flag

I chopped it into submission, and dug it out. And laying sprawled on my back on the lawn, I realized that I was free from the yew. I still had landscaping to do though, with building a retaining wall, adding soil, planting cute little boxwood shrubs (that I wouldn’t see grow to 50 years maturity- it will be someone else’s problem).

Fast forward to this weekend –

We don’t live in that house any more, and our landscaping issues are much easier.

I don’t attempt to do everything at once. In the last year I have dug a new bed along the back our house, transplanted a rose bush from the front to the back (because it get’s more sunlight there- and I don’t have to get stuck with a thorn every time I walk by it). I also transplanted 3 snowmound shrubs to the back bed because they would tend to grow over everything.

Everything needs the right amount of space.

In their place (this weekend) I planted gutter plants and dianthus (here’s hoping the rabbits don’t eat it). In the back, I weeded some rather large milkweed stalks (or it could have been alien pod plants – they appeared rather quickly and then put down some liberal amounts of weed killer and top soil. Then I planted some nice ornamental grasses, some yellow flowers (marigolds and begonias), and some tomato plants (I’m a glutton for disappointment).

So that’s how I spent my long weekend, and the beginning of summer.

Excuse me while I look for the ibuprofen.

marigold

Under the strentberry tree

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Come, and go wand’ring for churier times,
away from the riptin and rinants, their crime,
the villor and vagell in all their retorts,
The jumb-poling penguity, wanstier sort.

Observe the small paregallow sat on a twig,
that tweets a small tune, with a purintly squig.
Clasp hold my hand without chuberous thought,
and pick up the footspeed, with clip and with clought.

And when we have reached, with flooks and with guills,
the strentberry tree with its tassles and twills,
we’ll lay in the greenier grassles that wave
and meekestly coddle the songs that we saved.

Singing through tassles, and loring through twills
with our hands embraced tightly, and our giggles that thrill
the logus with all its galand and its hue.
Your grin and my smilishness, baylishly soothed.

Come and let’s wander a churier time,
clasp my hand, coddle and purintly rhyme.

*********************************

Should you be wondering “what does purintly mean,” I used a random nonsense word generator to help me with the words for this poem. The innocence conveyed by the silliness of the word choices was my goal. I often search for the greenier grassles that wave, just to have some quiet time, under a strentberry tree.

guardians of the forest

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20140518_201357I am an intruder,
though the path before me
encourages that. pressed gravel
that crunches in the silence
disturbed by my stride.

further in, and I
hear the breeze
impersonate the
the moving brush,
and doves interrogate
the sound, but once still,
it cannot
be captured.

I am an interloper,
the light dims to the floor
where ancient secrets
fallen have decayed
with the years;
forgotten, though the trees in
their circumferences, remember
to punctuate the darkness
as I creep in, uninvited.

How to move through the rain

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Into each life, some rain must fall – H. W. Longfellow

Use an umbrella, preferably compact
and easily stored.

Use an umbrella, preferably full-sized,
with a six foot diameter.

Cover your head:
Use the Plain-Dealer
Or the Times-Picayune
Or an old copy of the Post-Intelligencer

Don’t use the Sun-Times
The Sun-News,
Or the Standard-Examiner

Move like Gene Kelly,
and sing,
sing and tap,
sing,
and tap and sway.

Pirouette,
in comfortable shoes.

Swing at raindrops with a Katana sword.

Be like a petal, opened
and rediscovered
in the spring.

Let the rain kiss you on your head,
as it must,
and even though a-washed in dreary
and cold, silver, liquid drops,
revel in the
-slishity slosh-

Calculate the horizontal velocity and random path
required to pass through a normalized distribution of water drops
falling
at their terminal velocity,
and walk
between
them.

Avoid the puddles.
Dash through the puddles.

Hold hands.

Soak,
and watch the water
drip from your fingers.
Down to the ground
and wash away.

Themes from a Writer’s Conference

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This past weekend, I attended the Columbus State Writer’s Conference, held at Columbus State Community College (Columbus, Ohio). This was my first visit to a writer’s conference, and an achievement of one my self-improvement goals for 2014. * It afforded me the opportunity to learn, to stretch myself, to people watch, and to improve my writing.

It was a great experience, and I was able to develop some new ideas. Though my self-consciousness seemed to be aware that I was the “new kid,” I didn’t keep to myself too much (that’s difficult – being the introvert). My self-development goal of marketing myself was enhanced by a couple of conversations with some small press representatives and other writers. The observation was made that many of the writers using small presses today don’t know how to market themselves. And I suppose that writers can be an introverted bunch…that’s likely an over-generalization, as writers probably represent many personality types, but the things that make writers write: introspection, long hours focusing on details, developing ideas in their heads…would lead one to think that – yes – many writers don’t self-promote very well.

What they can do, however, is tell their stories.

Case in point: I was perusing the book displays, when I walked up to a table hosted by modest looking grey-haired gentleman and remarked,”This book is titled with a Beatle lyric…how about that?” It turns out that this collection of short fictions, entitled And Your Bird Can Sing, by Robert Miltner, held all works that he had entitled with Beatle’s lyrics. Dr. Miltner then proceeded to eloquently and excitedly explain his writing process for this book. I was enthralled. Not only was this a creative use of pop culture, but he had also mastered the art of story-telling, just to explain to me how this book came to be.

Through the day, I attended several well-done seminars, one on using maps to develop ideas, another on the value of research to flesh out ideas (I’ve decided that to be a research-writer is my dream career – it combines many of the elements that I enjoy most – looking up information, summarizing it, the thrill of knowing bits of trivia, deciding how the information works with what you are writing, developing ideas), how to assemble a chapter book (a challenge that I will be pursuing), and the intersection of philosophy and poetry.

