Imagine the Possibilities

I’ve been rereading Writing Toward Home by Georgia Heard and came across “Valentine for Ernest Mann,” a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. Here’s an excerpt:

“…poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.”

As an exercise, Georgia asked readers to list places where writing hides for us. I challenged myself to fill a page in my notebook.

Some phrases sounded so poetic that I crafted them into a sort of list poem.

Poems

Poems wait to be found.
They hide
in the grass, glistening in the morning dew
and the parade of ants across the path.
They linger
in the flutter of wings at the bird feeder
and the slow unfolding of the morning glories.
If I listen carefully I may hear poems
in the crunch of celery,
the laughter of children,
an early morning thunderstorm, or
the calls of a red-winged blackbird.
Poems greet me at the edge of my dreams,
then stick around for that first sip of coffee.
They crouch in the corners of my grandchildren’s smiles,
and hover in my husband’s hand on the small of my back.
Poems are buried deep in my dog’s soft fur,
and will live forever in my memories.

Margaret has today’s Poetry Round Up here. Thanks for hosting, Margaret.

This morning I woke unsure about what day it was. When I was teaching full time, I often woke on the less structured days of summer unsure about the day. Now I have no excuse. I was delighted to remember it was Friday – Poetry Friday, until I realized I had no poem waiting to post. Or did I?

There’s a lovely cherry tree out back that has been a constant companion during our forty-three years in this house. It’s been a source of slices and poems many times over the years. This week, for no particular reason, a large limb split and bowed low, like it was just too tired to stay upright any longer. Usually that happens during a storm, but there was no storm, no wind. The first thing I worried about was losing the tree completely. But my husband took out his chainsaw, reshaped one side, and assured me my friend wasn’t done yet. I’m hoping for many more years through the seasons with this gentle giant.

Not Yet

The tree is a peaceful giant—
a burst of beautiful blossoms,
a home to birds and squirrels,
a vision in gold,
a bare-branched wonder.
From time to time limbs split,
give up the fight to stay connected,
reshape my old friend
who is not ready to give up completely.

Laura Shovan has the link for today’s Poetry Friday here. Thanks for hosting, Laura!

I love to watch the birds come to the feeder. Some eat and run, others seem to linger awhile. It sometimes reminds me of friends gathering for a bite to eat to catch up on all the latest news. When I was teaching, the coffee pot in the faculty room was the gathering spot where you heard all the latest gossip. I wondered if it might be the same for my backyard birds.

The Garden Café
by Rose Cappelli

They meet like old friends,
discuss the weather,
share the latest gossip.
They talk about the new baby wrens,
and the bluebird fledglings,
and visitors who’ve stayed too long.
They listen carefully to discover
which flowers have the sweetest nectar
and which feeder has the best blend of seeds.
Just an everyday gathering
at the garden café.

Buffy Silverman is hosting Poetry Friday today. Be sure to check it out on her blog.

The storm started just as I sat down to think about writing something for Poetry Friday. A few drops, then harder and harder. Rainstorms often remind me of Listen to the Rain by Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault with illustrations by James Endicott. In beautiful lyrical language we follow a storm from its first whisper through its roaring and pouring to the dripping dropping stopping. I’m also reminded of Carolyn Crimi’s Outside, Inside with illustrations by Linnea Asplind Riley. Both of those books are older, and I used them often with students when I was teaching. I’m sure they both served as inspirations for this poem I wrote while taking Renee LaTulippe’s Lyrical Language Lab.

Rain

I start as a whisper,
kiss each posey
and petal.
Every leaf feels the promise
of thirst-quenching relief.

I grow stronger,
drip-dropping into puddles fashioned
from my gift.
Worms and frogs delight
in my goodness.

With a roar
I create a symphony of sound,
conducting the clouds
to set me free.

I splatter and splash,
I pitter and pat.
I whisper.
I rest.

Margaret has today’s Poetry Roundup at Reflections on the Teche.