My day seven entry for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon. This is another one that feels somewhat unfinished to me, but I’m calling good enough for now.
Wayfinding
Pick an escape, any escape Knock on the door of fate What does the glass orb show? A way out or a way in? Which way out, which way in? Or is the vision dim? Let the stars chart a path If no path can be seen Venture into the darkness. But take a light. Pick a light, any light.
My day six entry for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon. I decided today to follow their prompt which suggested using rhyme in some way. I have a feeling I will add more to this later, but for now I’m calling it done enough.
Things I Am Choosing to Ignore
The widening crack in the bathroom wall The box of “decluttered” items in my entry hall
The plan I made for this day last night The opportunity to make that right
The distance between my heart and head The number of books on my list “to be read”
The conspiracy theories of a stranger A growing sense of impending danger
Criticism from people who have no clue And the agendas they want to pursue
Day 4 entry for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon. For this one in particular, I feel the need to remind everyone it’s a rough draft. I only had a few free minutes today. I chose a list of random words and tried to connect them without overthinking.
Among Faces I Know
Among faces I know Time has made many deep Change coming in the enrichment of details Dimes spent to cover the etchings, Pursuing erasure, can only stretch so far The face will do its job of showing the Threads that create a life story May my eyes seek the depth, the details, The story, the human within the story
When urban deer, well adapted to our city ways, casually grazed everything else to the ground last year my milkweed survived unscathed, their pearly glue-like sap a genius survival trick. I watched each day for monarchs. Two appeared eventually. I planted these just for you, spread the word, I would have said if I spoke butterfly. Spring again. Green shoots break through and my watchful gaze is renewed. Soon emerald leaves will unfurl spreading like hands in supplication. I hope the plea is understandable to the monarchs: I’m here to serve. Please come. Bring your friends.
Today’s poem for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon is based on a true story, as documented in these old photos.
Dismantling the Sled Run
First we have to prune away the brush, tendrilled fingers clutching what once made ours the coolest back yard on the block, every good snow of every winter several years running, the wooden platform a launchpad to my husband’s feat of engineering, the curved track where kids hurtled themselves down our hill right at the fence until the sled run sent them spinning away thrilled and dizzy into harmless white fluff. Then up again to the back of the line, a conveyor belt of children on continuous cycle. We were famous a dozen years ago in our neighborhood.
In the back corner out of sight it’s stayed all this time until now wood rotting, vines creeping over a forgotten monument of an earlier era lost to time, vegetation, and pill bugs. I expected tears but shed none as we wrench off the legs, wrestle loose the pieces of old planks from roots holding them in place, freeing this small spot of existence from debris of the past. This corner of the yard might have a future. I uncover a patch of bare earth, the soil dark, healthy, waiting rich with possibilities.
For the month of April, I have committed to write a poem each day as part of a poem-a-thon fundraiser for City of Refuge, an organization that assists refugees settling in mid-Missouri.
I already have some sponsors among family and friends. If anyone else feels moved to donate, you can click on the link and scroll down to “donate to a participant.” Find Ida Fogle on the drop-down menu. That’s me.
The coordinator is sending writing prompts to participants. Today’s email contained a few, including the Katie Peterson poem “At the Very Beginning.” In response, I decided to write a poem called “At the Very End.”
