140 Characters to Leave Your Lover

How many characters
do I need to say
good bye?
There aren't enough

in any language,
any number of words.
You're there begging me
stay.

In response to Mama Zen's Words Count over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads who challenged us to write a poem in Twitter's 140 characters. It's not easy.

Lamppost # 12

Orange wing parrots occupy the golden apple trees in flocks,

clock the time as late afternoon.

Soon Carl returns from his garden,

warden of recalcitrant cush cush, dasheen and yams.

I am in my daughter's yard watching the evening unfold.

Bold fruit bats swoop for ripe bananas and mangoes.

Tangles of sweet leaf vine with fuscia blooms climb the avocado tree,

peewah spills red fruit, adds to the rush of colors amid the green

seen by all who pass: calathea, anthurium, bougainvillea, 

heliconia, orchid, croton and rose.

Close by, tanagers, thrushes, bananaquits and bell bird

spread evening song along with toucans' one- note chant.

Lanterns shine the pink and red of tall Hawaiian torches,

catch last vestiges of light as sun drops behind Morne Bleu Range.

Change descends quickly from day to night in the tropics,

marks the tallest trees to stand as sentinel protectors in the dark:

pommerac, rambutan, papaya and jamoon.

Moon's sliver sets, this month's second new moon,

attunes me to the yard's unambiguous heliograph of diversity, rich,

which sustains all life within its bounds and gives me strict instruction.

Written in the rain forest of Trinidad in my daughter's yard for open link Monday on Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads. Her address is Lamppost # 12 in her village. The format of linked rhyme was suggested by Hedgewitch and brought back by Margaret on Jan. 20. It rhymes the first word of each line with the last word of the previous line.

Month of Two New Moons

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands,
And walk among long dangled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

                             William Butler Yeats
                             From: The Song of the Wandering Angus


Month of Two New Moons

This month
in the midst of winter,
first day brings first

of two new moons, splinters
light into fractional shine,
barest glints

of moonglow can't blind
to starlight that fills
sky and mind

as I gaze until
I know at last
I am stardust billed

as first among castes,
but one instead with all that lasts.

                            January, 2014


What is my verse? We are one. We are the environment and care for it is care for ourselves. We are the world and care for one another is care for ourselves. We will languish or thrive together.

We have food enough now to feed us all if we devise the way. We have the knowledge to provide safe water for us all. We have wealth enough for all if we craft a more equitable system. We have resources and creativity enough to house everyone.

And my verse sings of women and elders coming forward at last to dream the visions for this kind of world, to take the leadership to build this kind of world, to notice and celebrate each step toward it.


Written in response to the question, what is your verse?, posed by Robin Williams in The Dead Poets Society and posted  by Brian in dVerse Poets Pub on January 20 for our inspiration. I've sat with it since and formulated my response while on my yearly birthday retreat up the hill from my daughter's home in the rain forest of Trinidad. Surrounded by nature I was reminded of my place in the scheme of things.

Holiday Blessings

These are flowers from my daughter's yard going to various friends for Christmas. They grow wild here with their vivid reds and oranges so perfect for the holidays. They are being sent to you virtually to wish you holiday good cheer and many blessings.

For the Solstice last night I had a ceremony with my family. We lit candles aginst the dark of the longest night of the year and to call in the light. It was lovely and brings the wish for love and light in your life this coming year.

p.s. For those who wondered what the two surprises were from my granddaughter (age 7) that she was so excited about, I now know. The first (the "small" surprise) was a note she wrote welcoming us to Trinidad - very sweet and warmed my heart. The second (the "decorating" surprise) is that she moved into her own bedroom which she also decorated by herself. Looks great and I've been conscripted to help finish the organizing- should be fun. May your surprises bring you joy.

Soft Against the Dark

These days of early dark
and long nights invite
the warmth of candles. Ours
are spread on the dining table
and scattered in the living room.
We light them as we settle in, sip wine,
and talk into the night, cozy in the glow,
soft against the dark.

Mary, at dVerse Poets Pub, has us writing about candles and light, which seems particularly appropriate this time of year. This comes with best wishes for happy holidays to all and the warmth candles lit against the dark.

Family Calls

My granddaughter phoned today
excited about two things she can't tell me.
She said one was a present she made:
'It's small. Can you guess?'
I couldn't.
The second has to do with decorating:
'You're going to like this!'
Squeals and lots more 'Can you guess?'es
got me excited, too.
'Tis the season...
family calls...


Holiday 55 for the G-Man. My granddaughter is seven and I leave to see her and her family the day after tomorrow. I've made the usual promises to myself to keep writing, however, they live in the rain forest of Trinidad where internet connection is spotty. Forgive my lapses. But, I'm excited!

Dear Rosaria

Dear Rosaria,

You kindly asked about my life here in Italy. It embarrassed me and gave me the push I needed. It has been a while since I wrote an update but it's not as simple a question as it once was which is perhaps why I haven't. My first years here were full of newness- new country, new language, new friends, new culture so different from what I was familiar with. My gypsy soul loved it all. Whatever the challenges, surmounting them was heady stuff. My world became so much bigger and I became a citizen of that world. Gladly. You know that feeling you get when you're in the right place at the right time with the right person? I felt like that. For the first four and a half years. And then I didn't.

It's hard to pinpoint the precise time or reason. Like so many things it started as a small thought in the back of my mind, barely there, and me, barely aware. But it grew. Became a full grown idea and then crystalized as a longing for home. I've been a wanderer, a seeker, for years now and I feel rich and full from all I've seen and done...but I'm not home. Not among my tribe. Not where I want to be. I know you love my stories of Italy and the savoring of life here that I've shared. But I want to go home and plant my roots there, deep in the soil of my home's earth. I must do this.

I told some others that I want to be closer to my family and that's certainly true. As I get older, (68 in two months! Can you believe that?) time with them is more and more precious. But since you've asked (twice) what's going on with me, I want to let you know that this move is really about me and the yearning I feel. Seems like it's time for me to stay still, listen deeply and let all these experiences become part of the warp and woof of who I am.

I'd like it to be part of a neighborhood as diverse as my family has become so they feel welcomed and mirrored. I look forward to being part of a running group that includes older women, a writing group that welcomes poets and a volunteer group responsive to the needs of our neighborhood. You know me, I'm still the girl with a protective arm around her brother and her hands on her hips ready to fight for what's right.

So, thanks for asking again. I needed that nudge to acknowledge what's true for me just now. I sense the care behind your question. I appreciate it, and you. You're a good friend. I'm grateful.

Love,
Mary

Gay Reiser Cannon at dVerse Poets Pub in Form for All wrote about hearth, home and common speech. She asked us to bring our writing back home and keep the vocabulary personal. Mine's not a poem but it's all about home and was sparked by a friend's urging.

The Catastrophe of Feathers

The catastrophe of feathers
is their vulnerability to oil.
That and the vulgarity of madmen's
irrational willingness to spill it.
Holy crow, it's lunacy! They're devilish,
absolutely lavish in their lunacy,
set it as a credential to devise
an entire system of lunacy,
then call it business in their gibbering
gossip over glasses of whiskey.
The degree to which they upend
natural order known only to
the frenzied, cadaverous birds.

Shay, aka Fireblossom, over at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads, provided us a word list for a poem and then wrote a fantabulous poem using all 23 of the words. She's like that. I only used 19 but liked the process. It always feels as if the words themselves write the poem. How could I read such a word list and not shout about this catastrophe?