Category Archives: Nature

Spring Crop

I come to compliment you on
loading the dishwasher without being asked,
proud of my continued efforts in the field of
Positive Reinforcement,
only to wind up yelling at you
for putting your muddy boots on the couch.
But why take them off, you ask, mystified–
when I’m leaving any minute now?

These are the conversations
that will
soon
walk out the door with you
and I’ll wait,
a hopeful, nervous gardener
to see how what I planted mingles with
what grows wild in this soil.
Watered with praise and benign neglect
and exasperation, I wait to see if
the spring crop sprouts into kindness
or tolerance, skill at negotiation
or laziness
or just mud on all your furniture.

The Recently Learned Difference Between Haiku and Senryu

Senryu: According to Merriam-Webster, “a 3-line unrhymed Japanese poem structurally similar to haiku but treating human nature usually in an ironic or satiric vein.”

Haiku

Goodbye to brown hills,
trees who scrubbed the spring blue sky
bristled like hedgehogs.

**********************************

Senryu

There are things I’ll miss:
Burping contests at dinner
isn’t one of them.

The Moon’s Report

She writes:
You asked about humans.They are easy to describe, since I see everything in my light—with some small help from the Sun. I’ve watched and I know. I can tell You all about humans. As You hoped, they are very wise.

 
But, really, how could they not be filled with wisdom? You handed them understanding on a silver moonlit platter. Honestly, not that it’s my place to criticize, but their world is a little too obvious. Look at the hints You gave—on their round home, with their round heads and round babies, they couldn’t possibly miss the point. Then, all those wheels and spirals everywhere—seashells, seasons, nests, rings buried in tree trunks. And besides that, all the going and returning—tides, of course, but flowers, blizzards, leaves…oh, the list goes on and on.

 
How lovely it is for them, how clear. My advice: It would have been more interesting to give them a challenge, or at least a tiny puzzle. A static world, or one where all movement was linear. It would have given them something to figure out, instead of surrounding them with answers.

 
Look how they dance, how they gather together for births and weddings and deaths, living their circled lives on their round planet, calm and joyful, with so much evidence to show them the difference between finished and unfinished.

beyond

At that age, I wondered about
God’s last name
and why swinging high
made your stomach drop
and why that felt so good.
And about the edge of the universe.
If everything has an edge, I reasoned,
Then out there, beyond the moon,
beyond the galaxies,
there must be plywood joists,
propping up the scenery
at the edge of everything.
Beyond that backdrop,
the scent of fresh-cut wood,
plain floor littered with
sawdust and crumpled gum wrappers
and beyond that—
This was how I learned my mind
could feel like swinging high.

Infestation of Ladybugs

Ladybug, maybe
because you’re bright red
or it could be the polka-dots–
It’s like an infestation of something round
and cheerful—
turtles, or raspberries.
Or maybe it’s that you’re such an April insect,
inspiring nearly everyone to recite poetry
about the big subjects: Fiery disaster,
Children leaving home,
Your plucky effort to save that one child,
the youngest, of course,
who, God know why,
hid beneath the pudding pan.
Maybe it’s because of that story 
I consider you kindly,
think you so harmless.
You seem so old-fashioned then–
to even have a pudding pan
much less a child beneath it.

Just Like Trees

Rain fell for days, stopped.
This is goodbye,
bare trees like matchsticks
waiting for a flame.

Soon, you’ll burst into
new green, fuzzed like the babies
in your nested branches.
Together may you open, bloom,
take to the air.

Hunter and Hunted

Instead of gratitude for being noticed,
there are days when the world gets tired
of all this applause and dissection
and tries to hide.
Like us all, now and then the world wants privacy, not
this woman stalking it with a pen, commenting on
every item in the world’s blue-green basket:
Skunks and pineapples,
Blizzards and espresso,
Another pineapple,
Chalk drawings, tennis balls, thatched roofs.
And here’s the trouble with anthropomorphizing everything—
Now I feel sorry for it,
as it scurries away,
like the spider I disturbed in the flowers this morning
startled and on the run, me hurrying to catch it.
And the spider has no idea
whether I will crush it or cradle it gently to a new home
now that it’s captured my attention.
The world says to the spider, I know just how you feel.

Message

Yesterday, one black bird feather
Landed at my feet
In the busy doorway of the grocery store.
Were you on your way in
Or out?
Did you leave the feather
As a message?
If so, I must tell you,
The message is unclear
And you should send more details.
As it is, the message could mean
Warning
Or Welcome
Or I’m Watching out for you
Or Buy more Birdseed
Or Buy More Cat Food
Because none of us want him hungry.

Hawk and Mouse

A red-tailed hawk swoops from the telephone pole,
Glides above the marshy stand of cattails, stalking mice.
The god of his particular world. I try to turn him into
a reminder to myself–something about the beauty of nature.
Impossible today. I worry about those mice and can’t let go
of the moment I’m replaying as I drive home
—the boy who assured me he doesn’t care if
he passes her class,if he never graduates,
doesn’t care about anything at all, is aggressive
in his Loud Declaration that he just doesn’t care.
I wish I could tell him to lay down
those twin weapons of aggression and apathy
which do not serve him well
but he is not a boy who Listens to Advice.
I wish I could warn him about the hawk,
but he is one unhappy mouse in the world–
not the kind who hums through his days,
not the one who cowers in the high weeds,
afraid that every shadow might be the hawk.
No, this boy would be the mouse who
pounds his fist against the base of the telephone pole
shouting up to the hawk, Just try and catch me,
See if I care. He is the mouse who will still be criticizing
the world below
as the hawk carries him away.

Transformation

Inside our houses
heat has dried us out,
parched our skin white–
the houseplants curl
in on themselves,
dreaming of deserts.
Outside our storm doors
the world shifts beneath
its frozen weight, deep
in its own dreams.
Step outside.
This whole world
only needs
a tiny cup of your heat
to melt it into
what winter’s old stories
prophesied–
even the thickest ice
can become
a soft summer rain.

A Hundred Falling Veils

there's a poem in every day

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice: Poems by Mary Kendall

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment