O Oh and OOOOOOOH

A Pantoum: The pantoum is a poem of any length, composed of four-line stanzas in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza serve as the first and third lines of the next stanza. The last line of a pantoum is often the same as the first.

O  Oh and OOOOOOOH
(for Vicky)

O  a letter;   a symbol;   a sound;   a poem;
swells to fullness on pursed lips: moon.
Climaxes to the oh oh oh oh oh OOOOOOOH  moan
and softens – in the tender of “oh, I didn’t know.”

~

Curves to fullness on lips of moon.
Sets our limits — our boundaries with NO — not good!
Listens in the tender of “oh, I didn’t know”
quickly politicizes when “in the hood.”

~

Sets our limits — our boundaries in NO — not good!
Vibrates and honors the breath of OM.
Quickly politicizes when “in the hood”
O chorals God; Hours; Ovaries; Our Own.

~

Vibrates and honors the breath of OM
O  a letter;  a symbol;  a sound;  a poem.
O chorals God; Hours; Ovaries; Our Own.
Orgasms in the oh oh oh oh oh OOOOOOOH  birthing moan.

ag ~ December 2016
~ revised May 2020

 

 

Viral Blogging ~ 4.27.20

More or Less

More foxtails on the run,
less contrails blocking the sun.
~
More stars brighter in the sky,
less cars passing by.
~
More community chipping in,
less immunity near friend and kin.
~
More recipes than able cooks,
less crime and story-book crooks.
~
More coffee at home to taste,
less plastic cups go to waste.
~ ~ ~
Less junkmail, and trips to the mall,
more dog walks and real phone calls.
~
Less to complain about “before,”
more consideration at our core.
~
Less of what others perceive,
more of what we actually need.
~
Less noise and throwing stones,
more of stardust in our bones.
~
Less contrails blocking the sun,
more foxtails on the run.

ag ~ 2020

Viral Gratitude ~ 4.22.20

I enjoy working with palimpsest poems. Yesterday’s blog was an oldie updated for the current times. 

As I was sitting down to breakfast afterward, my muse beckoned, “Write this down.” I said, “Now? The toast is going to burn.” She said, “I don’t have all day—do you want to do this or not?” And with a long sigh, I pushed aside my morning repast, because when the muse calls, it’s always now or never. Elizabeth Gilbert writes about this in her book, Big Magic. The stories of creatives sparring with their muses are sweet, funny and real. 

So I am offering another palimpsest written with my muse. By way of explanation, when in that creative flow, music, paint and words come pouring out faster than one can comfortably record. There is little editing to do, and Awe wraps an arm around your shoulder or slaps you a high five when finished. At all other times, the writing/creating ranges from labor intensive to procrastive dawdling. This is why all artists, writers, musicians etc. immediately answer the call when a muse invites.

For Earth Day and all days: Let Spring Breeze: Another palimpsest on the poem Let Evening Come by Jane Kenyon. And if you have not read Jane’s original poem—you should. It’s cadence and message are inviting, soothing and moving. Google it and choose The Poetry Foundation’s link to it.

~

Let Spring Breeze

Let the tart of rhubarb
tongue the sweet of strawberry, moving
from fingers down to belly.
~
Let the asparagus thrust forth
as a young suitor who begins courting
his heartthrob. Let Spring breeze.
~
Let the Crabapple buds unfurl
to the soft sun spray. Let pink pink
and streams swell over stone and silence.
~
Let fox cubs chase and tumble.
Let dandelions interrupt. Let the light
storm shades. Let Spring breeze.
~
To the worm in the compost, to the robin
on her nest, to the lilac in our lungs,
Let Spring breeze.
~
Let it come, as it will, and give
thanks. Not for Winter’s end,
but for what’s to begin. Let Spring breeze.

~

ag ~ 2020

 

 

 

Viral Gratitude ~ 4.12.20

Wind and Wildflowers
not for long
all the doubts
that spindle
on the legs of
a newborn fawn
not for long
forget-me-nots
rising in the compost
of a late autumn
breeze
not for long
the egret’s flight legs
tucked in
to compress its center
of gravity
not for long
the orb-weaver’s
perfect web
bending the morning light
into beads of dew
not for long
an evening that begins
with the brilliance
of one star
long gone
not for long
the dance
of heat lightning
on the meadow’s
queen anne’s lace
not for long
the darkness
between the kindle
of a firefly’s
flare
not for long
lost stories
of the wind
and wildflowers
in my heart
ag ~ June 2013

Viral gratitude ~ 4.8.20

I love Brian Andreas’ writing and artwork. It is so very whimsical, poetic  and profound at the same time. He combines the most fantastical imagery with the mundane in such a manner that it catches you off guard and can leave one (me) breathless or at the very least—with a smile. For the child within—Brian’s work is nourishing, supportive, humorous and contemplative all the while most playfully innocent. Wisdom in this case, cloaked in innocence. And his artwork is as whimsical, colorful and sensitive as his words. 

Some sweet nuggets on his 2020 Brian Andreas Studio Calendar:

bringing magic back into everyday life,

         even though to most people,

                 it just looks like soup.”

~Brian Andreas 2019

~~~

In his calendar, Brian Andreas gets to create/name his own special days:

March 22: giant Sunday hat day;

March 29: cross a line day;

April 27: mismatched sock day;

June 8: thankful for oceans day;

September 15: walk backwards day (one of my favorites).

His September page:

Once you see the heroes around you, the ones who stand quietly & love the world with everything they are,

don’t be surprised if one day you choose to stand up & show what happens when you live that kind of life too.”

~Brian Andreas, 2019

 

Viral Gratitude ~ 4.5.20

s
o
m
e
times
the tiniest
flowers in the
teeniest of vases
catch our breath and
give the cheeriest hello
in a split second of delight
on a day that would otherwise
pass as a drama too complex
and sophisticated for the
delicate loveliness of
wood sprites unless
we unleash our
true selves to
play with
these
tiny
s
t
a
r
s

~

 

Viral Gratitude ~ 4.1.20

An oldie-but-goodie poem for the first day of April:

 

April

So much waiting to be born.
Blackberries not yet on the

bramble path, much less so
sweetening tarts and tongues.

Spring peepers chippering
moonlight–oh what a wonder to

be the pond that enjoys such a
buxom chorus. Sap waiting to

rise in rabbits and wolves–
their winter stains bled and shed

for the next generation’s fur
and teeth. Wood violets and dandelion

laboring earth and leaf debris
no less faithful the insects and

breezes that scatter their seeds
and gaiety. Wide vees of geese

to unzipper sky of cloud and fog,
percussing wings and wills of

summer grazing across fields,
streams and highways. Green,

pink and yellow ready to stir
north into tulips, roses and corn.

Yeast with water and wheat
rebirthing warm and

wrinkled hands–rises and yields.
Rises and yields. The soft dough

braiding Spring into Easter bread,
Babka and Challah.

 

ag ~ 2017

Snow Tracks

A red fox scampers through fresh snow into the brush, and I follow a myriad of tracks crisscrossing the night on my way to feed the cat. I google medications that interact with grapefruit and ready another double-bagged load of poetry books saved from a not-too-distant lifetime and hustle them into the car for recycling before I change my mind. After a nod to the trees veiled in white—I say a prayer for rain in Australia and for friends with new challenges. It’s the last full day before a new calendar cycle begins for me—Wednesday’s child.

 

In Profile

I sketch his profile—the musician with a harmonica almost hidden in his large hands. His glasses slipping down his nose, and his mop of hair unruly. The line work is strong loose abstract. Maybe I’m the only one who recognizes his presence. The gesture, the tilt of his head, the music I’m hearing.