Today’s poem is a tricube – a poem of three stanzas, each having three lines composed of three syllables. This one has a rhyme scheme of aaabbbccc. This one is inspired by an argument I witnessed, right when it hit the fan. The whole thing reminded me of a Jenga game where you watch quietly, knowing the pieces are going to fall and the whole thing will tip a little and crash…..
On our final morning in the cabin situated on the Rough River in Falls of Rough, Kentucky, I got up to count birds and feel the cool breeze of the upper 50s against a frigid gray sky. The clouds are swirling from the SSW to the ENE much like the Jolly Green Giant’s cigarette if he smoked, and the birds are out here spilling all their secrets and gossiping in languages I wish I could interpret. I’m sitting at 37.35.18N/86.33.1W at 430 ft. elevation, and in this one tiny spot on the face of planet Earth, there is magic in the air. No one is out here to hear it except me: I am alone, and there isn’t a soul around, at least not that I can see. An occasional truck ambles past on the road adjacent to the cabin.
When we arrived back from the next county over for our grandson’s first birthday party in Daviess County, Kentucky, we discovered that of the two grills that sat at the foot of the steps, one was gone that had been there earlier in the day. I hoped there wasn’t a grill theft where we could be questioned, but there were also two perfectly new bikes hanging from the porch that were still there, leading us to conclude that there mustn’t be much crime in this part of Kentucky. We also noticed strange wood shavings by the front door, as if a repair had been done while we were gone. We didn’t think much else about it, went to bed and turned on the sound machine, and brought the dogs out around 4:30 a.m. to find that everything was dark and still, just as we’d expected.
When I rose a little more than an hour later to sit outdoors and enjoy the quiet of the morning, I heard a knock at the door shortly after I’d flipped the coffee pot switch on. Surely no one was needing to borrow a cup of sugar we didn’t have at this hour of the morning, but in the absence of a peephole in the door, I listened carefully. This was no person. It sounded like an animal, perhaps a raccoon or possum, knocking around on the porch.
My husband was still sound asleep with the dogs in the back room, so I set my camera to video while I opened the door – just in case anything happened to me, so there would be evidence of any murder that was about to happen on my phone. I slowly twisted the deadbolt and turned the knob lock, then opened the door.
No one was there, human or animal, yet the knocking continued. I stepped out into the wood shavings, camera pointed up in the direction of the sound overhead, and as a wood chip fell at my feet, a Northern Flicker took off and landed on a branch of a tree by the river. Mystery solved! This was no cabin repair. It was a woodpecker doing his thing. I still had no explanation for the missing grill, but at least I knew where the wood chips had come from.
I’ll send the video to the cabin manager when we check out, but of course it will not take any stars away from the review. If anything, a mischievous woodpecker with a flair for a little destructive behavior and shrill calls only adds to the appeal of a place.
On the morning bird count, I counted 24 species and felt the peace puddling all around me as I did. I’m enamored with the beauty and humor of birds, but sometimes I forget how destructive they can be. As I consider it all from their perspective, I imagine that if I were a woodpecker in these parts, I might try to tear down the houses of any humans that threatened my territory. Show ’em who’s boss.
We’re in Kentucky celebrating our grandson’s first birthday. When my daughter was pregnant with him, she’d call to tell me how fast the bean was growing. Here we are, at a first birthday party after what seems like only a month since he arrived. Happy birthday, Silas! We love you so much!
I sit in a rustic green rocker on a porch facing the Rough River in Falls of Rough, Kentucky this morning with a cup of coffee. A thousand birds are worshiping their maker in glorious song, competing with the heater that sits adjacent to the front porch. Here is my list of choir members so far:
American Robin
Belted Kingisher
Northern Cardinal
European Starling
White Throated Sparrow
Yellow-rumped Warbler (butterbutt)
Song Sparrow
House Sparrow
Tufted Titmouse
Mourning Dove
Carolina Wren
Red-tailed Hawk
House Finch
Blue Jay
American Crow
Ring-billed Gull
Canada Goose
It’s the robins who are leading in worship here this morning. They all are competing for the title of soloist extraordinare. In the distance, I hear a woodpecker, but he is beating the drum and not singing, so I cannot tell what kind he is.
