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I have been so stirred by this home I visited last week: a 250 year old home in Hillsborough, New Hampshire. Even the door into the kitchen gave me pause.
Who is the one and how long ago was it made with the pale blue dusting her hope light? her infant knowing? did she ask, her matching blue eyes shining with prayer children molded by its invitation my hand cradles its key and wonders Who is the one and how long ago did he make it?
I wrote this based on an Image Prompt from the InkSeeds creative writing blog... perfect timing as I had just edited the accompanying photo... and I loved it so much I was grateful to be able to use it this way immediately.
Yellow Blooms
Yellow blooms grow
splinter and multiply
along the interstate's
carpet runner
Winter stubbornly
holds a firm grip
lets go more slowly here
than the place
my geography
claims is my home
Yellow blooms open
my heart as the rental
car ticks away miles
and my children build
sand towers of memory
Exact quotes don't weigh
as much as laughter's echoes
the GPS goes silent
the people we meet,
their smiles return
our widened eyes
Forsythia, they tell me
Is what they are called
yellow blossoms:
the sunshine
singing Spring's song
before the chilled
people believe the truth
Forsythia: I see in
moments of forgiveness
reconciliation
willingness to love again
Yellow blooms open
grow multiply
= = = =
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Today's One Stop Poetry Challenge:
Shadorma is a 6 lined poem (sestet) of Spanish descent with no set rhyme scheme. The shadorma is a syllabic poem with the following structure: 3/5/3/3/7/5.
1.Write line one with three syllables
2.Write line two with five syllables
3.Write line three with three syllables
4.Write line four with three syllables
5.Write line five with seven syllables
6.Write line six with five syllables
I wrote two: one a rewrite of a poem by Dustus and the other, a memory of last night with my family in New England.
Rewriting of Dustus' Poem, Rainy Day Jersey
gulp coffee
clear memory drain
it isn't
what wasn't
motorcycle melody
leather jacket song
After Amherst
Miracles
Appear by surprise
You, there, YOU!
Eyes widen
Grateful tears hover here
this day's blissful end
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become a part of
near silence
no longer a listener
Savoring quiet
now a participant
an honorer of what
is too intimate with
silence, usually,
to be heard
Always there
and rarely shown
unless and until
you become one
with the bird's left
wing, flicking the
water
Bird Soloist, Duet,
Trio... distinctive
separate voices singing
songs you don't know
how to name but
whose heart tugs
at yours
sing along
sing along
sing along
Your imitation
pitiful something
like
senk abong
senk abong
senk abong
your bird tutor
so patient
tries again
sing along
sing along
sing along
you fail again
sink asonk
sink asonk
sink asonk
you sketch,
in frustration
seeing this
lovely differently
now that you
study its wings
its tail its voice
you look up again
and he has left
tears stun your eyelinds
your wiser self says
"He didn't leave you.
He just moved along."
your chest burns with
"if only I could have
sung sing along
instead of
sink asonk
or senk abong maybe
just maybe..."
You sink into the
sand and let it support
your crestfallen
muscles
Looking into the sky
you somehow feel better
and wait for your
next bird teacher
to arrive
darkness. empty. canvas in
three dimensions. We breathe our lives. Our souls, onto it. Into it. A prayer. A wish. A hope. Vision comes ~ Lights Up. A joining. Molding words into form, together. Weaving, blending. Assorted a-ha's bloom via laughter. hurt. gentle coaxing. Tantrums. Negotiation. Restoration. movement. breath. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat? Nod. Repeat. We do this over and over. again, over. darkness. empty. canvas in
three dimensions.
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Photo courtesy of JetSharkLambo
Some rights reserved
Recognition lives
in the belly
not the eyes or
the ears when
my womanhood
listens and sees
what is so --
Recognition lives in my skin,
prickling rippling
when the breath
of the voice
moves me-her
Recognition lives in my
swaying hips, rocking the
baby sitting on the curvy
shelf or rocking my lover
riding the ancient
joy rollercoaster
Recognition lives in
the sash I wear, with
singing coins and laughing
ribbons its home isn't
in the brain alone, the
logic without the rest
Is
Not
Enough
to bear witness
to this life force
the giving and
receiving the lush
muskiness arrives
right on time
silent to convention
this streetscape
my listening
walks upon
this sacred space
recognition lives....
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I had written my NaPoWriMo poem of the day before I was reminded of this favorite prompting space of mine at One Stop Poetry.
I popped over to see and decided to write from the prompt as well. Photographer India Hobson has an inspiring eye... I couldn't resist.
On these days of double writing, do I get some "Free Pass" for the days in April when I am traveling?! Oh. I didn't think so, either.
Photo by India Hobson.
Mirror: What do you hold?
Mirror, what do you hold?
A view, a space, a moment,
a woman, a possibility.
Mirror, what do you hold?
A fear, a joy, a bursting
forth, a blossoming, a hope ~
Mirror, what do you hold?
Seeing ~ smelling ~ questions
niggling aches of tomorrow.
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Sometimes I remember too well. A memory like mine is a blessing and a curse. A wonder and a whacked out weasel who won't let go.
It helped me give birth to this poem. I enjoy its story telling, but the story itself continues to tear at the last vestiges of a scab. Ouch. Photo below is courtesy of:
Some rights reserved under the Creative Commons license. Photo by By newneonunion Jennifer Brandel
I missed the green arrow
when I raised my eyes from the memory minestrone the yellow arrow had spoken, "Too late." It was a different airport. Flight: Phoenix to LAX. Southwest. Bargain basement lure of "Stay Close! Come. Come close. Here. With me." Phone rings in the used-to-be-my-Hollywood- apartment. He had fallen. Asleep. Wasn't on his way. Yet, to the airport. I waited. A pink and white floral jumpsuit, watching a parade of taxis and shuttles for people who hadn't fallen asleep. Who had arrived on time. Now, decades later. Different. Stewed tomatoes replaced jumpsuits and celery urban apartments are swept clean. No more blonde hair, no more company cars, no more waiting. Closeness is avoided. "Stay away! Go! Go away. Go. From me." The yellow arrow had spoken.
Too late.
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Breeze noticed that day
I hadn't written her, given
her space between these
blue lines.
Breeze pushed against
my hand, so I listened. She
belly laughed. She gave the
leaves voice in response,
Breeze offered wind chimes song ~
(Who are you to say she didn't?)
My neighborhood's face has changed
in these twenty-one years.
Families with grown and
growing children...
Breeze still greets us all,
same as ever.
Same as always.
(Who are you to say she isn't?)
Breeze doesn't change.
Louden brother pushes the
lawn mower. Sam isn't there
to help. He has packed his
things and moved along.
Cal Berkeley called his name
so he can no longer help and
Breeze. Can. Still.
And Breeze, does. Still.
Breeze helps.
Breeze laughs.
Breeze scolds.
Breeze cajoles.
Breeze nudges.
Breeze does.
(Who are you to say she doesn't)
= = =
Follow me on Twitter: @JulieJordanScot
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