Patchwork Prose and Verse
two summers ago
I bought a
night-blooming
Cereus for
ten dollars
thinking of
Dennis the Menace
getting in the way
of that plant that
blooms every 100
years and wondering
whether I’d be up
late enough to ever
see it bloom or
whether some
distraction would
forever keep me
from seeing it
but this very week
as a friend lost her
husband, this flower
bloomed in the dead
of night
like a smile from
Heaven
Day 6
our Boo Radley
did a most
surprising thing ~
our Boo
forced a threatening
brown bull to retreat
to turn tail
and
take to the woods
or was that his intention?
was he a charger of bulls
or was he a shepherd
of cows?
was he herding them
back in their farm direction
because he knew they
were lost, drifters one
farm south of theirs,
needing a nudge?
this is, after all
the Funny Farm,
where you have
to be a little
sideways to end
up here in the
land of the
unexpected
where wrinkles in
perceptions become
realities like this:
Boo Radley is a
shepherding schnoodle
of lost herds, the
meanest bulls not
excluded, because
he knows how it feels
to be lost, looking
for home, aggressively
persuading them not
to give up a good thing
all this brings back
the day we were
on the beach
late afternoon
on a cloudy day
sipping wine
on a blanket
when two women
much further into
their bottle
walked by us too close
to our beach campout
according to Boo
Boo corrected
them
~not politely~
and in their swagger,
in their smirks,
their chuckles,
one taunted back:
oh, what a little badass!
fast forward
the years
to today and I
want to go back
to that moment
and say
yes ma’am,
he certainly is!
he fulfilled the
prophesy at the bottom
of your
wine bottle
you saw the future
of our little rescue
Schnoodle named
Boo Radley~
a champion badass
herder of bulls
you weren’t bullshitting
am I naive to
believe that purple foxgloves
bloom in forgiveness?
that what was destroyed
smiles Heaven’s understanding
and blesses again?
or am I just a
poet choosing to believe
signs hold messages?
when I’m birdwatching
and you’re nodding
off in the chair
next to me on
our campsite,
me: thrilled in
a composed way
behind my binoculars
and you with
holes in your socks
broken-breath quiet snores
I wonder ~
are we those old
people we’ve
always known
we’d become
one day?
Today is Global Big Day, and I’ve already been out birdwatching for over an hour. Come join me! No matter where I go birding, my heart feels happy. Normally, I’m home on the farm, but today I’m camping in one of Georgia’s amazing state parks. The sounds of morning birds on a campsite near a lake are second to none in the great choir of feathered friends. Join me in a bird count today!
Morning Song
once again
I’m in the woods
the usual cast
of characters
appears
robins, wrens, cardinals
then the
red-eyed vireo
chimes into the
morning chatter
followed by the
evil clown sound
of the white-breasted
nuthatch
then from behind
the veil of leaves
comes the
melody I love most-
the sireny-soloist
of the tiered trees
a wood thrush
bringing the song
these woods
her deep sea
When God Winks Haiku
When God winks on love
You can feel His eyelashes
Fluttering your heart
Today we wrap up #VerseLove 2024 at http://www.ethicalela.com with a prompt from Dr. Sarah Donovan, inviting us to choose a favorite prompt from the month and write another poem on that same prompt. I chose Stacey Joy’s In Our Mama’s Kitchens and Fran Haley’s The First Time. A very special thanks to Sarah Donovan and to Two Writing Teachers for giving us a space to write and grow and encourage each other. I look back as a preacher’s kid growing up in a household where one truly never knew which way the ball was coming, and today’s poem takes me back to the first time I knew I needed to hold on tight.