The people watching at this conference was great. So many different personalities were on display, ranging from the typical student (eager, quiet, shy) to the aspiring graduate (well dressed, outspoken, bold), the avocational writer (relaxed, dedicated, inquisitive), the story-teller (gregarious, passionate, opinionated), the publisher (realistic, informative, resigned).

At the end of the day, what you write about and how you write (your process) doesn’t really matter. It is whether your writing is “charged”, and readers believe you, and want to immerse themselves in your “story”. I have to continue to learn about or develop the world as I need/want/wish it to be seen. This is especially true for poetry, because oftentimes we don’t know how a piece will be perceived.

You can give it a sense of place, you can charge it with a feeling that could be familiar, you could even give it something new, or even made-up. As the presenters of the philosophy-poetry seminar said, without “not knowing”, creativity would not be possible…

It was a day well-spent.

_________________________________
* And based on my experience, I’m going to be seeking other opportunities to attend conferences and writing workshops.

As when dandelions bloom

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four months from now,
the sun will lie in wait,
hanging in the damp,
and the air will be thick
with summer’s late serenades
that twist
and linger,
before a precipitous
lunge. Time will stand still,
before exhaling at its crest
to signal an end
to an effulgent season,
four months from now.

and so will you, soon

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see the world
while walking there, alone;
the sky will open or the wind might blow
and send you forth along
with words and pictures,
clever rhymes and songs.

And the words might fill your soul,
(or send you down a rabbit hole);
or cast your sail into the wind
(then pause in stills, to wait…again)

the song might fill your empty heart
or send you in a deep’ning dark.
a rhyme could tickle, opening up your eyes
(then raise a laugh, with tears not improvised)

While ruminating thoughts echo between
the cascade sounds and tranquil scenes,
this symptomatic curse draws me to a close
and so it will to you,
soon, I suppose.

That’s the allergy meds talking…

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I am recovering from acute bronchitis…blech…if you ask me, not very attractive.  I’ve been coughing up from the depths of my soul for about 3 days now.   I feel marginally better today, enough to try to work, as long as I don’t need to hurry around doing anything.  I thought a blog post might be the thing to get the synapses going (trying to move past the 12 hour cough medicine and various allergy meds and general malaise).

This will definitely be filed under the not poetry section of the blog.  Writing a poem seems a bit daunting this morning, but I recall an old one that I might try to find and share…

But first, some general thoughts I pondered during my self-exile.

1.  Baseball season has arrived…and not a moment too soon.  I’ve been making my way through Ken Burns documentary “Baseball” (slowly) since last year’s world series – which I boycotted out of frustration. I’ve watch a couple of episodes over the last week. It is interesting that this sport, which has relied on its public persona as the “pastime” – there is such public love of the game with romance and tradition- has always been surrounded by political gamesmanship and questionable characters. The innocence of back-lot baseball always propels the sport forward; beyond the black sox scandal, beyond bickering ownership groups, beyond the strife of integration, beyond even steroid use. While we will pick apart the personalities and the events, for some reason, at its core, baseball will always hold some fascination with our child-like desire for simplicity. And that will keep it going.

2. In keeping with my improvement plan for this year, I’ve signed up to attend a local writer’s conference later this month. There are several sessions on poetry, and I’m looking forward to it. I’m hoping that some of the blogging poets whose sites I frequent will be there.

3. On a writing note, I’m considering trying to do a chap-book. Does anyone have any suggestions on doing this? Any publishing groups that focus on “not-so-well-known” names? I’m not looking to self-publish, and would appreciate the opportunity to work with someone to edit and group poems together.

4. Things that annoy and confound me: people who don’t provide the necessary assistance when their help is asked for to complete something, but then come around 6 months later and judge/find mistakes in the completed work.

5. It is national poetry month (NaPoWriMo), and while I won’t be participating this year, I do extol the wonderful aspects of poetry. Read it every chance you get and try to write some every now and then. You won’t be disappointed.

And as promised…an old poem from ca. 2005.

The Allergy Express

Snxzzzzz.

Topiaries,
eating berries
Slopping through the morning, weary.

Roller coaster,
whole wheat toaster,
tastes so friggin’ ordinary.

Sinusitis,
not colitis,
has me down and out and dreary.

Notwithstanding,
brain demanding
I continue literary

Medication,
good hydration
for what ails me, I’m not leary.

Need more tissue
not an issue,
sneezes too preliminary.

I am dizzy,
in a tizzy
guess I slowed and became bleary.

In my station,
realization,
that the train has stopped.

SHHHHHHHHHHHH.

itinerant

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I’ve progressed beyond that,
                                         and I pack my lunch
                                         now,
every day –
                                        along with a list
                                    of places
                                                     to go;
                  breaking out alone
in full stride
                     or steering within
                                                   currents, and when
                           the sun
                                                   has reached
                                                   the other side
                                                   of the horizon
I know I’m
half way there.

omens of happiness

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they seem to portend
a link,
just as paper clips,
pulled from the cup;
one is removed
another follows,

a chain created.

Or with only one,
compressing a stack
of paper, each page
containing an old poem,
sandwiched between
alighting smiles,
and upside-down songs.

*******************************
Today is the International Day of Happiness (declared by the UN)…

A link below from a blog, with various quotes about happiness.

http://interestingliterature.com/2014/03/20/20-quotations-from-writers-about-happiness/

‘A happy life consists not in the absence, but in the mastery of hardships.’ – Helen Keller

Have a frabjous day!