It’s the penultimate day of the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon. I had to send the bucket deep into the well to come up with anything today.
This Like That, That Like This
It’s funny how when I hear tires whooshing along roadways in the distance it can sound like ocean waves rolling in and out, the rhythmic pulsing of air at steady intervals. Maybe it’s my mind grasping for the ancient familiar to make sense of the now or the impulse to create categories – this like that, that like this, a mirage of mastery over what is uncontrollable. Or. It’s possible. A connection is present in a real way the great mechanism of our running universe providing the beat for all we create and experience.
Getting my poem up late tonight. Entry 27 for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon is inspired by a memory of a camping trip with my husband.
You, on the Riverbank
On my early morning walk I sought solitude on the path to the river believing I wanted to be alone. All went as desired until I turned at the last bend and there you were ahead of me, already taking in the newly wakened sunbeams tapping sparks on the water. You didn’t hear me stop behind, gazing at you gazing toward the far bank through the center of a jagged wreath of willow leaves perfectly shaped for the view, the light glowing around your silhouette focusing you at the center of the scene, all the world I could see a frame for you.
A wooden foot bridge spans the creek that divides the park near my house I raised my kids on this bridge or so it seems when I stand on it now recalling the span of their years at the site of our former daily adventures when adventures were daily This bridge was a place to loiter and plan to learn about ripples and gravity as twigs and rocks dropped to the current It was our place to wait and watch the fish and crawdads and neighbors and birds. Once on a cold day even a great blue heron, a solitary event the span of its wings startling in enormity We always brought home stories A bridge is not primarily for lingering of course and the crossing seemed an ever satisfying feat in a young life a solid accomplishment I was there on the other side and now I’m here in a new place with a clear line between the two.
You were devalued when first we met at the hardware store, lonely the one remaining woodland phlox rejected by all who came before. Only I was willing to take the chance on your struggling, half-withered self being in pretty much the same condition. “It won’t last” – I could see that message in the eyes of the cashier who united us. I wasn’t a great bet either have not logged a high success rate with green growing things. Yet I gave it my best and so did you. Look at us now, you with your amethyst petals bursting with pride and me, not doing too bad my own self.
I work a clopen shift at work Tuesday-Wednesday. So I’m always exhausted by the time I get off work on Wednesday. Today, I also spent half an hour moving dirt after work. All of this to say, it’s a haiku kind of day.
I have written about marbled orb weavers before on my blog, but this time I turned it into a poem. **
Marbled Orb Weaver
Such a lovely day even this bashful leaf dweller couldn’t hold out against the yearning to embark from the shadowy security of its home by the creek and explore the delights of the afternoon carrying the sun on its back
Today’s entry for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon is an ekphrastic poem. I followed the email prompt this time, which explains ‘”Ekphrasis” means “description” in Greek, and it has become the name of a kind of poem that describes a work of art.’ The email included a link to a site for random images and I used the first one. The image is a jumping off point for me. My poem is not meant to be an exact description.
Someone quarried the stone for the rustic walls. Someone felled the trees for the finely crafted furniture carved by human hands. The rugs were woven on a loom. By whom? The lovely potted plants did not bring themselves to the setting. Presumedly someone does the watering. Authors and artists devoted hours (months? years?) to the creation of the coffee table books that someone selected and someone packed and someone delivered. How many workers labored to lay the granite floor? Someone scaled ladders to hang the mood lighting, placing it just so. Someone cleans it all day after day after day. Every 12 seconds someone remembers that we’re all in this together. So says the sign someone hung near the entrance.
Where I live, lightning is a frequent visitor. For my day 16 entry in the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon, I experimented with the visual presentation of my poem. Remember, what I’m posting this month are first drafts, subject to change.
Halfway there! Day 15 of the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon. I was short on sleep last night and had to work all day. With little time or energy, all I came up with was this little light-hearted scrap about part of my day.
Apologies to William Carlos Williams and his red wheelbarrow.
Don’t mine the moon, that’s my advice Not that anyone asked Turn right around from that intention I would say to anyone who listened Is not the brightness in the dark Enough for us or must we raid Luna for every resource Is not the astonishing push And pull on our tides help Enough for our needs, enabling Life on Earth and all, its lambent Presence inspiring art and love Can’t we allow ourselves To leave wondrous enough alone