April

9 Apr

Today’s challenge at Real Toads is to examine whether or not April is the cruelest month in 66 words or less.

goat kid

April morning starts with
dead brown grass,
last summer’s remains,
blanketing barren ground.
waiting.  waiting.
while brilliant sunshine
teases with chilling winds;
frosty mornings freeze
new life trying to begin.
waiting.  waiting.
for rain renewed life,
the green of living again,
fodder for new babies
and budding poets
beside maple trees;
leaves bursting forth;
flowers peeking from earth,
but for now we are
waiting.  waiting.  waiting.

***

Home

8 Apr

The prompt at Real Toads today is to write about home.  While not required, I also chose to write a rictameter (lines of 2, 4, 6, 8, 110, 8, 6, 4, and 2 syllables with the same first and last line).

safety
on the farm
away from outside world
unconditional acceptance
love and devotion from the animals
caring for them tirelessly
feed and water daily
shelter at night
safety

For anyone who remembers my rock that was removed from my pasture last fall, it’s home.  It’s already being enjoyed by a new generation of kids (and me).

Selfies

7 Apr

I missed the whole prompt a day over the weekend, but I like Heaven’s challenge to write about a mirror without the word I.  I do have problems following directions though, so I thought about my students using their cell phone as a mirror and students who are totally addicted to selfies.  It also reminded me of the FB link to an article on how people addicted to selfies might be a showing signs of mental disorders (narcissistic personality and low self-esteem).  Anyhow, all of that got rolled into my poem for today’s open link.

 

Selfie with my best friend, Millie

Selfie with my best friend, Millie

No gilded framed mirror
hanging on the wall.
Instead, reflection of every moment
cell phone captures it all,
a modern day mirror image
broadcast to all the world
with my bestie
going for a drive
duck lips are glam
lunch at the corner cafe
Modern day mirror
continually at my side.
Laugh lines and worry lines
magnified under the honest light
of a cell phone selfie,
shattering a perfection misconception.

Unwritten

4 Apr

We’re going old school with letters and the post man for Fireblossom Friday today.   I’m also sharing this at d’Verse Poets where the task is to examine emotion in poetry, to create the emotion without direct reference to what the speaker is feeling.

No poet to pen my song
of desire and devotion;
no postman can carry
love letters left unwritten.

Dreams of sweet kisses
my lips gently to yours;
imagining the softness
of each strand upon your head.

Your passions postmarked
with another woman’s soul;
silently begging your attention
to turn discretely my direction.

Love letters of my heart,
blood etched upon stone;
the words I long to say
remain trapped within.

Shakespeare

3 Apr

Today’s challenge at Real Toads is to write a poem about something you are passionate about or that inspires you.  I’ve combined my love of literature and teaching.  Sadly, many students don’t share that love of the classics.

Shakespeare book

Shakespeare butchered
with the barbed tongue
of uncouth youth
#boring

unmetered disgust
hides ignorance
of rhythm and rhyme
#stupid

The immortal Bard
preserved in verse
revealing human frailty
#whatever

Lines of love lost
on society drowning
in an information age
#failure

Kids

27 Mar

There once was an farmgirl who had so many kids she didn’t know what to do.  They were in the barn and shed and the kitchen and bathroom too.  She made bottles and fed them and fed them again.  Yet, when it was time to send them off into the world, it made her sad.

bottle kid

True story.  Too many kids and so many bottle kids.  They’re overwhelming, but I hate to see them go.  It’s almost as bad as saying good-bye to the world’s greatest host.  So going to miss G-Man hosting Friday Flash 55 each week.  This was the first meme I joined when I started blogging.  The kids are also why I’ve disappeared from the poetry blogging world for the last couple of weeks.

Macro Poem and Flashback

12 Mar

I’ve been looking for an excuse to share a couple of my macro shots of the flowers I bought to pretend spring has arrived.  Lucky for me the challenge at d’Verse Poets is to write a micro poem inspired by macro photography.

lily macro

stamen and pistol
food for buzzing  bumble bee
flowers in my world

I’m also linking to Real Toads today, where the challenge is to write a narrative poem using flashback.

Sitting at my desk,
students quietly working,
I stare at the computer
pretending to check e-mail.
My mind drifts away
from the mundane classroom
back to the morning.
      the blaring alarm clock
     silenced by a strong arm
     reaching across my chest,
     his musky scent lingering,
     urging my whole body awake
     gently reminding me of night’s
     passions spent and pure
     promises of more to come,
    a lifetime of devoted love
     lying in bed next to me.
I secretly twirl the shiny new
diamond ring on my left hand;
then jolted back to the present,
a noisy jumble of teenage
voices, laughter, and groans
mingling with the foul odor of
“Miss Hale, Jesse farted!”

Engagement Ring

Waiting

7 Mar

wpid-20140307_083052 ewI sit
silently
counting
the tick
and tock
of the clock,
a metronome
marking
the passing
moments
of my life,
and waiting
for the
freedom
that comes
with the
magic mark
heralding
a weekend
away from
here and now.
Sitting.
Staring.
Blank eyes
wondering
why, oh, why
do I wait
alone with
nothing
to do?

Yep.  Spring parent-teacher conferences.  In high school special education, you don’t get a lot of parents to talk to.  But I’m putting my time in and sharing with G-Man for Friday Flash 55.

Words Count with Mama Zen

5 Mar

The challenge at Real Toad’s today is to write about sleep in hopes that Mama Zen can find a cure for her insomnia.

Queen Anne's Laceback breaking
soul building
bone wearying
hard work
eking a living
from the heart
of the land

working hard
from dawn to
way past dusk
non-stop toil
sweat and tears
endless year
following year

As a bonus, I’m sharing the poem I wrote for my dear goat Maisie who lost her twins yesterday.  I do think they were gone before they were born, but neither Maisie nor I care.  It truly is exhausting for both of us.  I wouldn’t recommend stress as a cure for insomnia though.

Birth and death
and all the good
stuff packed between.

What happens
when there is
nothing between?

A new slate never
to be written upon.

A blossom plucked
before beauty blooms.

Born and dead
within the blink of
a mother’s teary eye.

Maisie

Winter Shroud

3 Mar

snow against window

 

day after day
layer upon layer
snow blankets the ground
cold chilling the bones

frosted window
burying future hopes
beneath a white shroud
Mother Nature’s frigid grasp
killing spring’s new life

snowdriftSadly, this latest polar vortex is having a horrible impact on farmers’ livestock.  This is the calving season, and it’s nearly impossible to have calves survive when they are born in this horrible cold.  My Norma Jean is due any day, but I’ve told her to keep her legs crossed and tail down for another week.  I hope she listens.

Sharing at the open link for Real Toads.

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