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
~~
My day five entry for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon is a haiku, a form I haven’t written in much.
Field of hyacinth
humble beauty caresses
every footstep
**
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
~~
Day three of thirty in the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon.
Milkweed
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–
**
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.
**
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
~~
Last spring, a friend who was paring down her possessions for a cross-country move gifted me a Christmas cactus, the first one I’ve ever owned. I keep it on the corner of the desk where I do my writing. Eight days ago, I noticed the first flower buds sprouting — twenty-one of them. Maybe it’s a Thanksgiving cactus after all. I’m a little obsessed with the plant.
In fact, I wrote a poem for it. It’s still a little rough, but I’m sharing it anyway.
First Flower Buds on My Christmas Cactus
Twenty-one sudden blushing pointed buds
Twenty-one pieces of evidence
That I, erstwhile perpetrator
Of negligent planticide,
Have been successfully reformed
I myself have blossomed into a being
Capable of nurturing
A living thing incapable
Of speaking its needs
As a toddler or a cat would do
Twenty-one velvet spear tips of validation
Twenty-one prizes to reward
My diligence and faith,
Twenty-one shots of dopamine to my brain
Payoff for my daily ritual of care,
Of arranging the curtains for optimal sun,
Of speaking aloud, Good morning
Christmas Cactus, a greeting unreturned
Until now
Here are a couple of photos to track its progress, one taken four days after I noticed this first buds and one from this morning. The lighting was a little different.
You go, little desk plant! Live your best life!
~~
Nomadic Noesis 