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
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
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
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
An oldie-but-goodie poem for the first day of 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
Three haiku for the day. Two oldies and a new one. I will let you guess which one is most recent:
tea with honey
the morning moon
on its commute too
my hunger wanders
past all borders
a stink bug turns up
in last year’s wrapping paper
to regift or not?
(a rare 5-7-5 haiku)
Filed under #NJ Drivers Who:
Drive like maniacs barreling down rural roads on a Sunday morning in a low-slung car with a monster wake-the-dead-probably-not-a-faulty-carburetor roar during a pandemic with no one else around to pass or impress.
I heard the dude (yes I’m calling the person inside the car a dude and not a dudette, because for a brief NJ moment, we can dispense with the political/gender fluidity correctness), coming from far away. I was walking in from the field (on 20 acres) toward my house when I first heard the low rumble that eventually swells and vibrates loud enough to scare birds from their nests. Since I was hearing this come from a mile or more away, and because I had nothing better to do, I directed my attention to the road to see if it was motorcycle or a truck. It was neither. It was a sports-type car, and he was speeding at about 50 mph on a road posted for 30 mph. Really??? During an otherwise quiet-everyone-off-streets-global pandemic? Speed and sound—I know it thrills and chills, but this is not the Daytona Speedway or anything near it.
In the end, I had to give this guy credit. He was just being his true self, and no viral or other crisis was going to slow him down. He was staying totally in character, and there is something to be said about making room and not judging (too harshly anyway) his chosen modus operandi. Except for being filed under “Obnoxious NJ Drivers” he was breaking no laws and probably just letting off steam as best he knew how. Who actually knows what lies ahead when he turns the next corner? Or for any of us really.
breaking the silence
by not braking the rules
Saturday night in viral isolation:
soup and candlelight
the flame flickers
by the spoonful
I just came in from putting the last piece of recycling out for early pickup tomorrow morning. I walked slowly through the twilit quiet down my long driveway enjoying the uncommon stillness and serenity. Even though I live in what is considered a suburban town—it still has a rural farm feel to it especially at times like these. The road I live on was once travelled by Revolutionary war soldiers and miners of iron ore from “Mine Hill” to Morristown—Washington’s headquarters. Usually there are enough cars that whiz by to remind me that we are in the 21st century. However, with most activities shut down, there is no traffic. And the only difference between this stillness and that of snow falling is the chirping of birds still going about their daily work and happy hour routines. Yesterday the rhythmic rapping of a woodpecker reverberated through the woods like a lone drummer on a dark stage. Quite a lovely acoustic serenade. The tranquility at this time is a rare gift.
The saying goes “You don’t really miss what you have till it’s gone.” And so it shows ever so acutely and painfully in a global pandemic.
HOWEVER, to be perfectly honest, heavy rush hour traffic and with it—rude drivers is one of those things that is up for debate with this philosophy of missing what is now gone, at least here in New Jersey. Yes, yes, yes —it is far better to be annoyed by rude and too-many-cars-on-the-road than deal with the Corona virus—I get it, lest it be said that I am being insensitive here. Again though—a big HOWEVER or loophole in the “wishing things could go back to the way they were” is NJ road congestion and aggravation. Even today, with traffic down by 90 %, one a#*-hole had to speed between lanes and the few cars bunched up starting out at a light. WTF?
If I am being honest by blogging about gratitude during a viral pandemic, and most of it is going to be more on the lofty-let’s-take-the-higher-road (sic)-approach to handling this mess, there has to be some “let’s down and dirty” truism as well, at least on my part. I am grateful for less of the rude and crude drivers now staying off the road in the Great Garden State of the Third-Finger-Salute-crowd. And unfortunately the return of these drivers will probably be one of the quickest rebounds to pre-Corona days when this is all over.
red up ahead on the road the flash of a fox crossing the yellow line
I hope for you to take away from this ode to life and love whatever you will.
It speaks to me of courage and healing.
Pueblo Verse by Nancy Woods
Hold onto what is good
Hold onto what you believe,
even if it is a tree which stands by itself.
Hold onto what you must do
even if it is a long way from here.
Hold onto life
even when it is easier to let go.
Hold onto my hand
even when I have gone away from you.