Tag: poetry

Poem-a-Thon Day Four

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

~~

Poem: Milkweed

Day three of thirty in the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon.

Milkweed

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.

~~

Poem-a-Thon, Day 2

Today’s poem for the City of Refuge Poem-a-Thon is based on a true story, as documented in these old photos.

Child riding saucer sled, on a curved ramp.
Child riding saucer sled, seen from back.

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.

**

**

Poem and Poem-a-Thon

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–

**

Books, Music and eZines: My Creative Friends and Family Were Productive in 2022

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’s Ghost by Brian Katcher:

“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.

~~

Talk Smack to a Hurricane by Lynne Jensen Lampe

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.

~~

Three-Penny Memories: A Poetic Memoir by Barbara Harris Leonhard

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.

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Shivah by Lisa Solod

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.”

~~

You Don’t Fall Out of the Universe: Surviving the loss of our son by B.J. Jewett

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.

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Glass Awash by Ken Gierke

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.”

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Mirage by Samantha Fierke (music)

A delightful jazz album from someone with a load of both talent and skill, along with a terrific voice.

~~

I can’t wait to see what my friends and family accomplish in 2023. Happy New Year to all!

Poem for This Weird Week

Three cartoonish light-up reindeer, standing upright & waving, with people faces visible in cutouts.
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.

**

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

~~

Poem: Theology 101

Photo by Jonathan Petersson on Pexels.com

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

~~

A Little Christmas Cactus Obsession and a Poem

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.

Part of a Christmas cactus, with several pink blower buds.

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.

Christmas cactus with many pink flowers starting to open
Christmas cactus with many open pink and white flowers

You go, little desk plant! Live your best life!

~~