pollinate my thoughts with a breath as sweet as the first warm wind of spring
teach me beauty and brevity and the easy joy of the moment the wisdom of leaving a simple life attached to its roots I know the ruin of clippers and spades I know the trauma of transplantation
show me how nature feeds and restores from season to season show me lessons planted by the Divine mind with hope to take seed and flourish within mine
send me flowers in photographs rather than vases leave them be let them live while their time is ripe, and then again, bright ghosts, gracing my dreams with color and quietly whispered words
A new series for the month of May! Last year, I set myself a challenge of writing flower-related poems every day during May, and I just realized I never shared any of them here. So, lucky y’all (haha) the time has come to change that! I considered making all new photographs and / or cyanotypes to accompany them, but there just isn’t time, so I’ll share other random flower photos and prints with them instead.
Incidentally, the cyanotype at the top of this postis the cover image for my book The Body Botanic, which you can snag a copy of from Blurb! Botanical poems, botanical cyanotypes, plus the whole collection of body sonnets I’ve written so far.
It’s a good day for Emily I sip tea and watch the rain chin in my hand, like any woman prone to flights of fancy and often confined at home since the spring, our garden has grown into a tangled beast untamed and free nature gone to seed in glorious abandon unchecked and vivacious as a fertile mind liberated from the chains of society sending out generous shoots nurtured with care the inside looking out from the shelter behind panes of glass
Oh how I do love me a rainy day, a cup of tea, a book of Dickinson’s poetry. . . . . Thank you for reading!
Rolled up and served up well seasoned, handed over there’s a sense of fulfillment in a duty well done
The burning takes place in an open field, after the rain comes smoke sends signals to the senses inner life, come to life
Whatever gets hung from these branches the birds will peck at, in time night rodents will investigate it will keep the insects busy
I stood outside and waited for the shine They told me it would happen but it took a lot of patience a lot of singing, in the interim
Afterward it was right to withdraw everything curled back, exposing bones The dry season blew in overnight something had to break the rhythm
Once they had finished the weaving the pattern was obvious it told all the stories we needed it insulated our legacy
In the end what remained was rich and sweet a roasted harvest, fit for kings doled out and shared among us precious as a secret grown in the dark
Thanks to J.D. Harms for this Saturday Poetry Prompt, “The Fragmentary Prompt” — this one took me a while, including a first attempt with meter and rhyme that I promptly discarded. I asked my daughter for seven random words, and she gave me taco, fire, tree, star, shrivel, blanket, and chocolate; these stanzas are written to those words, in that order. I can’t say why I chose the photo that accompanies it, other than it just kinda leapt into my brain and also it’s a place that takes my breath away.
That nip in the air is the little ping of nostalgia is a tickle in your nose is the tantalizing aroma of earth is mingled with wood smoke is ozoney comfort of rain coming is a good excuse for baking is coziness and hominess all rolled into one is a blanket and slipper socks is snug as the cat by the fire is remembering where I left my tea is the pleasure of a new notebook is the satisfaction of a well-sharpened pencil is reason enough to look forward to long drawn out evenings is the simple pleasure of a few minutes is a breath of fresh air is the nip of nostalgia is a tickle in your heart
Thank you for reading! Who else waits for autumn all year and finds it just as wonderful every time?This is from my Medium archive, and it’s not necessarily the right time of year for me to be sharing it but I’m going in order, so there ya go. . . . . autumn vibes in late spring!
The stones speak the language we give them vocabulary imposed with a hammer and a chisel in their own words they would be steadfast and silent we blow them up to make way for our own plans grind them to gravel to crush beneath the wheels of our progress we press them into service stand upon the steps we carve and quarrel endlessly while they watch impartial as law firm as justice silent as equality
I can’t remember what was going on around me at the time I wrote this poem, but I can guess. . . . . Thanks for reading!
The empty space between two people where everything gets lost venom floats in the supercharged atmosphere of an argument ready to ignite
Words unspoken float in between rooms fill up vacant seats in cars and restaurants become the hollow pillow of regret next to you in the bed while through the open window lost letters drift falling in fat lazy flakes that soak in when they melt
I had a thought for a moment it was right there on the tip of my tongue but we vacillated through our languages and it was caught by a mistimed breath carried away through a crack in the floor a well-placed stitch can save nine but what we once whispered is now gone lost in the translation
On life and relationships and arguments I wish I hadn’t had. . . . .
They keep Ideal on the top shelf I stand on my tip toes, I still can’t reach it takes a stack of chairs, topped with a pile of books it takes stealth, so they don’t catch me at it even at the top, it evades my grasp
I push against the cabinet sweat and shove to knock it down but it won’t budge I try throwing things: big, little, light, heavy Always I miss the mark I try this for a long time Someone passes by and laughs so at last I walk away
Later, I saw Ideal on the street passing by so close I could have grabbed on to its coat tails I noticed chips in its gilded veneer ragged ends to its fine sleeves
I noticed my view had changed Ideal walked on without a glance I turned back to where I was headed flipped up my collar kept going my own way
This poem from my Medium archive was a response to Samantha Lazar’s Sky Collection Prompt #18, galvanized by the quote
“If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”
Perfection has trolled me my whole life, like a shadow that I don’t want to turn around and face. I try to run away, but it’s always there!
She flips and flops a furry sponge soaking up the sun seeking fiery heat inside or out maintaining a constant state of roast inside and out hot to the touch pat the pet and watch her glow
This poem was in response to a verb prompt. How about those whiskers? The old girl is 100% pampered, 100% loved, 100% of the time. I’m allergic to cats so this is the first one I’ve had the pleasure to really know, and I’m so thankful for her presence in my life (and house) for the past decade!