The river is still, smooth as glass and muddy. and of the ten or so cabins in this remote area, only one other is occupied. There isn’t another soul outside, so I hold the only ticket to this private concert-for-one.
At least for now. The boys will be up shortly.
OOh, ooh – and just now, the woodpecker flew across the river to a hole in a tree, and I can see that it is one of the smaller varieties. And then it attempts its own clownish note, and Merlin declares it is a Northern Flicker.
The sky is a steel gray with morning clouds supposed to burn off by mid-morning. We came in after dark last night and can hear the falls rushing under the bridge we drove across, but that will take a walk or ride to see them.
for just this moment
the rest of the world stands still
I bask in birdsong
Then, all at once, every bird ceases to sing, as if their concert has ended with one Amen in unison, and they have other things to do, other places to be. I am left alone in the silence of this porch, where three small noses are sniffing under the front door to take in the world here outside and to remind me that they, too, have their own offerings to give. That’s my beckoning to get up and help Briar walk them on their leashes down to the water’s edge and hold on tight, at least where Fitz-the-brave-hunter-of-anything-that-moves is concerned.
I can see how Ada Limon, the U.S. Poet Laureate who lives in Lexington, Kentucky, finds her writing groove here in this state. There is magic in the air for those who take the time to notice.
Later today, at 2:00 Kentucky time, I’ll attend my grandson’s first birthday party. He’ll be one tomorrow, and what a joy he is! In the flurry of activity and excitement, I will think back to this porch and all its lack of demands and be thankful that God gives us children when we are young, so that in our golden years we can fully appreciate the power of the front porch.
Last night, I finished one of my most anticipated reads of 2025: Remain by Nicholas Sparks and M. Night Shyamalan. The collaboration of these two intrigued me before the story ever did. A romance writer and a supernatural suspense scriptwriter seemed like one of those high-end restaurant menu pairings where you get two unexpected items that blend in the most spectacular way. like how the first person to ever put cinnamon on sweet potatoes discovered. My head is still spinning, and I still have to sort out a few things about it – as I anticipated for the Shyamalan part – but once I get the ice on the sidewalk figured out, I will know whether it gets four stars or five.
For today, I am using two pages to create a Found poem from the words and phrases across an open book. I laid the book down and, like those little lights in the peripheral vision that Tate experienced in the story that led him, I looked for which words I felt would be illuminated on the pages and jotted them down. And I wonder with pages like these how many poems books hold and can spin, just waiting to be found.
For as many years back as I can remember, Dad gave me a box of books he’d carefully curated for my reading tastes at Christmas. Sometimes I read them, liked them, and kept them, but at the first sign of silverfish or whiff of mold, I disposed of them. Over time, even the once treasured collection took over my reading room that sits just off my bedroom – because there were simply too many to manage – and I had to start donating them to other causes. I’ve winnowed the collection down to a manageable lot – one where I know what is here and one that allows me to pull a book or two and snack on its delightful pages.
Christmas is the most enjoyable time of the year for me to thumb through books and hang on lines. Home for Christmas by Lloyd C. Douglas is one I chose for today, and I’ve included photos of the front and back covers of the book along with the inscription. This was a gift to Helen Ann Footit from Mark E. Merrifield for Christmas in 1938 after its first printing in 1935. It’s a gift to hold a piece of living history and wonder about the person who first opened it, and whose eyes have swept the pages, whose fingers have graced the words, and where they laughed. I wonder about the nature of the gift and the relationship of the giver and recipient. Was this an uncle and niece? a man courting a young woman? What is meant by “The Erdmans?”
