Mid-air dragonflies
Upsidedownrightsideup love
Hanging in the breeze
air love
Limon Buffett
I’ve been reading Ada Limon’s poetry lately, and with the death of Jimmy Buffet yesterday, I’ve been blending poetry and thought and music together in a grief vortex as I sit on my Labor Day campsite by the lake in Georgia. Limon’s poem “Anticipation” inspired my use of her format for today’s Buffet thoughts.
I Don’t Know …. before the strawberry Aguas Frescas, before the dog fight next door, when the black dragonfly flashed its gossamer wings, preening in the sun teasing a mate, I was humming Buffet, lost in Margaritaville ~ ooh, Jolly Mon sing, oooh, make Orion ring~ fins to the left, fins to the right, wondering where I’m a gonna go when the volcano blows….
Ghost Dance
ethereal mist lake vapors swirling fresh dawn ghostly water dance
Hummingbird Heartstrings
it's that same feeling I get when my children and grandchildren are about to leave for home four hours south they're packing bags loading their car stripping beds washing towels double-checking for toothbrushes under beds for little things easily left behind like tiny dinosaurs wayward doll shoes lone socks I dread the tail lights heading down our driveway those I love rolling away this morning's stirring is not unlike this feeling~ already missing family before they leave ~ as I watch my hummingbirds remnants of a charm heading south on their long journey for winter no wee suitcases no teeny toothbrushes no sippy snacks for the road but departing nonetheless traveling lightly I want to hug them tell them to be safe tell them I'll fix their favorite nectar next spring even weed the lantana
August Open Write with Ashlyn O’Rourke
Today at www.ethicalela.com for the final day of our August Open Write, our host Ashlyn O’Rourke of Oklahoma inspires us to write Self-Perception Concrete Poems to tell the story of a difference in who we know ourselves to be and how someone else perceives us. You can read Ashlyn’s full prompt here.
Strong I tell the hard truth. He asked for my opinion then said I was wrong. Can an opinion be all wrong when it’s based on long-observed patterns? He thinks I’m too strong ~ but I don’t argue he’s wrong. My mother raised me.
August Open Write with Scott McCloskey
Today our host for August’s Open Write, Scott McCloskey of Michigan, encouraged us to write poems from the perspective of someone or something in any painting or its artist. You can read his full prompt here. I chose the Woodstock Festival. Since the photos are copyrighted, I can’t share the actual photo I chose, but it’s available at this link: https://artsandculture.google.com/story/AwUBOlaLnlGyLA
Once you get there, scroll down. It’s about the 14th picture in the collection. There is a woman playing a flute and a man playing a drum. There is a yellowish lab-type dog in the background, mixed in with all the people milling about. My poem is from the perspective of the drum player, clearly lost in the music and, if thinking anything, thinking to his own beat.
Ain't Nobody Ain't nobody gonna steal my joy, Ain't nobody gonna steal my song, Ain't nobody gonna steal my beat, Ain't nobody gonna steal my drum, Ain't nobody gonna steal my groove, Ain't nobody gonna steal my love, Ain't nobody gonna steal my peace, Ain't nobody gonna steal my shirt, Ain't nobody gonna steal my dog, Ain't nobody gonna steal nothin' of mine 'Cause I'm a sharin' man, Yeah, I'm a sharin', man.
August Open Write with Wendy Everand
Wendy Everand is our host today for the August Open Write, and she inspires us to write odes to our favorite poets. You can read her full prompt here.
This brought to mind the first poet I ever knew. We lived next door to a retired school teacher in Reynolds, Georgia, and one day I got loose and barged into her house (no one locked their doors in that town back then)…..and the rest is history. After she died, two of her granddaughters compiled a collection of her poems, and I got a copy as a gift. I still believe that she pulled my poetry strings out and brushed them…..maybe even crocheted them.
Ode to Mabel G. Byrd (December 10, 1900-1/20/1987)
Mama Byrd’s poems
mainly quatrains
ABCB rhyme scheme
Crafting 4-line verse veins
Born in 1900, Taylor County
Little Sweet Georgia Peach
Died 1987, Taylor County
Lived her life to write and teach
I barged right in, in ‘69
(She was 69, I was 3)
I still remember visiting
Listening to poems at her knee
She went blind
But still knew color schemes
She’d crochet blankets as gifts for folks
In gilded yarns, bright blues, and creams
She still wrote, even blind
Poems were her favorite forms
And when I read her words today,
Time turns back, my heart warms
In 1987, I went for one last visit
Dad and I, next to her bedside
Told me she’d meet me at Heaven’s Gate
About a month before she died.
The very first poet I ever knew
Still speaks to me today
In rose gardens and peach blossoms
…..and in Granny Square crochet.
August Open Write: Nestlings with Gayle Sands
Gayle Sands is our host today for the second day of the August Open Write at www.ethicalela.com. She brings us a challenge to write a nestling poem in the essence of Irene Latham. You can read her full prompt here. I’m reading Ada Limon’s collection of books, and I chose Forgiveness from The Hurting Kind as my base poem. If I were adding to a list of the things I would hold close forever, it’s Limon's poem. Here is mine, taken from hers: Silent Water dumb hearts hurting each other shadowy places scars bound to the blades bound to outrun
No Thunder Needed
Our Schnoodle Ollie is not like his brothers at all. I tell him all the time: You’re the smartest dog we’ve got.
Then, just to try to prove me wrong, his hilarious antics kick in.
He naps on the coffee table. He flips upside down in a chair with his feet all quirky and takes another nap. He brings me his ball to throw, then runs off in an entirely different direction like he thinks it’s landed somewhere else. It’ll be right in front of him on the bed, yet he digs through the covers pretending it’s somehow ended up inside the middle of the mattress. His never-ending humor keeps us entertained.
He is campaigning for all he’s worth to be Dog #1. He will trick Boo into getting out of his dad’s lap so he can sit in the favored spot.
He de-thrones the other two in other ways, too. He takes the prized bed spot and then pretends to be heavily asleep when either of the other barks at him.
He ain’t skeert.
You know those dogs that
hear thunder and curl up
in the sink? Meet Ollie.
No thunder needed
to do ridiculous things
for no good reason
Underground Books
A colleague shared that she thought I’d enjoy visiting a bookstore she’d visited on her birthday.
The Underground Bookstore is in Carrollton, Georgia on the downtown square.
She was right. This place is charming, and the literary candles that use scents from items mentioned in their namesake books are delightful.
You step down into stairs so old they’re not built to code, and immediately the smell of books and the antiquity of bookshelves greets you like an old friend. Staff reviews line the shelves under featured titles, enticing you to read all the books.
And the poetry section……oh my! The poetry section had a few holes here and there (no Harjo, only one Limon, and only two obscure Collins) but still an amazing collection of those lesser-known poets and titles that sell the books. I came away with a couple of Sarah Kay books (one signed), one Collins, one Macfarlane/Morris (signed), and a book I needed for a book club that is already well underway – – Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer.
After dinner on the square, we went to the most aromatically-roasted coffee shop ever, the kind with old brick walls and people talking in comfortable chairs around a round table and folks on computers doing work, ……..and right there in the middle of it all, the two of us…….reading books.
We both worked on projects most of Saturday after visiting our own local coffee shop and Savored Sunday afternoon on the streets of another town this week, and the twist-up was a beautiful way to end the weekend and start the week ahead.
Common Threads 