Bright sun lights the sky
Morning coffee is perking
I’m on the right path
It is clear to see
Haiku tools were just lurking
Can I remember?
Bright sun lights the sky
Morning coffee is perking
I’m on the right path
It is clear to see
Haiku tools were just lurking
Can I remember?
Wonders of wonders
A dear fairy godmother
Shared secret with me
With strategic clicks
Classic Editor returned
All’s well with my blog
The smaller of the two bedrooms in my apartment became my writing room when I moved here eight years ago. This is where my blog began with the help of a willing grandson. The large window is a portal to my imagination. I love the tall oak tree among whose spreading branches I watch squirrels and birds build nests and care for their young. The moon and changing colors of the sky shape the budding poet inside me. Within my room are things that remind me of my journey.
Green plants live near my window to catch the light. All are off-spring shoots from friends and family. Tending them nourishes the outdoor gardener in me. On the window ledge are things that shine on sunny days – a royal blue glass coffee mug, souvenir from a Colorado trip; a bluish purple paperweight that was my son’s; an old brass cowbell with lots of family history.
The walls have a geographical bent – picture of a Texas cowboy riding on a lonesome road, wedding present to my Dad a Texan, too. A wooden wall clock in the shape of Ohio, gift to me from my congregation in a small Ohio town. Three framed certificates mark my progress to become their minister.
Everything else is furniture that has traveled with me for a while. The student desk and chair were used by my three sons. The much-scarred cherry end table, a gift from my mother in the 60’s, has been in every home I’ve known. The futon came with me from Chicago when I moved back to Cleveland to be with my family here. My glass computer table and new laptop are beside a table where my printer sits. They are the newest things except for what I write, which await my muse.
With many thanks to Pleasant Street who gave me the idea to write this piece.
Muse has been drowsing
Beneath life’s daily matters
Awakening now
Cleansing rain falling
Breezes create refreshment
Words begin to stir
Family heart work
Enters time of fruition
Now space for my soul
For five years or so
I sought and found poetry
Alive all around
Once fertile places
Barren of inspiration
Poetic muse fled
World news tells stories
Unjust uses of power
Death and climate change
Writing unconquered
More essential than ever
Has stories to tell
My bailiwick calls
Ordinary life a poem
Alive within self
My life no longer balances
Clutter on my calendar
Stifles what I care about
Time to sort the mess
Addition equals frittering
Subtraction brings tranquility
Peace and beauty come with space
I can do the math
Give me the moon in a darkened sky
Sunbeam silhouettes on my wall
Raindrops’ gleam on windowpane
Leaves attune to season’s change
Clear darkness of the sky
Last night a quarter moon
Summer creatures sing a serenade
At dawn a fog rolls in
Only light the yellow beam
Shining from the hardware store
Blue water of the swimming pool
Now obscured for winter months
By tarpaulin just as blue
I welcome the change
Summer a hard and anxious time
Fear for health of son’s beloved wife
With now the worst behind
As a family they move on
Life reshaped but ever closer drawn
I return to simpler ways
Where poetry lives in daily life
And remains my nourishment
When first I began posting crone chronicles
Enriched by Word Press 101 prompts
I sat at my computer catching ready-made stories
Tumbling from a lifetime of rich memories
Lovely to go back and re-member the past
Seems as if now life around me is changing
Much new is good, much more terrifying
Past seems an irrelevant line drawn in the sand
The who I was then needs refurbishment
What I live and write now creates past for my future
Exploring the poetry of everyday life
More easily said than done these days
Time to reset and center myself
Face facts that changes warping the world
Seem to be settling in for a long haul
Poetry is not dead Heaven forbid
This lifeblood of humans flows deep in our veins
Hidden beneath horrors spewed out in the news
Goodness and glory in shapes still unseen
Kindness and God’s grace yet will prevail