Day Lilies

This poem began as a mistake.  Inspired by the photograph I had just taken (see above), I began thinking of a line from a Wordsworth poem and integrating it into some lyrical lines of my own.  Before I knew it, I had a little poem all done.  Then when I showed it to a family member for feedback, she pointed out that the flowers weren’t daffodils (the flowers in Wordsworth’s poem) but day lilies.  Which I knew.  But had briefly forgotten in my excitement.  So I went back to the drawing board and wrote this poem, which I actually like better, as it turns out.

“Day Lilies”

When I lift up my windowpane

To bask in breezes or the rain

To hear the rustling leafy rills

Or look beyond my windowsill,

To see a wren a step away

To watch the windy forest sway,

‘Tis then I spot, heads turned away,

The demure lilies of the day.

‘Tis then I sit and smile a while

In sun or cloud as day’s dial

Drags its fingers across the scene

And draws evening’s curtain, closing

The lilies and the day, sending

Birds into their nests, and bending

The trees into figures of gloom

Till day renews with lily bloom.

An Easter Tulip

Happy Easter, dear readers!  I hope you are staying safe and well.  As many of us are having to worship from home this Easter, I wanted to share this tulip photo I snapped and a poem I wrote as a way to celebrate the joy of Easter with you.


“An Easter Tulip”

The only good I do is through the grace of God, who,

Undeserving as I was, chose me as his own, and

Loveless creature though I am, he set his love on me.

If he had not pursued me, I would yet be lost, but

Peace with him is ever mine, for Christ has paid the cost!

The Wedding Ballad of Lottie and Paul

A bizarre ballad in honor of Sarah, who must attend many weddings this year, and Katie, who set the fork on fire.

There was once was a lass named Lottie,
Who thought to marry a lad named Paul.
And though ‘twas not true, I’m sure they believed
That the other was the fairest of all.

So one spring day, as the allergens flew
O’er one’s head, like confetti Hell sent,
The lass named Lottie did marry the lad name Paul
In a modest, but pretty, small event.

The bride didn’t trip, and the groom didn’t stutter,
Nor dumb jokes did the minister make.
When the osculation was complete, they strode down the aisle
Their portraits immediately to take.

Then a fatal mistake did Paul and Lottie make,
As they wrangled their cousins and kin,
For though banishing their guests to a decorative hall,
No food nor drink did they give them.

Not a lick of liquid, nor a crumb of bread,
Could they find, their appetites to curb,
Save for the cake, that most sacred dessert,
And that they could not disturb.

So they stared at the plastic cutlery,
And gazed at the tea candles’ sparks
As the hour waned on, the guests had no choice
But to begin melting the forks.

This did amuse them for quite some time,
Holding forks to the flame to admire.
As the plastic did wither, their amusement did grow,
Until the tablecloth soon caught on fire.

Take thee then a warning from Lottie and Paul,
And give your guests food while they wait.
Or else forks will burn, and the venue too
And you’ll be out quite a deposit.

The Writer’s Quandary

This poem sums up what forms my writer’s block most of the time when I’m creating stories and poems.  I hesitate because I worry my work isn’t novel, special, or worthwhile.  Instead of pushing my limits, I am paralyzed by the idea that someone else can write my thoughts better than me, tell my stories more creatively.  Or even worse—has already penned and published my idea that I imagine is so unique.

“The Writer’s Quandary”

Have all the poems been written?

Has every story been told?

Are all the metaphors spoken,

And are all the similes old?

 

Can I add to mankind’s canon?

Can I make a new connection?

Or am I merely an echo,

A well-traveled intersection?

 

Am I even the first to have

Thought this, wondering what remains?

I doubt it, yet I continue:

For many great songs have refrains.

 

And perhaps I can add a gem

Of value through the work I do,

Whether repeating a truth once

More or sharing something that’s new.


In this age of ever-multiplying information, is there anything left to be added?  I’ll argue that no matter what, we can always keep asking questions and searching for answers, which is what I love to do…And perhaps that pursuit is not limited to research papers and essays, like I so often assume.  Asking questions and finding answers is one avenue where creative writing, from stories to plays to poems, can also expand our knowledge and our understanding of the world and each other.

Photo credit: Photo by Pixabay from Canva.com

The Beginning, Again

How far the emptiness seems to stretch before me,
Although not nothingness, for I see the days and weeks ahead,
Peering into their empty shells, without form
Passing through the void of the coming year.
Yet, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Never fear, this is just my new calendar,
Empty, yes, but not for long, soon to be full of
Wonders that will happen this coming year; I hope.

Yesterday’s deeds are crossed out, and new
Events are written in – a sortie soon to the symphony,
A work thing in February, birthdays, and a trip, as
Round the sun again we go.

I Have Expensive Taste

I have expensive taste – in some things,
but not in others. I’ve found
that most important to me
is the person who’ll be my company.

If it came to it, I’d choose to stand
in line with you. However long
the wait, it’d be a better home
than fireworks and music for me alone.

What I remember most about that eve
isn’t the performance itself. Though
it was lovely, it would mean much less
without you in that suit, and me in that dress.

I have expensive taste – in company,
in time shared. Remember
the museum? It was our laughter and light
that brought those paintings to life.

Rise and Fall of Rain

Rain is one of my favorite themes for poems.  Consequently, a small portion of my poetry collection is dedicated to rain and its different aspects that I’ve noticed and enjoy.  Perhaps inspired by my recent nighttime driving in the rain, I decided to dig these up and share one of them today.  This particular poem focuses on the onomatopoeic quality of rain.

“Rise and Fall of Rain”

Tap, tap, tap at the back door.

Slap, slap, slap it goes again.

Rap, rap, rap a growing din.

Crack, crack, crack—open the door.

Whoosh, crash, bang there is a roar.

Of rushing rainy torrents pounding,

Lightning cracks, and thunder sounding,

Then the rush recedes to dribble,

Pitter, patter, then to trickle.

By and By

Mature we rest in natural mooring,

By a stream, dirt and water mingling;

Boughs cumbered with clinging moss, often sighing:

Memories of darkened wood, time breaking.

Neighbors are gone, felled by axe and age,

Leaving impressions on nearby earthage;

But in their shadow grow new tender leaves,

sunward rising, growing from what below lies.

And with each morn – dew returns, and we find

Solace from broken trunk, doleful mind:

Like salve that succors the green leaf tender

Against sun that would it poorer render,

And with relieved voice windy branches cry,

in hope of a better dawn by and by.

Two Variations on a Theme Called “Song”

“Two Variations on a Theme Called ‘Song,'” using the golden shovel technique.

In the golden shovel poetry form, poets take a line or lines from another poem and make each word from this line the last word of each line in their new poem, using the words in order.  So, if you read the last word of every line in the new poem, you will be able to figure out the line (or lines) of the original poem.  The result is often a very different poem, but this poetic form can also be a challenging way to build on the original poem’s themes from a new angle.  Perhaps if I dabble a bit more, I can achieve this level of technique, but for now, I will be satisfied with a totally unrelated golden shovel pair of poems.

 

Variation 1

Grasping my keys, I go,

Buckle myself in and

Twist the key, hear it catch,

A thrum, then off on a

Night quest—uphill, falling,

Each car winks like a star.

 

Variation 2

I wish that I could tell

Who just recognized me.

It seems no matter where

I go, they know me all

From one time we met—past

Maybe three or four years?

I forgot who they are.

 

Note: If you decide to try your hand at writing a golden shovel poem, please share it in the comments.  I would love to read what you write!