Transitions ~ haiku

Transitions

as leaves change
cooler winds prevail
shorter days

fading light
as leaves float downstream
herons leave

hidden water
when river freezes
icy wind

eagle’s nest
among bare branches
with first buds

bass splashes
kingfisher’s steep dive
turtles wake

warm breeze blows
across muddy banks
drying out

I have been chosen to name the theme for this week at WordCraft: Prose & Poetry.
The cycle in this haiku sequence is my own response to
Colleen’s #TankaTuesday Weekly Poetry Challenge
No. 262: #ThemePrompt: Transitions
.

Shared with Open Link #311: March Live Edition

Ripe Tomato at 3 pm

Ripe Tomato at 3 pm

Not a meal, but a Saturday treat.
Heirloom, of course, ripe with memories.
Savoring the process of your hand moving,
slow and smooth, the serrated knife laying
each slice on the bread, each slice layered
with mayo turning pink with juice.
Now held in two hands, that second slice
firmly in place, mayo in a bead, hugging
the crust edge, juice falling to the plate
in languid drops. Eyes closed with each bite,
you relish this simple pleasure.
My pleasure now in recalling this,
bringing you back after so many years
as I take my own bite and savor the memory.

This poem is my response to Poetics Tuesday – food!,
the prompt from Sarah at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.

Image source: washingtonpost.com

A Simple Gesture ~ with audio

 

A Simple Gesture

Need I say already
when so much time has passed,
when each passing moment
seems to take moments with it?

Sight and sound blurred
and muffled, impressions
that bring new meaning each time
my mind tries to repeat them.

Amentalio. The word would be
foreign to you, but I can imagine
your reaction to it, that gesture
not lost to me, yet. A shrug,

the slightest tilt of your head,
followed by a question.
How can you forget something
that is such a part of your soul?

This poem is my response to Poetics: The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, the prompt from Linda Lee Lyberg at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use one of ten words taken from The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, by John Koenig. I had written a poem using one of John Koenig’s words when they were still available to be seen on his website. Since that source is no longer available, I definitely will be getting a copy of the book, so thank you to Linda for the heads up.

From The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows:

Amentalio: the sadness of realizing that you’re already forgetting sense memories of the departed- already struggling to hear their voice, picture the exact shade of their eyes, or call to mind the quirky little gestures you once knew by heart.

Distant Voices

Distant Voices

A bench, at first, where solder flowed,
and wires glowed in anticipation
of the words and music that would dance
across waves that filled the air
before rasping from a tiny speaker.

A desk would follow, dials and needles
on your radio measuring signals,
those received from far places,
yours, a response to those voices
and clicks with your own.

I may have had the desire to follow,
and you did encourage me,
but my discomfort in talking to others
over the air was just as real for me
as talking to them in person.

Years later, I found myself at a desk,
talking to the camera as I vlogged.
It seemed that I was finally ready
to talk to people, even if remotely.
You would have enjoyed that.

These days, it’s blogging, and I could be
anywhere. At the kitchen table
or in a recliner with a laptop,
or on my phone as I remember you
and write a poem about your ham radio days.

This poem is my response to Poetics: In the Light of Other Days, the prompt from Laura Bloomsbury at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to write a poem recalling some specific thing or things from the past, or more generally about what evokes a memory or memories in you.

August Lemonade

August Lemonade

This late summer month,
when heat clings
with an air of resignation
of fading persistence,
was always your favorite.

Retirement spent outdoors,
gardening, preparing
for the coming change.
Shirtless, you wore the sun
like it was your own.

I always see this month
as yours, see you
holding a lemonade
in the still air
beneath a blazing sun.

 

Lemonade in August was written for Monday’s haibun prompt from Frank Tassone at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.
I decided to rewrite it in free verse.

Shared with Open Link Night #297 at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.

Image source: WPNGITEM

Lemonade In August ~ haibun

Lemonade In August

This late summer month, when the wind seldom gusts and the heat clings to the skin with an air of resignation, the knowledge that its persistence will not last, this month was your favorite. In your retirement you spent more time outdoors than in, as you gardened, tended to your animals, and prepared for the coming change in weather. Shirtless while mowing your acres of lawn or relaxing with a game of horseshoes, you wore that warm sun like it was your own. You were born to this month, and I always did see it as yours. You are always on my mind, but most especially in this month.

lemonade
beneath a hot sun
the still air

This haibun is my response to Haibun Monday 8-2-21: August,
the prompt from Frank Tassone at dVerse ~ Poets Pub.

Image source: PNGITEM

R.R.G.

RRG

R.R.G.

There’s no way to know when our time will come. I sure didn’t.
Would I have done things differently if I did? Probably not.
Life teaches as it tests, so we do the best we can with the time we have.

Who am I to say whether you learned your lessons well?
I had my own lessons to learn, but those days are long gone.
Yes, my life was cut short, but, hell, my family was cut short.

A brother I never knew, gone almost before he could breathe.
My mother gone before I was fifteen, when I had to learn to breathe
all over again for myself and my father, devastated for the rest of his life.

I learned early on not to expect something for nothing,
that hard work brings rewards. Life may be cruel, but it can be
just as generous. Your love, even since I’ve been gone, is proof.

You’ve had your own lessons to learn. Those that were easy balanced
with trials. One at a time, you’ve managed. Life is meant to be lived
one day at a time. Live it. Don’t dwell on the past. Continue to learn.

 

This poem may not be quite on prompt for Day 8 of napowrimo.net, which challenges us to “read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology, and then write your own poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone who is dead.” Mine is definitely not in the same style as those by Edgar Lee Masters. I chose to write it in the voice of my father – therapy for myself, probably, since it’s more in my “voice” than his. I suppose it could be an epilogue to my Day 6 poem, “Instillation.”

NaPoWriMo 2021

~ Day 8 ~

Instillation

Instillation

Instillation
(TANSTAAFL)

Blue collar, with roots deeper than any walnut or oak.
I remember those black walnuts from Uncle Bill’s farm.
Shells as hard as the hammer to break them.
And bitter, but hard work can be that way. Even if
a vacation on his dairy farm was more work than play,
it still made great memories.
He wasn’t a man to shy away from work.

Neither was his brother, whose lessons carried me through life.
Even before I worked beside him on a loading dock,
there was work in the yard, digging a trench for a foundation.
Pulling the transmission out of one of my first cars and replacing it.
Building a barn when he finally bought his own piece of land.
The years I put in on the dock after he retired.
The many years after that driving a truck, making deliveries.
The lesson that got me through all of that was simple.

There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.

 

This poem is my response to Day 6 of napowrimo.net, which asks us to use a quote from a favorite book as inspiration and as the title for a poem, and then to change the title of the poem. The term TANSTAAFL (“There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.”) was a theme in “The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress,” by Robert Heinlein, (1966). The complete phrase was already in use by the early 1940s.

NaPoWriMo 2021

~ Day 6 ~