Imagine the Possibilities

Thanks to poet, author, and friend Laura Purdie Salas, I played around with a new form this week, a definito poem. The definito was created by Heidi Mordhorst, who defines it as “a free verse poem of 8-12 lines (aimed at readers 8-12 years old) that highlights wordplay as it demonstrates the meaning of a less common word, which always ends the poem.” You can read more about it here.

My first attempt (but not my first draft) was a poem I wrote for my poetry group, The Nevermores. The prompt was to write something spooky.

Eerie

a creaky freaky feeling
is creeping up my spine—
spooky,
sometimes kooky,
it fills my head with dread.
What’s around the corner
in this dark, deserted house?
I’m wary of this mystery—
it’s eerie!
Draft, 2022Rose Cappelli

Then for some reason the word “pristine” popped into my head. Dictionary definitions led me to words like “unspoiled, spotless, clean and fresh, new, in perfect condition.” I brainstormed things that might be considered pristine and thought of a lagoon, a white shirt, a well cared for garden, a field of snow, a white sandy beach. Combining words and images, this is what I came up with.

Pristine

fresh and new
like morning dew
sparkling on perfect petals

only snow
unspoiled,
untouched
by soot or foot

oh to roam
on a white sandy beach
soft,
spotless

pristine
Draft, 2022Rose Cappelli

Thanks, Heidi and Laura for pushing me to try something new. Tabatha has the Poetry Friday Roundup at her blog, The Opposite of Indifference. You’ll find more definitos there from the Poetry Sisters (thanks for letting me join in, by the way).

Today’s Poetry Friday Round Up is here! I signed up for this date because it felt like a very important date, forgetting at the time that it is important because it’s my granddaughter’s birthday. Long before I had grandchildren, I read how Jacqueline Kennedy encouraged her children to write or choose a poem to give to her or their grandparents as a gift for each holiday or birthday. The poems were pasted in a special scrapbook that served to bring comfort to them in later years. I also heard from a writer friend of mine who told me about a tradition she started of writing a poem for each of her grandchildren on their birthdays. Both of those influences inspired me to start a similar tradition.

I try to personalize the poems by remembering something we shared throughout the year. During the summer Nina and her brother spent a few days alone with us. We took walks through the backyard and talked about what we saw, exploring nature and stretching our curiosity. So, Happy 3rd Birthday, Nina. This one’s for you.

Walk With Me

Take my hand and walk with me,
Let’s talk of birds and flowers—
Of bees that buzz,
Of bunny fuzz,
Of milkweed for the monarchs.

Take my hand and walk with me,
Let’s peek into the birdhouse—
Spy on spiders,
Unearth hiders,
Hold a firefly.

Take my hand and walk with me,
The world is filled with wonder—
With all things new,
Just for you,
Waiting to discover.
Draft, 2022Rose Cappelli

Please add your link by clicking on the Mister Linky button. I’ll be traveling over the weekend, but I hope to get to everyone’s link at some point. Thanks for visiting.

Spending time at the beach in September is one of my great joys. So this week, with the temperature and humidity down, I took a drive to Cape May, New Jersey for the day. As luck would have it, I came across a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay on the morning of my little sojourn that captured the excitement of what I was feeling.

Afternoon on a Hill
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I will be the gladdest thing
    Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
    And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
    With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
    And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
    Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
    And then start down!

I borrowed the first line and wrote a poem in the style of “Afternoon on a Hill”:

Autumn Afternoon in Cape May
(In the style of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Afternoon on a Hill”

I will be the gladdest thing under the sun!
My joy will be nonstop!
I will walk each cobbled pathway,
peek into every shop.

I will wander on the shoreline,
let my thoughts run free.
I will watch the waves go out, come in
bringing treasures from the sea.

And when the light begins to fade,
when I must depart,
I’ll tuck the memory of this day
deep within my heart.

Draft, 2022 Rose Cappelli

You can read more about Cape May from Carol at Beyond Literacy Link, who vacationed there in August. And don’t miss the Poetry Friday Roundup here where Kat shares what’s been going on in her busy life down under, plus lots more poetry fun.

Carol has the Poetry Friday roundup today here. Be sure to stop by to read her beautiful farewell to summer. Her words and images are a delight.

We’re in a seasonal transition time now, and I’m already thinking about fall. This week I happened to come across the poem “The Scarecrow Prince” by Terry Webb Harshman in Lee Bennett Hopkins anthology Sharing the Seasons. That got me thinking about scarecrows and my fondness for them, probably stemming from my favorite Wizard of Oz character. But I couldn’t remember ever actually seeing one in a field. I’ve read many books about them like Beth Ferry’s The Scarecrow and Cynthia Rylant’s Scarecrow – beautiful, lyrical books that make me think differently about scarecrows. I remembered making a scarecrow one fall afternoon with my kids when they were small. We didn’t have straw, so we stuffed it with newspaper and sat him on the porch. That scarecrow mysteriously disappeared one night leaving only his boots, but that story is for another time.

The form I chose was inspired by Irene Latham’s pantoum “Belonging” in Dictionary for a Better World that she co-wrote with Charles Waters, a book I’m choosing to walk through by concentrating on one poem week by week. It was fun to revisit this form which I haven’t used much, but tried a few times with found poetry.

Our Scarecrow

Our scarecrow isn’t stuffed with straw
He’s packed with newspaper pages,
Dad’s old blue jeans, wading boots,
And a jack-o-lantern grin.

He’s packed with newspaper pages,
His head a scrunchy pillow.
With his toothy jack-o-lantern grin
He welcomes wee ones in.

Topped with a scrunchy pillow,
A candy-filled bin on his lap,
He welcomes scores of wee ones in
From his perch up on the porch.

With a candy-filled bin on his lap,
He hears their squeals of delight.
From his perch up on the porch,
He bids them all goodnight.