Merry Christmas! I hope your day holds all the peace and joy of this special time of year.
From this book, I collected the words and phrases that make me think of Christmases past, in the old days, long before I was born, around the time my grandparents were young. I arranged them into a found poem. These lines bring images that cheer my heart and warm my spirit. I hope they do yours, too.
Home For Christmas: A Found Poem
leisurely breakfast
a path to the barn and one dim light in the kitchen window
ancient stock of baubles for the Christmas tree
rummaging in the capacious depths of a cupboard-shelf
arms and hands full of swagger baggage
a parcel of miscellaneous trinkets
paths that lead toward brighter light
the aromatic warmth of the spacious living room
a voluminous and truculent torrent of gabble
lingering by the fireplace
rows of red candles that gleam from every window
the tinkle of sleigh-bells
a sound of footsteps on the stairs
now wouldn’t that be jolly?
Here is an actual page containing a line I took for the found poem today, photo marked-up in green
When holidays roll around and family gathers, I always think about pancakes. My son loves to make them, and it’s probably due, in part, to our frequent trips to the IHOP to have breakfast on weekends when the kids were young. He likes the basic Aunt Jemima Buttermilk Complete, and he cooks them on the electric griddle just at the right temperature so that they turn out golden brown and as close to perfect as a pancake can get. I enjoy watching his intense focus on the process.
But when he isn’t here and I want pancakes, I get too lazy to make them. I don’t want to clean up the mess, so I start getting a hankering for pancakes on Christmas Eve.
Christmas EvePancake Dreams
I’m down for
one of those
specialty pancake houses
with a hundred tables
and thick-rimmed coffee mugs
where silverware clinks
and conversations turn to laughter
where waitresses run around in half-aprons
and sneakers with bobby socks
and have big hair
and the place is alive
with gourmet presentations
bananas flambe’ with burnished cool whip
blueberry apple compote crumble
caramel chocolate with toffee chips
peanut butter and jelly with potato chip sprinkles
Little Ollie is the baby dog of our three schnoodles, all rescues. He has more poodle and less schnauzer, whereas Fitz has more schnauzer and less poodle. Boo Radley is the truest 50/50 blend. Ollie happened when my grandson visited and both our dogs piled in our bed with us at bedtime.
Which one can sleep with me? he’d asked.
Neither Boo Radley nor Fitz was about to sleep anywhere other than with us, so my grandson pleaded his case. Nana, you need a guest dog.
We’d been looking for another rescue since my father ended up with Kona, the 6-month old female schnoodle puppy we’d found needing a home in Florida. We drove to Valdosta to meet the one surrendering her, and I so badly wanted to keep her. But Dad, too, needed a dog in all his grief, and Kona brought him so much joy.
With rescues, you never know what might be lurking beneath the surface – emotionally with trauma or physically with health. Certain breeds have predispositions to particular illnesses and conditions. Poodles, for example, have sensitive skin and often itch, needing a spray of apple cider vinegar. Boo Radley’s stomach gets inflamed like that. Each of our dogs has some trauma in their background, too, making a home without children present most of the time a preferred home for them.
Fitz has had more issues than both of the others, combined. He came to us from a foster mom who had nursed him back after a badly broken leg (with road rash) that the vet managed to save. Then he had a cyst on his back that needed removing. Then he developed CUPS ~ Canine Periodontal Ulcerative Syndrome, a condition that causes painful gum ulcers on reaction with the plaque on his teeth. His breath smells like a rotting goat carcass when it flares up, but we keep right on loving him through his pain and maladies. And that is what it takes with all dogs, but particularly with rescues. Unconditional love for the long haul.
Which brings me to Ollie. What we thought was a breed-common poodle allergy settling in the eyes got more pronounced and didn’t clear up after a few days as his normally did. One eye started looking like it had a whitish film over the top, making him look like a blind soothsayer in a Shakespeare play. I called the vet and got the first available appointment the next day.