Pastorium Perils
late summer 1971
in rural Reynolds, Georgia
the land of peach trees
in their time of ripeness
Mama was pregnant with
my baby brother and
we were in the den
Mama Daddy and me
when
~~whoosh~~
in through the kitchen door
a naked girl with
long wet hair
streaked through
our house holding a towel
screaming all the way
down the hall
to my parents’ bedroom
locking the door
on her heels her stepdad
pounding and screaming
threatening her life
I recognized them from church
I was five
the girl was a teenager
(with flapping boobs
……and hair….down there?)
her stepdad was drunk
my mother clutched me
carried me like a football
into my room
locked the door
then ran through
the connecting bathroom
I followed, fearful
to stay alone
crawled under their bed
Mama found the girl
huddled in the bottom
of their closet
shaking
crying uncontrollably
wailing for help
Mama comforted her
clothed her
sat on the bed
holding her
called the cops
we listened
in fear for Dad
as we waited
those slurred screams
of fury
are seared
into my memory forever
she comes with me
or I’ll go get
my ruiner
and ruin you
then more voices,
the crash of a lamp
furniture slamming
handcuffs, arrest,
police report
one prominent
family in ruins
exposed
it was the first time
I knew
growing up a preacher’s
kid would bring
a whole cast of
characters always calling
mostly clothed
it was the first time
I saw a naked teenager
running for her life
Fran Haley of North Carolina is our host for Day 29 of #VerseLove, inspiring us to write Heart Map poems. You can read her full prompt here.
Fran explains that author Georgia Heard created Heart Maps to help younger students find their own meaningful stories. She encourages us to brainstorm “first times” in our own lives – or last times.
The Last Time
The last time I came home
before you died you
stood feebly
in the door
cold rushing in
against your
flannel pajamas
swallowing you
life leaving your body
escaping you
your voice
deep and low
sunk to the bottom
of your being
a soul cry of despair
saying my name
Kim
proving you knew me
there at the bitter end
unlike the times before
your trembling arms
reaching for me
I reeled at
the change in you
in only a few days
and held you up
while we cried
both knowing
this would be
our last
standing hug
our last
cry together
our final
goodbye
before you
slipped away
I watched you die
Glenda Funk of Idaho is our host for Day 28 of #VerseLove, inspiring us to write Strike Through Poems. You can read her full prompt here. Strikethrough poetry is similar to found or blackout poetry, where a poem exists within an existing poem.
The Key
Don’t you wish we
could take the key
to the end of
the island like
we used to do
when I was little
and you could still
say Latin names
for each shell and bird and tree
your love for them pure
and passionate before
the day it all changed
for you?
Scott McCloskey is our host today for Day 26 of #VerseLove, inspiring us to write short billboard-type poems of wit and wisdom, the kind that stick with a reader and leave an impression. You can read his full prompt here, but I’m adding some notes below, too:
Scott explains:
This, of course, is not something new, this “poetry as billboard.” Poems have replaced advertising on some buses (and other forms of transit) in Washington thanks to the Poetry in Public program. https://www.4culture.org/poetry/ And over thirty years ago, The Poetry in Motion folks did a similar thing, placing poems in various transit systems in Los Angeles, New York City, Nashville, and San Francisco (among many, many others). https://poetrysociety.org/poetry-in-motion
Just looking at a small sampling of the poems from the New York Poetry in Motion selections https://poetrysociety.org/poetry-in-motion/category/new-york you’ll see some heavy hitters: Charles Simic, Audre Lorde, Tracy K. Smith, Maya Angelou, Seamus Heaney, Shakespeare, Sharon Olds, Billy Collins, Walt Whitman…look, I could just keep naming them, and you’d recognize all of them! You’d also notice that their topics (and size of selections) are as varied as the poets themselves.
Clinking Pens
on Aisle 12
I caught him
peering around
the corner
“I thought that was you,”
he smiled, approaching.
“Remember me?”
Of course I did.
“Chandler!”
We side hugged,
I asked him
about life.
“I want to
thank you,”
he said.
“You taught me
if I remembered
nothing else
to always keep
a pen on me.”
He reached
in his pocket,
pulled out
a black pen
with gold banding.
“I just bought
my first house
and signed with
it. I thought
of you.”
My breath caught
a tear welled
and my heart
burst with
that now-I-can
die-a-teacher-
who-mattered-joy
I reached in
my purse
pulled out
my signature
Pilot Varsity
fountain pen,
blue ink,
and we clinked
pens, smiling
there on
Aisle 12
Common Threads 