Showing posts with label cinquains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cinquains. Show all posts

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Looking back

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Allow me to mimic journalistic bigs and re-live a year through some of the poems I wrote that had not--at the time--seen the black of printer’s ink or the forums of the Internet.
JANUARY. “this New Year’s morning/ just like all the others/ at least at daybreak”
“New Year’s afternoon/ opening the fridge/ to heat my coffee”
“on Epiphany/ an epiphany: my book’s/ theme is desertion"
“light snow/ highlighting bare branches/ of hardwoods”
            FEBRUARY.  “Two red/ pickups scream past/ my homestead, and then/ the wheeah, wheeah of the small/fire truck.”
            “February 9th/ sparrow lounges in birdbath/ between wind gusts”
“another winter predawn~/ from the south window, crescent/ moon through bare branches”
            MARCH. “paying bills~/ aroma of King Alfred/ daffodils.”
“Behind/ the upper glass/ of door appeared a face/ of white. His eyes were marble-blue, / a-slant.// He saw/ me ‘see’ him; did/ not move or duck below/ the glass or scurry off the screen, / this cat.”
            APRIL. “A lone/goose honks as it/ flies over; its voice dies/ out gradually, like the sound of/ sirens.”
            MAY. “the church meeting/ I freeze while my neighbor/ fans herself”
“rooster/ adding to early morning/ birdsong”
            “mid-May/ after a rain-filled fortnight/ 48 degrees”
 “wind-blown rain/ forcing me off the porch swing/ Memorial Day”
            JUNE.  “the white cat/ grooming himself/ in my flowerbed”
“last day of June/ 80 degrees/ at seven a.m. / a slight breeze from the north added/ to that made by moving swing”
            JULY. “first, fireworks, then/ thunder...the cats/ find a hidey hole”
            “behind Mother’s fern/ I sit in the porch swing/ in my gown tail/ early traffic past the house/ cares nothing of it”
 “my back to the woods/ turning, the only movement/ a black butterfly”
            AUGUST. “eating just the heart/ the long-cut watermelon/ that takes up fridge space”
“Earthquake, / landslide, typhoon/ stories all appearing/ on the same page of today’s state/ paper.”
“the lightning bug/ flying onto the porch/ from the rain—it lights”
SEPTEMBER. “standing in line/ at the Dairy King ... Gourmet/ Foods deliveryman”
“impatient / to follow me ... her claw/caught in the screen”
“first day of fall/ the haiku journal full/ of spring poems”
            OCTOBER. “kittens/ using the birdbath stand/ as a climbing wall”
“upturned flowerpot/ mother cat swishing her tail/ so kittens can play.”
“brown and yellow leaves/ carpeting the yard, floating/ in the birdbath”
NOVEMBER. “the daily rains end/ a slough becomes a river/ the ditch, a slough”
“birds on the train rails/ ignoring the sign that says/ Do Not Stop On Tracks
“Ides of November/ finding a lone white circlet/ of spirea bloom”
            “Thanksgiving Friday/ after the first frost, the cat/ licks the birdbath ice”
DECEMBER. “from across the room/ I see one cat on a chair/ but two sets of ears”
“mid-December/ the japonica’s/ pink buds"
            “what do I see/ on the New Year’s calendar? / wind-ruffled bluebird”
            May 2015 be a memorable year for you.   

Thursday, November 1, 2012

I never tire of time in the Ozarks

Porch of Spring Garden Suite, Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow,
Eureka Springs Arkansas
by Pat Laster
 
Who but an over-achieving writer would take such pains to bundle up and go outside on a below-freezing Ozark morning? (With coffee, of course, even though a stronger roast than my usual half-caff.)
Answer: For one, a back-packed mountain man walking an ubiquitous incline toward downtown. For another, a dog walker. She looked over. I “Good morning”-ed and in response, she said, “I just saw a red fox go across the road. Beautiful! ”
So I’m in good company here in Eureka Springs, in Spring Garden Suite, my usual stable  at Dairy Hollow. I did ask for a room in the new “505” building next door, but Ms. Director forgot and instead, scheduled a writer who wanted to stay a month. I didn’t mind, especially when I discovered it was Tom S. from New England who was a co-resident several years ago.
MY MUSE
One leaf,
large and tattered, 
followed me inside, like
a cat waiting for the door to
open.
 “Hello
there! Come on in!
You’ll be safe from Jana’s
leaf blower. Here, join the ones I
picked up
as I
crossed the parking
lot yesterday. Right up
here under the lamp where I can
see you."
Behind me, cars and conversation. A writing workshop was scheduled for all day in the main house. If someone parked in front of “my” place, (six feet from the street) I’d have to move inside!  Or complain.

VIEW FROM THE STREET AT THE WRITERS COLONY FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF A DOG WALKER
Would you
 look at that! A
cleverly stuffed strawman
posing as a writer on this
freezing

morning.
No gloves, though. Life-
like hands, even holding
a Razorback pen! It IS a
writer!?!
Vehicles began parking on “our” street. But no one exited an SUV. Might it be a photographer? After all, there were now three papers in this town, though two of them seem to have the same information—written by different folks.
No newspaper photog, alas, but Tom walked by with a basket of breakfast and lunch fixings “so I won’t have to ‘bug them.’” He gestured toward the main house soon-to-be-awash with paying, workshopping writers. “Oh,” he continued. “Mind if I take a picture of you writing? I’ll send it to my wife and email or text you a copy.”
“Oh, no!” I said, followed immediately by, “Okay.” How did he know that at that very moment I was writing about a photographer? Karma?  Indeed, I DID look like an obese straw person!
Later, I went inside to refill my coffee mug—a leaf-motifed one from home. As I turned back to the door, sure enough, there was a vehicle immediately between “my” walk and the street. An older man with a knitted head covering carried his supplies down the stone slab steps to the entrance of the main house. The antique-car license also showed a Vietnam Veteran sticker. I forgave him immediately.
TWENTY SIX DEGREES

Colder,
but the maples
aren’t yet as vibrant as
last year, or hickories quite as
yellow.

 Turns out that the area’s prime color peaked last week. Maple, hickory and cottonwood leaves were now underfoot. Except the ones I brought in to grace my writing space.
 
c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton Arkansas