The vet took one look, and I saw his brow furrow. He seemed perplexed.
Step around here so you can see, he urged. I stepped around the young vet technician holding Ollie in place so Dr Kelly could do his work.
There’s an auto immune eye condition that affects German Shepherds called Pannus that causes this same whitening with blood vessels over the cornea, he explained. Usually, though, that one forms from side to side. This one is forming top to bottom in both eyes.
When it came time for the diagnosis, Dr. Kelly gave me the choice of going straight to the Veterinary Ophthalmologist or treating the condition as he would treat Pannus and see if it would respond. Before I made my decision, I asked if there was any chance that whatever this was could be contagious. He assured me it would not affect the other dogs. I was in great part relieved that we would not have to quarantine Ollie (he despises being alone), and I also was relieved that boarding him for an upcoming trip to my grandson’s first birthday, though not preferred, was not out of the question.
I decided to try the Pannus eyedrop regimen to give it a chance to respond. Four drops a day in each eye, with a recheck in four days. I booked a dog-friendly AirBNB for our upcoming trip and decided to cut the adventure shorter than I normally would have done.
And the drops began that day. The next morning, there wasn’t much change. By the following day, we could see a break in the clouds. By Monday afternoon at 1:00, we had a different dog. His eyes were open and the film and vessels had receded back up into the top of the eye. He was chasing his ball again – – and actually finding it.
Although we will probably have to keep him on eyedrops for the rest of his life, we’re relieved that our guest dog is going to be okay. When we adopted Ollie, on Gotcha Day, the foster mom told us that three other families had come to see him and had walked away. I don’t know what they saw that we didn’t see, but I am thankful that we saw something they didn’t. A dog who needed love, and a family there to welcome him with the hearts to give it.
Gayle Sands of Maryland is our host today for the third and final day of the January 2025 Open Write. She inspires us to write holiday versions of the viral I Am poem, a template for which you can find here. You can read her full prompt, mentor poem, and the poems of others here. There is a whole movement that emerged from this poem, and the I Am Project page can be found here.
Haynes Homestead Holidays
I am from the sequined felt stockings
of oranges, nuts, and candy cane dreams
From Life Savers Story Books that weren’t at all and a
red-headed Chrissy doll in an orange dress
but never that Lite Brite I wanted
I am from the Island Padre’s pastorium
under the Live Oaks with a round disc tree swing
the one with the brick fence
and a chalkboard in the back yard
for playing school with stolen chalk
I am from the daylilies no one ever saw
and the oleanders I feared would kill the dog
from the ever-blooming Christmas cactus
generations deep
until I killed it
I’m from Christmas Eve Candlelight Services
from singing Silent Night in a congregational circle
in the dark, cold churchyard
From Joneses and Hayneses
one side complete chaos, the other complete order
from junk drawers galore to every spare nail and screw in its place
I’m from the silver tinsel tree
with Sears Wishbook presents wrapped in Santa paper
and fruitcake cookies we pretended to like
from high noon resentment
and questions that weren’t meant that way
I’m from driftwood and oyster shell Nativity sets
from going with the flow to cloistered
I’m from deep South Georgia roots I’m glad I escaped
preferring mountains over islands and choices I never had
From Lowcountry boil with Old Bay on Christmas Day
From the preacher granddaddy taking candy from a lady
on Bourbon Street trying to pray with her
to the other granddaddy I caught nipping from the bottle in the garage
From the uncle drunk in a train wreck who lived to see jail
from seven storage rooms of too much stuff I never want to see again
.
………except maybe those cereal box California Raisins
the ones that stood proudly on Noah’s Ark
when the kids played Save the World, those raisins
Mona Becker of Maryland is our host for the second day of the Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com. Today, she inspires us to write haiku poems. You can read her poems and those of others, along with the full prompt, here. If you have a few moments, write a poem and share it today!
Common Threads 