At the Very End
At the very end I want to be in the middle of something a poem half finished, a bite of pecan pie in my mouth taste buds in the act of signaling my brain; a shovel in my hands, turning compost, making blisters eggshells and broccoli stems peeking from the dirt; hiking a newly discovered trail, water bottle lifted; observing the magnitude of the Milky Way head tilted to the night sky, my ears open to owl hoots; feet on the pedals of my bike, thigh muscles burning; a laugh making its way up from my belly while gathered at a familiar table with friends; finger clicking photos of magnolia trees and peonies; searching for the answer to a burning question, mind churning; creating what was planned to be a memory; telling my family, I love–
I’m blessed to be surrounded by a lot of creative people. 2022 was a highly productive year among my circle of acquaintances — so much so that I’m still trying to work my way through everything they produced. It’s a good problem to have. Here’s a sampling:
“Marley was dead, to begin with.” That would be Uncle Marley to his teenage nephews Aaron and Kyler — cousins to each other. Marley was the wild one in the family, but always loving to his kin. When the two boys find what appears to be a treasure map in Marley’s fishing cabin, they decide they could both use a little adventure, along with money. Of course, it might be drug money and there might be some bad guys who are also tracking it down, and the boys might accidentally involve two girls they like and they might not actually make it to the church camp which is the cover for their road trip.
In these poems, Lampe grapples with the life-long effects of growing up with a mother who was mentally ill. There’s compassion and pain and laughter and sparks of joy, with a good dollop of love throughout. Many of the pieces examine not only her relationship with her mom, but her mom’s relationship with a society that didn’t listen to women, but tried to control them.
The first selections in this memoir are poems reflecting on the author’s childhood experiences with encephalitis, an illness that was debilitating for quite some time, requiring intense care from her mother. As the book progresses, the roles reverse and Leonhard finds herself caring for a mother afflicted by dementia. The complexities of the mother-daughter relationship are explored in-depth.
Fiction that’s on my to-read list for January. From the inside cover of the novel: “When Leah’s mother is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s it becomes clear that there will be no reconciliation with the woman who has played a big and dangerous role in her life. As Leah chronicles her mother’s descent into nothingness, she both mourns and recreates the life her mother might have led. In the process, she paints the portrait of a wife and mother who struggled to raise a family, who had contentious mother-daughter relationships with her children, and a woman who struggled with mental health and addiction: A complicated human being who was loved.”
Another memoir with poetry. This is an intimate look at grief, healing, and survival after devastating loss. You can read an excerpt in the “Compassionate Friends” newsletter.
I confess I haven’t started reading this poetry collection yet. But I have heard Ken Gierke read a number of times and find his poems both insightful and enjoyable.
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“Tiny Frights” a horror ezine published by Carl Bettis.
A new horror zine published by my brother. It features “Horror-themed poetry, fiction, artwork, visual poetry, etc., in small bites. Horror reviews in larger gulps.”
Waving goodbye to the old year, or hello to the new year
This week before New Year’s Day is weird, isn’t it? We’ve wrapped up the 2022 things, but somehow it’s not 2023 yet. What is even happening?
I shared this poem here a couple of years back, but I’ve tweaked it a little since then, so I’m sharing it again.
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That Lull Before the Renaissance
That lull between Christmas and New Year’s Day Pajamas serve as uniform The chocolates are polished off The one jigsaw puzzle of the year takes shape Noble intentions gestate
We sleep in mornings Before the date arrives after which Every day We’ll stir ourselves early To accomplish worthy deeds
We watch a few mindless movies Before the date arrives after which Every day We’ll spend free time Working out and reading classics
We create grocery lists Full of carrots and broccoli While crunching chips
We indulge and relax while we can Before next week When the work of the Renaissance begins
The short days of mid-December get me down. I desperately await the post Solstice days when we get a little more sun each day. This seems like an appropriate time to share a pantoum I wrote many years ago about waiting for the sun, after an ill-advised attempt at winter camping.
Theology 101
After one night under the stars Starry-eyed ideas were blown away My communion with nature Left with the frigid north wind
Starry-eyed ideas were blown away I spent hours of desperate misery Left with the frigid north wind Cramped muscles and aching bones
I spent hours of desperate misery Waiting out eternity for the sunrise Cramped muscles and aching bones Greedy for the blessed new warmth
Waiting out eternity for the sunrise Ancient religions took on immediate relevance Greedy for the blessed new warmth I worshipped the great sun source of life
Ancient religions took on immediate relevance After one night under the stars I worshipped the great sun source of life My communion with nature